For Sarith

It was a normal day of missed deadlines, rushed homework and late classes and Helga, Phoebe and Gerald were taking their time walking across the basketball court to their next lesson. The sun was just too warm to worry about work right now. All Helga wanted to do was sit in a park and write or play baseball instead of sit in a class taking notes about the chemical properties of carbon.

Helga's small friend – there was no other word to describe her except small, especially next to her tall boyfriend – laughed shyly at one of Gerald's jokes and nudged him. Phoebe was so happy these days now that she and Gerald had finally gotten together. She had loosened up; her hair was longer, her eyes stronger and brighter than they had been before. Helga studied Phoebe covertly with an artistically critical eye: the dark strands seemed to make her pale face shine happilyeven under the enormous blue glasses.

Or maybe, Helga thought with unconscious cynicism, it's just because she finally has someone's hand to hold.

Helga had been jealous at first, but after a few weeks had let it go. She had realised that it was not Gerald she wanted, nor more of Phoebe's time. She just wanted the same happiness that glowed in Phoebe's eyes when Gerald talked to her or touched her face when he thought no one was looking.

She exhaled lazily, willing herself to be patient. Summer was almost here. The sugary taste of spring was still in the air, still sweet but vanishing now. She smiled to herself and looked at her shoes, scuffed with dirt from years of use, and thought of Arnold.

Although Helga still had a reputation for toughness and sarcasm, the sting and bitterness had gone out of her personality. Gerald had given up hating Helga after Phoebe, partly because he had to, but also because, almost against his will, he had discovered that Helga (if not exactly 'nice' or 'kind' yet) was at least funny, sharp, and unbelievably intelligent.

But Arnold? Arnold was still – Arnold: kind and pleasant and beautiful and perfect, but always in his own world. She reflected sadly that he hadn't even noticed her change in attitude towards him.

Helga had friends now, real friends who liked her and whom she liked back. She wasn't lonely anymore, and she had thought that that was what she needed to move on from Arnold. But she soon found to her dismay that no matter how many people were around her, no matter how much fun she was having, just the sight of Arnold's face somewhere else would make all the stifled feelings hurtle upwards to her throat and force her to fiercely struggle to push them down again.

The old ridiculous geysers of emotion that she had felt for him had fallen away, and, surprisingly, had left behind a stronger and more substantial feeling in its place. It was funny, and wonderful, and crazy, the way she loved him, and it was terrible at the same time. It was not that he hated her – no. That she could deal with. If he hated her she would be able to hate him back and be done with him, at least eventually. It was not even his friendship that hurt her. It was his complete indifference that made everything so much harder. Every time he accidentally knocked into her in a hallway, apologized with his small distant smile and then just walked away she felt like shaking him and screaming 'Arnold, I'm here! Notice me!'

While her female classmates had waxed into beauties, with all the right curves and the right makeup and clothes, Helga had remained slender and tall to the point of gawkiness. She wore her hair in a ponytail now, but her outfit had essentially remained the same: Pink dress, pink bow, white t-shirt. She knew in some corner of her mind that these were not the feminine clothes she ought to have been wearing to try to attract Arnold, but a timid bit of her recognized her body's failings and stubbornly refused to part with the outfit she knew so well. She loved the way it wrapped around her like a comfortable old friend, the way it smelled like soap and softness and years gone by, she loved every worn seam and faded line on it, and most of all, she loved the way it reminded her of Arnold. Every swish and fold of the cloth was Arnold laughing, Arnold frowning, Arnold advising, love-sick Arnold, angry Arnold, Arnold hugging her…Arnold…

She was brought back to earth as the familiar sound of bickering reached her ears.

'No no, don't pronounce it like an English word. Hmm…make your mouth as round as you can and then say the 'O'.'

'That's what I'm doin'! 'Oh!''

Phoebe was teaching Gerald Japanese pronunciation again. The couple had this conversation about twenty times a day, which Helga had found vaguely irritating until she realised that this was their way of flirting.

'No, it's 'O'. Honestly, there's a phonetic difference, Gerald.'

'Phonetic what? Well I ain't hearing it…ok, tell me again?'

She stopped by her locker and let them walk by her, still arguing. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the cool metal for a moment to think.

Even the way she wrote had changed. Most of her flowery poetry and extemporizing compositions that contained a lot of meaningless long words and melodrama had gradually been thrown away. Reading them now was only painfully embarrassing rather than nostalgic. History had become her favourite subject as well as literature, and she found herself writing fiery, opinionated essays on topics she hadn't even realised she'd be interested in.

But however much she had evolved, Helga knew that she was still the same person she had been at nine years old. The only real difference, she reflected, is that I understand more now than I did then.

She understood, for example, that Arnold could never like her. At least not like-me-like-me, she thought, smiling as she used the phrase that Lila used all the time, even now.

Lila. Helga thought of her and felt the unusual but recurring dual sense of loathing and affection at the same time. Lila was so amazingly nice that she defied all logic of human nature. Lila was pretty and popular smart as a button. Lila always smelled of roses.

Lila wasn't Helga. Lila was perfect for Arnold.

She sighed and shuffled the books around in her locker.

Criminey, Helga, get a grip. Just let it go.

'Just let it go,' a voice behind her that she knew belonged to Arnold said behind her.

'Huh?' She said, spinning around a startled 360 degrees with wide-eyed horror, wildly convinced that Arnold had just read her mind.

'Let it go,' the blonde haired boy replied, gesturing towards her locker. 'The lock.'

Helga stared at her locker and realised that she was holding onto the dial. She released it abruptly, and it buzzed smartly back into place.

'Oh…thanks…' she mumbled, as her cheeks inevitably reddened. '…Football-head,' she tacked on a little more aggressively. He shrugged the nickname off and smiled the same smile that he always did.

'No problem.'

'So…are you coming for the seminar today?' She asked, wondering if she had sounded a bit too hopeful. Pathetic.

'Yeah,' He said, flashing her a grin that practically gave her a coronary right there. 'Yeah I am. I have to keep up my average this year. This time I'm gonna be first.'

Helga smirked. 'Oh, remind me again who came first last year?'

'Don't rub it in Helga. You were lucky.'

'Yep. I bet that's what you'll be saying when I kick your ass again this time.'

'One point Helga. One.'

'The margin will be waaay bigger this year, don't you worry.'

'Don't count on it.'

'I won't.'

Arnold shook his head, smiling, and walked away with a wave. Helga's lifetime was filled with that picture: Arnold, walking in the opposite direction. His niceness, his indifference, was infuriating.

Helga turned away and clutched her books, hating herself for being so unnecessarily biting, a lump burning in her throat. She glanced backwards and saw the ever green-clad Lila walk up to Arnold and start to chat animatedly with him. She saw Arnold nod and reply, his words lost in the hallway chatter, and hated Arnold for choosing Lila, even though she completely understood why. She was suddenly overcome with a feeling of abject misery. All she really wanted to do – all that was necessary – was to tell him how she felt. But she knew that that would never, ever happen; she was far too afraid to stride up to him boldly, look him in the eye, and say 'I love you.'

She couldn't even cry: the last time she had done that had been over a decade ago. The frustrating inability to shed any tears made her feel strangely dry, like she had been squeezed out over a basin until there was nothing left inside.

A loud noise from far away made Helga snap out of her thoughts and turn around to see what had happened. A crowd at the end of the hall had gathered around the stairs. Helga stood on her tiptoes to see what was the matter.

To her horror she saw Arnold lying on his back the ground, holding his head, obviously the victim of a fight…or worse… injured, in some unfathomable and terrifying way…

Without another thought Helga dropped her bag and sprinted across the corridor to the stairs. There was nothing to think of, nothing to hear or see or know, except that she had to get to Arnold, now.

As she approached him, he shifted and lifted up his head. With a sick twist in her stomach she saw blood trickle out of the corner of his mouth. She skidded to a stop and kneeled recklessly in front of him.

'Arnold, don't worry, I'm here, I'm here…' She rushed the words out as she knelt beside him, repeating them frantically, willing him to be alright. She clutched his shoulders in her hands and spoke anxiously.

'Arnold, are you ok? Can you hear me?'

Arnold nodded very slowly. Frantically morbid notions of internal bleeding and concussion whirled around Helga's mind and she felt herself starting to panic. Her hair had come loose from its ponytail and was trailing down her back; she brushed it out of her eyes impatiently.

'Can you breathe? Say something…'

There was a pause. Arnold opened his mouth. 'Helga….I'm fine, really,' he said in a perfectly unconcerned manner.

Helga looked at him, confused. He looked a little shell-shocked, but otherwise almost disappointingly unhurt.

'But…what happened? You fell, there was a noise and the crowd and you're bleeding and…what...?' Even as she said this, she noticed that there was no longer a crowd. Everyone had dispersed, oddly enough.

'Oh…' He put a hand to his mouth, felt the wound, and wiped the blood away. 'I was just hit by a basketball, Helga.' It was his turn to look confused. 'Why'd you come barreling over here like that?'

She glanced to her right and noticed with humiliating finality that there was indeed a bright orange basketball lying right next to Arnold. The incredible anti-climax of the whole situation was beyond bearing, and with a jolt around the region of her abdomen she became acutely aware of how near she was to Arnold's face. Her hands were still on his shoulders: the green irises of Arnold's eyes were wide and bright, his lips slightly parted, his skin thrillingly warm under her fingers.

She hurriedly removed her hands, and, partly from anger and partly because she didn't know what else to do, punched him.

'Ow! What? What did I do?!' He looked grieved in a comical way and rubbed his shoulder stiffly.

'What did you do?!' Helga fumed. 'I thought you were seriously hurt, you moron…' she hit him again, harder. 'Retard…you think that's funny? Idiot!' She reiterated the 'idiot' with another blow, making him wince. She was angrier with herself, really, then him, for revealing that she cared for Arnold enough to throw her bag away and run over like a maniac even though he wasn't really hurt.

She stood up and folded her arms angrily, faking nonchalance.

'Whatever. Anyways…don't read into it, football-head. I was just concerned is all.'
'But you hate me, Helga.' His puzzled face made her sigh with irritation. Arnold was so dense.

'No I don't, Arnold. I don't. Where in the heck have you been for the past few years?'

She threw up her hands in frustration: Helga had always gesticulated to make a point. That, at least, had never changed.

'I don't hate you. I like you. As a friend. And I know you don't really like me, but, well, deal with it, ok?'

Arnold laughed, involuntarily provoking Helga further.
'What?' She snapped. He tilted his head to one side, grinning.

'Helga…I don't hate you! I never have. I just thought you didn't want to be around me so I gave you space or whatever.'

Helga practically reeled. Space? He had given her space? The last thing she'd ever want from him was space. Heck, she'd have liked him as close as possible, in every sense of the word. Space. Criminey.

'Why didn't you ever say anything?' She asked, bewildered.

'Why didn't you?' He responded with a searching gaze.

'Because…' Because I'm not good enough for you. 'Because…I dunno.' She gestured impatiently. 'I'm not them. I'm obviously not your type of girl'- she glanced in Lila's direction - 'I'm not polite or refined. I don't know how to talk to you. And I'm too tall and skinny.' She looked at him pointedly, and with ill-concealed sarcasm added 'I'm not a 'regular beauty' like the other girls in our class.'

'Who'd want to be a regular beauty?' He looked at his shoes, thinking of what to say. 'You're…different. I mean, I like that you're not a pushover and that you're straightforward and smart…and that you don't make a big deal about make up and stuff.' The weird randomness of the whole conversation made her feel unreal, as if this wasn't actually happening at all and she was just watching it play out on TV.

'Gosh, I don't know how to put it…umm…'Arnold paused, unsure. And suddenly, she knew how to tell him. She knew how to let him know how she felt without actually saying the words that she couldn't allow herself to speak.

The sun blazed outside with relentless fervor, and the silence hung in the air like a question. Helga looked outside, straight into the light, and spoke.

'It's just like I told you once, remember?' She said, tentatively. She closed her eyes and steeled herself for what she was about to do. 'The best things in life come in the plainest packages.'

She studied his face for a moment as he furrowed his brow, trying hard to remember where he had heard those words before, and then abruptly picked up her books and swiveled. Helga walked away knowing it was only a matter of time before he understood what she'd just said. She could feel Arnold furiously trying to put two and two together behind her.

In fact she only walked ten steps when she heard his sharp intake of breath as about six million realizations hit him at once.

'Cecile…' She heard him say incredulously behind her. "It was you…which means…" he stammered, comprehension dawning in his voice.

She turned to meet him. As she saw with delight that Arnold was smiling, his eyes filled with uncertain, strangled hope, she realised that she was smiling too. Helga felt the burden she had carried her whole life slip off her shoulders as easily as a dress, and started to cry.

RCA