A/N Hi – as a nineties-child, my interest in the announcement of Hey Arnold: The Jungle Movie inspired me to create this; my first ever fanfic, based on A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. Please enjoy and review.

I don't own Hey Arnold and I REALLY don't own A Christmas Carol.

A PATAKI CHRISTMAS CAROL

Stave 1 – As a Doornail

Miriam Pataki was dead, to begin with. If ever Helga could be certain of anything, it was that. It had been Helga who found her, after all, lying crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. Her final, potent 'smoothie' had lain shattered around her – Helga remembered the vapours burning her nose.

Helga's psychologist, Dr Bliss, would note that the incident built large, fresh walls around the girl. Walls which even Dr Bliss seemed unable to breach, to her dismay; Helga had been doing so well… She no longer spoke about poetry, or a desire share her 'true self' with the world. And though Dr Bliss could never convince her to explain why, Helga one day stopped talking about Arnold. She simply knew things had ended badly. What little Helga revealed about her home life since the accident had been bleak. Her sister, Olga, had suffered a mental breakdown upon learning of her mother's death and addiction. Regardless of whatever recovery she had made since, Olga adamantly refused to return to Hillwood, and to the house where her mother had died. Her father 'Big Bob' Pataki, always a gruff and negligent man, had similarly suffered. The funeral had been the first and only time Helga had seen her father cry. Apparently, he now spent his days sitting silently in his armchair, sometimes flipping rapidly through albums filled with pictures of his wife. Family photos showed a Miriam with tired, bloodshot eyes, sagged shoulders and, perhaps, the ghost of a forced smile. This was in sharp contrast to the athletic and bright young woman shown excelling in older photographs from her youth. Bob had been in none of those pictures.

Helga once described how her father, having sat in sullen silence for a number of hours one day, shot to his feet without warning and stormed to the kitchen. There he tore the expensive glass blender from their wall and, with a scream of rage, smashed it on the ground. Afterwards, he sagged back into his chair, his face beet red as he buried it in his hands. Helga had swept up the glass later.

In the few years that passed, Helga was further consumed by the cruel and callous nature that she had once thought of only as a façade. From a distance, the girl seemed to emanate cold, disregarding the world around her with curt detachment. But when provoked, regardless of how accidentally or mildly, that ice was replaced by a terrifying fury. Now at the age of sixteen, Helga stalked menacingly through the hallways of Hillwood High School. The pink bow and pigtails were long gone, and Helga pulled back her long, blonde hair in a tight bun. She rarely, if ever, applied make-up, and her clothes were dark and practical – she cared little for what others thought of her appearance. Her slim figure, though, she had maintained; regular exercise saw to that, and she rarely cared to eat more than she needed. Students outside of the old P.S.118 tribe, who had never heard the legend of 'Helga the Bully', learned quickly to stay away. They called her far worse names now. Nobody would ever ask her to share a project, to sit together at lunch, to attend a dance. Helga relished the isolation; to her the rabble were a nuisance and a waste of energy. Loneliness was for people who lacked strength in themselves, and in solitude, no-one could ever hurt her. She was Helga G. Pataki, alone, and she would lash out venomously at anyone who stood in her way.

It was on the Christmas eve of her sixteenth year that Helga found herself sitting in the Hillwood Library, attempting to overcome the frustrating assignment looming over her for the new year; a long English Literature report analysing Shakespeare's portrayal of love in, ironically enough, Romeo and Juliet. Somewhere at the back of her mind, it might have occurred to Helga that, once upon a time, she could have filled pages on the subject as easily as breathing. Such was her understanding of love. But that was far from the forefront now, and she was not that little girl. She casually sipped the sugary energy drink in her hand.

"How's it coming Pheebs?"

She addressed the Japanese-American girl sitting slumped next to her. Phoebe Heyerdahl was, and feared she always would be, the quiet, put-upon follower where Helga was concerned. The two were no longer friends as such, Helga had no interest in friends, but by virtue of their longstanding connection, Phoebe often found herself the only student brave enough to sit next to her in class. It was this proximity, and nothing else, which led to their being assigned as each other's project partner.

Phoebe was exhausted.

"I feel that progress is less than optimal Helga." Phoebe sighed, weary but forever the linguist. "I realise that we're both in the honours class, but I feel that your skills are more acutely suited to this particular exercise than mine. The prose is just a little beyond me at times. Are you certain that you can't provide just a little more input?" Phoebe hoped against hope.

Helga scowled. While her unibrow was long-gone, the expression still radiated menace.

"Crimeny Phoebe, I realise that I usually have to do everything around here but how about you pick up the slack for once? I mean seriously, what do I know about love? Who has time for that crap!?" Helga turned briefly to roll her eyes at the inevitable shushing librarian that followed her outburst. "Now how about you quit complaining and knuckle down so we can both get out of here?"

"Knuckling…" Phoebe sagged back over their books.

Before she could resume, Phoebe was shocked out of her slump by a pair of large hands gently grasping her shoulders, pulling her into an embrace. A low, soothing voice followed.

"Don't hurt yourself Babe, I'd hate for you to be passed out from fatigue all Christmas."

Phoebe sighed and relaxed against the chest of the young man now holding her.

"Arigatō Gerald. I'm so tired…"

"Iiyo babe." Gerald chuckled, his accent was poor, but he enjoyed trying to share his girlfriend's language. He then turned to Helga, who had crossed her arms and now glared disdainfully away from the couple. "And Merry Christmas to you Pataki! Having your fill of holiday cheer?"

Helga sneered. "Yeah, yeah – what do you need, Geraldo? We're in the middle of something here." She gestured to the books and sheets of paper, piled mostly around Phoebe's side of the table.

"Doesn't look like much of a we." Gerald raised an eyebrow at the imbalanced workload. "And it's past 9pm on Christmas Eve. I'm walking my girl home while she can still walk. How about you head home too – see if Santa brings you an attitude adjustment for Christmas instead of the usual coal?"

Helga let out a low growl; her relationship with Gerald had always been fairly antagonistic, and had only worsened in recent years. "Like I care about Christmas! It's just yet another stupid day out of the stupid year where everyone's supposed to bend over backwards to please people they don't ACTUALLY give a crap about. Please. It's all about gifts and greed, and If I'm gonna spend a hundred bucks it'll be on me, myself and I."

"But you used to LOVE Christmas, Helga!" pleaded Phoebe. "You know there's more to it than that; it's about spending time with the people you care about. It's about people being happy together!"

"I used to LOVE actually getting thrown a bone for once in the year – Christmas never gave me a damn thing that I didn't grow out of. If you morons want to waste a day holding hands and singing 'Frosty the Snowman' like a bunch of saps then be my guest; I'll be at home actually doing something useful with my time. Maybe this report since apparently Phoebe can't pull her weight!"

Cursing under his breath, Gerald helped Phoebe store the multitude of papers in her bag.

"You attitude stinks Pataki. Always has, always will. Mmm mmm mmm – I don't know how my girl stands to be around you. You ready babe?" The question was addressed to Phoebe who, now bundled up in a thick coat and scarf, nodded her readiness to leave. "Cool, let's go. Happy holidays Pataki." Walking away, Gerald threw Helga a crude gesture, Phoebe following with a quick goodbye.

Helga was left seething. Not because of his comments of course – no-one could hurt Helga G. Pataki. She just hated how goofy everyone got for this Christmas junk every year. Hearing a hushed conversation, Helga turned to the departing couple.

"Aw c'mon babe, why..?" was all she picked up from Gerald, who groaned and face-palmed as Phoebe quickly returned to the table.

Phoebe fidgeted with her hands, looking apprehensive. "Helga, if you really don't have anything to do tomorrow then… Rhonda is throwing an evening party for everyone at her house, after we've all had our Christmas dinners. Would you… like to come?" Her voice trailed away at the half-lidded, deadpan expression now on Helga's face.

"Thanks, Pheebs, but no, I won't be putting myself through the joy of a night with the princess and the rest of those knuckleheads." Helga's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Now scram before Geraldo over there wets himself at the thought of a whole evening in my presence." Phoebe nodded sadly, and turned to rejoin her boyfriend.

Helga called after her. "And Pheebs, since you couldn't make this report happen tonight, and since I'm sure you have far more important things to do tomorrow, I want to see you bright and early at my place the day after. Nine sharp – do not let me down! Oh, shut up!" The last comment was directed at the once-again shushing librarian, who was now shooting Helga a glare that could possibly rival her own. Possibly.

Phoebe seemed to deflate further on hearing Helga's final demand, but gave another sad nod before leaving with Gerald. Helga watched their renewed conversation with some amusement, seeing Gerald's face light up (presumably upon being assured of Helga's absence at the party) then promptly fall into a fresh scowl (presumably hearing about Phoebe's new post-Christmas commitment). 'What a maroon', she thought to herself.

Compared to the others, Helga was in no rush to head to her own home. The library was warm and comfortable, though she sensed she would get no more work done that night. But before long, the call went out that the library was closing, and Helga was forced to don her own thick coat, grab her book and depart. As she stepped out into the cold air, and set out for home, Helga let out a low groan; snow had begun to fall. In Helga's mind, she knew that a white Christmas in Hillwood simply meant that the children of the neighbourhood would be scurrying about, throwing snowballs and getting in her way. 'My asinine classmates will probably join them' she thought to herself, bitterly. And then the snow would melt into disgusting slush that she would have to wade through wherever she went. Just perfect. Helga was lost in this grim train of thought as she rounded the next corner, causing her to harshly collide with the person on the other side. As she fell, she heard the heavy thud of another body hitting the ground, followed by several smaller, unidentified thumps. She did not even have to look to know who she had hit.

"Arnold…" Helga quickly rose and brushed down her coat.

The football-headed young man now sitting up on the ground sighed, and began to collect the bright packages that lay scattered around him. Helga offered no help.

"Hi Helga," he finally stood, boxes bundled awkwardly under each of his arms, "nice night, huh?"

Helga rolled her eyes. She had been colliding with Arnold for as long as she could remember. When she was nine it was embarrassing, when they became 'them' it was cute, when they stopped being 'them' it became torture. And now it was just a nuisance. It happened almost daily; she barely even reacted anymore. 'What a splendidly crappy joke from the universe' she thought acidly.

"Yeah, Football Head, I just adore freezing my ass off." Curiosity got the better of her desire to cut short the conversation. "You look like you're about to creep down someone's chimney with all that loot; what gives?"

Arnold gave a small grin. "My new seasonal tradition; I'm taking a bunch of old toys and stuff to the children's hospital. It's not much, but the other guys contributed too. This is my last load – let's hope next year I've got my driver's license huh? It'd be way easier in the Packard."

It was true, Helga could see he looked tired. Arnold had, to everyone's amusement, grown rapidly during middle school. He now stood almost half a head taller than the already-willowy Helga. 'I loved that about him once' whispered the tiniest of voices at the back of her mind. She also noted his continued dedication to plaid, which always seemed to appear somewhere in his ensemble. Today, his blue winter trousers and grey jacket were accompanied by a thick, woollen plaid scarf, now dusted white with snow.

Helga shook her head, "God, you're such a cliché, Arnoldo." She clasped her hands and batted her eyelashes with a sardonic grin. "Sweet Saint Football Head, doer of good deeds, friend to all, escorter of old ladies across the street, and now Christmas Angel to the poor little children!" She mentally chastised herself for using the term 'Christmas Angel' – what an idiot she had been. "Don't you get tired of being so sickeningly goody-goody?"

Arnold's grin was gone; he could sense the way this conversation would turn.

"First of all, Helga, I helped Mrs. Vitello across the street that one time. She's eighty-eight years old and it was icy! And secondly, if you tried it you might realise that it feels good to do nice things for people besides m…" Arnold caught himself there, he didn't want to bring this up again. He coughed slightly. "…Anyway, you have anything you want to donate? Lots of the girls there love pink." He raised his eyebrows and resumed his small, hopeful grin.

Helga's trademark scowl appeared in record time. "Yeah right, like I'm gonna give away my hard-earned stuff to a bunch of sick kids. Half of them probably won't even be around to use it by New Year!"

Arnold recoiled in shock, "Helga that's terrible! How can you be so callous?! Tell me you don't really mean that."

"Whatever. Have fun playing elf, Football Head." Helga waved her hand dismissively and started to push past Arnold. She was unsure how he managed it, given his armfuls of gifts, but somehow he gently caught her arm.

"Helga, I know you and your dad are alone on Christmas. Maybe that's why you'd say something so thoughtless?" Helga growled and avoided his gaze. "We always have room for guests at the boarding house. You could join us for dinner? My grandma asks about you all the time."

Helga swiftly yanked her arm from his grip, "Fat chance – I want nothing to do with this idiotic holiday. And don't touch me." She quickly resumed walking away, not looking back at first, until she heard Arnold sigh.

"Merry Christm…" he began.

Helga wheeled around and pointed a finger. Her eyes could have melted the snow around him.

"DON'T. EVEN."

Her last sight was of Arnold's wide eyes, his throat giving an audible gulp, before she swiftly turned back and resumed her walk home.