The bus ride to her house was made even more torturous by the command. Helga G. Pataki did not like to wait. And she didn't like being told what to do. Especially when she was told to wait.
The bus halted, and she flew off and onto her stoop, wasting no time in tearing the wrapping from the box. Everyone in the class got something; but hers seemed wrapped carefully.
Lifting the lid, she almost screamed from shock.
A weathered pink books sat inside, with a folded note on top.
Venturing to read the note first (knowing the contents of the book already), she read it and couldn't help but smile.
"Where does this dumb Scavenger Hunt lead, anyway?"
"I don't know. Just keep looking for clues."
Helga rolled her eyes. Another project. Another partnership with Arnold. Another day of trying to be nice, but failing miserably.
"Why would we have to come to a restaurant, anyway? What kind of clue could be here?" she asked, looking in the potted plants scattered around the cobblestone courtyard. The area had undergone several changes in the past few years, but it was always a fancier part of town. She hadn't been here since…
Helga looked to the fountain in the center of the courtyard. The outdoor chairs and tables.
"I think I found it…" Arnold said, walking toward her.
"Great; let's get out of here-"
Instead of a card with our next clue on it, Arnold held an object out to Helga. Her hand took it, shaking wildly.
The red shoe was too small to fit her now. But, its twin was in the back of her closet, ever since that night.
At first, the puzzle pieces were too scattered, too few and far between to make a complete picture. When he pushed too hard, she retreated. In the few short months that he knew her, he suspected that she was skilled at retreating.
So, he did the only thing he could. He forced her hand. Literally.
With each assignment that grazed his desk, the picture became clearer. The subject was defined, slowly, and he grew more thankful that he was privy to its unfolding.
It wasn't until the storm before Spring Break.
She fell.
She called out one name. And he echoed hers back.
And while the safety of his student was always paramount, he smiled to himself.
The Boy With The Cornflower Hair finally had a name.
"I hope so," I reply, still looking up. The city's light pollution has made the stars at night all but invisible. It makes me miss the clear air of South America. Stars would make it perfect. But I'll make do with what I can get.
"Alright, man. I don't get it, but I guess it's not my thing to get" Gerald says, slapping a hand on my shoulder. I'm glad that I can conspire with him on this. I don't think he fully buys the mechanics of this relationship, but he's supportive enough. And my best friend. I'm not sure who else I'd ask for help with this. "I gotta ask though; a tree?"
"Yeah."
"Care to explain?"
"She likes trees," I tell him. That's as much explanation as I can give. Gerald seems satisfied and shrugs his shoulders. "Is that a good idea?"
"I guess. You know the girl better than I do."
"Maybe it's too much."
"Trust me. It's supposed to be too much."
I release a breath. Gerald seems to sense the overwhelming nervousness that has suddenly taken me over, and grips my shoulder again.
"Don't sweat it. It'll be fine. I'll bring over one of the utility ladders in the morning. By this time tomorrow, you'll be too happy to be nervous." Gerald walks away, toward the car parked just outside of the park. We walked pretty far in to find the right tree, and I watch him leave before staring back up at the leaves of the trees, with slivers of indigo sky peeking through. Stepping closer, I watch as something catches my attention beyond the green leaves.
Through a canopy of smog and artificial light, a star blinks back at me. If Gerald's words are any comfort, then this is the last bit of encouragement I needed. I finger the won velvet-covered box in my jacket pocket.
Maybe I won't need a night sky full of stars tomorrow.
'This should not be this hard. This is a pen. Filled with ink. This is a book. Filled with paper. Paper. Ink. Pen. Words. Make it happen, Pataki!'
This is my fourth pep talk tonight. I can usually get my thoughts together after two. Maybe three. But four? Four?! What am I, some kind of inept moron? Write down the words! Write them, now!
Why am I pep-talking to myself in my room at night, with a hundred thousand pieces of paper scattered around my room and about half a dozen Yahoo soda bottles on my desk? Well, I will tell you why. Tomorrow is the last day of school, and my last opportunity to finally tell Arnold how I feel about him before summer vacation. And, yes, this would be far more romantic and pivotal if I waited until next year, when we all go our separate ways into the world, but really, how much fun would that be? He could go to Timbuk-freakin'-tu and I'll never see him again and never know what he thought, and he'd be off the hook, because if he does think I'm the spazzoid of the century, he could just hop on a plane and leave forever and I will always just be that weird girl who made the last day of his senior year awkward, but it's okay, because he won't have to speak to me again. This way. I'm the weird girl who will make the last day of his junior year awkward, but who he might have to do an English project with, or see at a house party, or something. And all I have to do, is write the most earth-shatteringly awesome, heartfelt, completely knock-your-footballheaded socks off confession in the history of the known universe.
Easy, right?
Yeah, no. Shutup.
The papers around my desk and room are testaments to the failure that is Helga trying to put words together. I thought I'd just jot it down before committing it to immortality. That was hours ago. I'm doomed.
Maybe I should take a walk. Clear my head. This room is too stuffy anyway. I should be outside. Breathing fresh air and hearing birds sing. Hemingway went to cafes and did his writing. There are cafes open at night, I'm sure. And if not, I'll find a park bench or something and get this thing done, lickity split.
I gather my supplies a few candy bars and another yahoo soda (in case the café idea doesn't work out) a mostly empty notebook, and the very vessel of my soon to be masterpiece. I'm almost at my bedroom door when the sound my phone clattering on my desk calls to me. I almost forgot I took it out of my back pocket some time ago when the pressure started making my butt hurt. Ignoring the screen, I tapped the answer button.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Helga…"
Oh Crimeny on a Graham Cracker…
"…it's Arnold."
NO! this is not supposed to happen. I'm not filled with the right words! I can't handle this right now. Throwing my 'supplies' across the room to my bad, I started pacing, trying to make my breathing sound a little calm.
"Hey Footballface, what's shakin'?" Oh my goodness, Helga, you idiot. What's shakin'?! That's what you're gonna go with?
"Well, I'm sorry to call so late, but I kind of need to ask you something."
Oh I could see it now. Arnold, scratching the back of his too-narrow neck, all nervous. Why he's nervous talking to me, I have no idea, but he is, and that somehow makes me feel better.
"It's not that late," I tell him. I feel like I should be really casual, even though he can't see me. Like I should lean in a doorway, or something. Maybe tomorrow.
"Helga…it's two-thirty in the morning."
"…I knew that…what are you calling me so late for, anyway?"
"Anyway, I've been tearing my room up all night-"
"Yeah…"
"And I can't seem to find m yearbook…"
"Ya don't say…"
"And I thought I gave it to you during last period, but I haven't seen it since then."
"That certainly is a mystery…"
"And I was wondering, you haven't seen it, have you?"
Looking around my own disorganized room, I threw my hands up, defeated before the battle began. He knows. He knows what I did. The jig is up.
"Well, let me just look through my bag, here," I say, kicking around a stray and crumpled sheet of paper. Looking to my bed, only somewhat guiltily, I try to sound as surprised as I know how. "Oh my goodness, you're right. You know, I must have shoved it in my bag when the bell rang. My bad, Arnoldo."
There's a sigh from the other end of the phone, and I know he's bought it. What a boob.
"Thanks; I thought I'd have to try and buy a new one on the last day of school. That'd be a nightmare."
"Yes, definitely. Well, worry no more, it's safe with me."
"Great. Do you think I could get it back tomorrow? We could meet in front of the school, if that's okay."
"Sure thing. Oh, and Arnold?" I say, waiting for the pause I know is imminent. "Don't ever call me at two-thirty in the morning unless something is on fire, got it?"
"Got it. Thanks again." Click.
Shoving the slim phone in my back pocket, I take a seat on my bed, left unmade from this morning. The contents of my arms a few minutes ago are now peppered around my bed, and it only takes a few seconds to find the bound book in question. Turning it over, I open the back cover to the spot I've chosen to tell Arnold everything I've avoided for years. This spot, slightly smaller than the size of my palm, is the canvas on which my masterpiece will be set.
"Well," I tell the book. "We've got five more hours together. Let's do this."
