If I Told You In Chalk
by Elven Moon
It was not beneath her to do this. After all, how much crazier can one get after keeping generations of shrines dedicated to her secret beloved in a closet? To stalk someone and cradle a locket with his picture inside as though it were a newborn babe, ready to break at the slightest hint of changing wind?
Each stroke of the chalk scratched on the burning pavement, crisp from the unrelenting summer sun. Blue stretched over pink, yellow over green, into a mess of emotions known only to the artist herself. Helga G. Pataki.
She came here at least once a day, to add to her masterpiece. Nobody knew; not even her best and probably only close friend, Phoebe. It was her escape after dealing with a "blowhard" dad and a lousy mom who spent more time asleep than awake – one might swear she was like a cat trapped in a human's body. It was her hideaway from the annoying forms of the other kids in her neighborhood and at school who would taunt and torture her if they ever discovered what she was doing. She was "tough" and Helga had to stick to that reputation, even if it meant distancing herself from anyone or anything that might try to break through the wall and see the person she really was inside.
It was in a not too often explored section of the park. Sometimes kids might run by if they hit a ball or threw a Frisbee too far, but it was never anyone she recognized. Besides, she had not signed her name. And she wouldn't. She didn't have the courage. Because if she did, he might find out.
Yes, Arnold. Her wonderful Arnold. How she had longed for his head to turn her way, to give her some kind of hope they he might "like-like" her too. He was always going out of his way to help others, to give advice, to be a great person overall. He was exactly what she didn't see in herself. And while she loathed him for it, at the same time she was deeply in love with him because of it. Helga knew, though, that actually expecting him to do this was near impossible. She caused him so many problems, picked on him so much, calling him "football head" and "Arnoldo" among other names, she couldn't help but wonder why he talked or associated himself with her at all.
Were these tears or balls of sweat rolling down her nose? She didn't know, and she didn't care. The lovesick young girl rubbed her fingers against her forehead, leaving fine streaks of chalk their wake. She sighed, letting her mind wander for a few minutes, resting from the storm of ideas that escaped when she got into her "groove."
"Arnold, oh my Arnold," Helga said, clutching at her chest. "Why do I have to hide from you, my darling? Why must this tormented heart admire in secret? Will I never tell you of who I really am? Will I never share a sunset with you, hold your hand, and feel your smile boring into my soul?"
There was silence after the speech, disturbed only by birds invisible in the tree branches. She continued on, letting her hands take her where they would, twirling and swirling like gothic loops and the laughter of excited children. This made her smile, and although she wasn't the most talented artist around, it was still something to be proud of anyway.
It was nightfall before she was satisfied. She was dancing with unsuppressed glee, arms flailing about like a baby bird learning to fly. It was joy. It was rapture. It was a tribute to the best part of her life. And it was finished.
Leaning over until her lips almost touched the ground she stared at it, taking it in. At this moment in time, the 10-year-old could think of nowhere else she wanted to be – save the obvious exception. Though she was tired, though she knew she would probably wake up with a nasty sunburn the next day, it was very much worth it.
"I've done it! I've done it, my love! Finally, your shrine of chalk is ready to face the open sun and shine your rays of wonder! And though you may never be mine, oh dove, you can know that someone, somewhere, is dreaming of your-"
"Helga? Is that you?"
That voice. She knew that voice!
"A-A-Arnold!"
The boy with corn-silk hair approached the startled bully with friendly but cautious stride. "What's that Helga? Did you draw that?"
"I,uh… this?" she said, waving her arms. "This is um… no! This is-"
"Because… I really like it. It's pretty." He gave her his trademark smile.
She let out a goofy grin before quickly correcting her expression and rested her body on one leg, crossing her arms in frustration. "OK! Criminy! I drew it, OK? What do you want? What kind of bribe is on the table? Cleaning your room? Doing your homework? Doi, football head, I didn't think you the type to blackmail!"
Arnold held out his hands defensively. "Hold on, Helga! I wouldn't do that."
A sneer escaped her lips and she said skeptically, "Yeah, uh huh."
"No, Helga. Seriously, I wouldn't. I think it's great. How long did it take you?"
"I'unno… awhile."
He seemed to ignore her lack of enthusiasm. "Wow! I'm impressed. What's it supposed to be?"
She turned a bright shade of red. "Well… uh… the thing about that is…"
"Arnold! Hey man, aren't we playing football? Come on, before it gets too dark to see!" his friend, Gerald, could be heard yelling in the distance.
"Coming!" he called back, and then he turned to look at her once again. "It really is very nice, Helga. Maybe you should sign it?" And with a small wave, he turned and ran in the direction he had come.
Once Helga was sure he was no longer near enough to see, she collapsed on the ground, giggling. "Oh, Arnold! I love you! You're so wonderful, and you have such an appreciation for art! Someday Arnold, I hope you'll see me as a portrait to be studied!"
Drip. A single, wet drop hit her shoulder. She paused.
"Rain?"
Author's Note: So? Like it, love it, hate it? I may do a follow-up if I can find the time. In any case, I hope you enjoyed it.