Work Text:
The fluorescent lights of the shop class hum, casting a harsh glare across the metallic shavings littering the workbench. Outside the tall, grimy windows of P.S. 118, the cool Washington afternoon of early May settles in, but inside, the atmosphere feels inexplicably shifted. Helga G. Pataki stands beside the welding station, her usual heavy, combat-style demeanor replaced by an uncanny, deliberate composure. She wears a soft, muted pastel cardigan—an unbelievable departure from her standard attire—and her hair is styled with a careful, neat precision that feels utterly alien.
Phoebe Heyerdahl wipes her safety goggles, adjusting her small frame as she prepares to secure two iron plates. Before she can reach for the clamp, Helga's hand glides smoothly into her field of vision, holding the heavy metal steady with a gentle, balanced grip.
"So," Helga begins, her voice lacking its usual abrasive edge, sounding almost terrifyingly pleasant. "How's the cello practice going, Pheebs? Are you still working through that Bach suite for the spring recital?"
Phoebe pauses, her fingers hovering mid-air above the blowtorch. For years, Helga’s response to any mention of classical music or school orchestrations ranged from a dismissive snort to an outright change of topic. Yet here she is, leaning against the workbench, looking genuinely invested, her blue eyes wide and soft. Helga effortlessly manages the welding torch, expertly joining the seam of Phoebe's project with a steady, practiced hand that requires zero effort from Phoebe herself.
Phoebe stares at her best friend, her brows knitting together behind her glasses. "Helga..." she starts slowly, her voice cautious, measuring every syllable. "Are you... having lactose problems?"
The question hangs heavily in the air, weighted by years of shared history. Back in sixth grade, when a wide-eyed, transfer student named Arnold first walked into P.S. 118, Helga had fallen hard and fast. To keep her overwhelming, terrifying crush secret from the rest of the world, she and Phoebe had devised a coded language. Arnold became "ice cream." Over the years, as the intense childhood infatuation gradually faded into a quiet, distant memory of youth, the code evolved. "Lactose" became their unspoken shorthand for matters of the heart—for deep, unexplainable, or inconvenient romantic feelings.
Helga stiffens. The porcelain mask of gentle girliness cracks instantly. Her cheeks flush a deep, furious crimson, her knuckles turning white against the metal table. "No!" Helga barks, her hands flying up defensively before she slaps them over her mouth. She scowls, eyes darting around the noisy workshop to make sure no one else heard. "Yes... shut up."
A visible wave of relief washes over Phoebe. The unsettling, eerie sweetness vanishes, replaced by the familiar, prickly defensive edge of the girl she has known for years. Phoebe exhales quietly, letting out a small, subtle smile. This aggressive snapping is far less unnerving than the uncanny persona Helga had been parading since Rhonda's costume party over the weekend.
"I need a minute," Helga mutters through gritted teeth, turning abruptly on her heel and marching out of the shop classroom toward the girls' restroom.
The heavy door of the restroom swings shut behind her, cutting off the rhythmic clinking of machinery from the hallway. Helga grips the edges of the porcelain sink, staring intensely at her reflection in the spotted mirror. She turns on the cold water, splashing her face in a desperate attempt to reset her frantic mind. She needs to regroup. She needs to pull herself together before this absurd attempt at being the "ideal, feminine girl" completely consumes her.
Her thoughts spiral, spinning out of control into a dark, dramatic visual hyperbole. In her mind's eye, she imagines herself losing her grip on reality entirely. She sees her cynical, guarded self being dragged away, stripped down to her undergarments, and forcefully strapped to a cold, stainless-steel operating table in a dimly lit, subterranean medical theater.
The mental image intensifies, visceral and terrifying. She visualizes heavy leather restraints biting into her wrists and ankles, pinning her down like a sacrifice. It feels like a crucifixion of her very identity.
She imagines cold-faced technicians stepping forward, preparing to drive two thick metal rods into her skull to fry her brain, systematically erasing every sharp edge, every sarcastic defense, and every genuine thought she has ever possessed.
In this horrifying hallucination, she imagines herself believing she is inherently evil—writhing against the restraints as the hidden, tender love she harbors for Phoebe melts away under the heat of forced conformity, twisting into a bitter, blackened hatred—
"Helga? Are you alright?" The soft, familiar voice shatters the dark fantasy instantly.
Helga gasps, pulling back from the sink as the mental imagery dissolves into the harsh tile of the P.S. 118 restroom. Phoebe stands beside her, eyes wide with genuine concern. Softly, carefully, Phoebe reaches out and gently places her small, warm hand over Helga's bare wrist. The physical contact sends a shockwave through Helga. She flinches backward violently, her heel catching the base of the trash can. Her legs give out, and she slides down the tiled wall, hitting the laminated floor with a dull thud, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath.
Without a second of hesitation, Phoebe drops to the floor alongside her. The formal boundary of their usual dynamic evaporates. Phoebe shifts instantly into a quiet, steadfast caretaker role, sitting cross-legged on the cold tiles right beside her best friend.
"Hey," Phoebe whispers gently, her voice steady and grounding amidst the quiet hum of the bathroom lights.
She doesn't push for answers, nor does she demand an explanation for the strange clothes or the defensive outbursts. She simply sits there, anchoring Helga to the present moment, offering an unwavering presence that needs no performance at all.