Stupid… childproof… caps.
Is she thinking of what she's doing?
Yes. She's thinking a lot.
Her hand shakes; her palms are sweaty. It doesn't make it any easier. She scrunches up her skirt; yanks at the lid.
The pills feel cold. Like small bullets. She holds them in her mouth like pearls.
If it's good enough for Heather, it's good enough for me.
"You think you have to do something just because everyone else does it?"
The slushee is cold. Heather sips it constantly, like a lifeline. She nods.
Her current saviour and best friend, Veronica, rocks back on her chair. Her head knocks against the counter behind her. "Oh my God."
"Yes. No." She sips. "Kinda."
"You're allowed your own opinion, you know?" She flips back her fringe, in order to enable maximum staring effect. "Like, that's a thing. You don't have to be Heather Chandler."
A freeze in her chest. "But I am a Heather." It comes out as a whine.
Two chair legs thump on the floor, and now she is inches from her face. Her eyes are fury and pity and fierceness.
"You're Heather you. Geez." She lets go of the glare long enough to spy Heather's straw, and reaches forward to take a sip. She lets her. "What was so good about Chandler anyway?"
A lot of things. "She was my best friend."
"Yeah, and she was also a mega bitch."
Yeah, a lot of things. "Don't say that."
"What. It's true." She shifts her eyes. "I liked her too," She says, almost convincingly.
"I mean." Pause. "She was a bitch to you, I guess."
"And you," She counters impressively.
September 1st 1983.
"Not real-"
An eleven-year old girl wears a red scrunchie to school.
"Yes." She reaches forward to sip again. "I'm a bitch, so I'm qualified to tell when someone else is."
"I don't think you're a bitch." It's a pathetic statement, but it brings a small smile.
"Thanks."
"Your name's Heather? My name's Heather too!"
"I don't think anyone is." Heather should stop, but she can't. She has a lot of things to say, because she's been thinking a lot, and she's been thinking for a very, very long time. "I think everyone's good, really. You know? Like." A thirteen-year old girl offers a friend her red scrunchie. She smiles, and she wraps it round her hair, and she never takes it off. "Like someone might act like they hate everyone, but they're really complex, aren't they? Like, in her note." She kisses her friend on the cheek. "Thank you." "She seemed like she hated everyone, but nobody knew the real her. Nobody could tell that she actually cared."
No, it was a mistake, I was drunk. Heather, no Heather, I didn't mean it like that, why are you so obsessed with me?
She swallows. "Everyone had her wrong."
"You can't tell anyone this happened. If you tell someone, I'll ruin you."
Veronica stares at her, and there's something different in it this time. A suspicion. An understanding.
Guilt? Why would there be guilt?
"I know you cared about her." She looks away. "But that doesn't mean she can't hurt you. That doesn't make it right."
"Why are you so obsessed with me!"
Because of a kiss, a kiss, a kiss.
Veronica Sawyer rolls her eyes. "We've all realised Heather Chandler had stuff below the surface, well done. Now we just have to accept that she could also be a dick." A pause. "And even if she - meant something to you-"
A kiss. A swallow. "She did."
"-well, fuck it, and fuck her, you know? Because that doesn't make her nice." She regains her composure. "Did that sound bitchy?"
She smiles. "A bit."
Be Heather you.
"Awesome." She stands up, extends a hand. "Let's go get another slushee."