Sherwood's little Eskimo
;;
'Eskimo' underlined all by itself is the key to understand Heather's pain. On the surface, Heather Duke was the vivacious young lady we all knew her to be, but her soul was in Antarctica; freezing with the knowledge of the way fellow teenagers can be cruel, the way parents can be unresponsive, and, as she writes so eloquently in her suicide note, the way that life can suck.
We'll all miss Sherwood's little Eskimo.
;;
"People love me."
"People love you but I know you. Heather, why can't you just be a friend? Why are you such a mega bitch?"
"Because I can be."
.
.
.
Sherwood, Ohio –
Heather Duke is twelve and it's Summer. She's sitting with Martha Dunnstock by the side of the pavement; the sun is beating down on her sweaty back, she's dying and so is the ice-cream cone in her hand.
While dreamily gazing at a teenage girl sunbathing on the fresh green grass lawn, Heather says to Martha, "I wish I was like her."
Martha's blue eues follow Heather's, the teenage girl is beautiful with her elegant book reading, her big hair and sunglasses, skinny ribs and thigh gap.
Heather says, "I want to be her."
Martha only frowns as she licks away at her ice-cream without a care in the world. "Why?"
"Because she's pretty." Heather answers while rolling her eyes – brown eyes – boring brown; eyes that no one would ever write poems about or fawn over.
Martha stops eating her treat. While looking at her friend, Martha innocently replies, "I think you're pretty, Heather."
Heather only scoffs in response.
Of course, Martha would think Heather is pretty. Heather Duke is Martha's … third friend, at most. They're more like neighbours, if anything. The two girls are only clumped together because there are no other kids on the block to play with and because Martha's best friends, Veronica Sawyer and Betty Finn, are away for Summer break.
Heather turns to look at Martha for a moment. She sees Martha in herself and vice versa.
Okay, maybe there's also another factor why Heather and Martha are clumped together. And there's no other way to sugar coat it. It's because they're both fat. Fat with chubby cheeks and double chins and no thigh gap. Just a couple of fat kids, grouped together because who the heck would want to be friends with two loser girls who are the mockery of high cholesterol and sweat problems?
Heather Duke sees herself and Martha as losers while everybody else isn't.
"Aren't you going to finish your ice-cream? It's melting," Martha observes, blue eyes shining with worry. Such pretty eyes compared to Heather's brown ones.
Just as Heather's about to open her mouth to say something, the skinny teenager moves to face the girls instead of the book she's reading: Moby Dick. Miss Teenage-Beauty-Queen lowers her sunglasses oh-so-elegantly and sneers at the sight of Heather and Martha gorging themselves with their sugared dairy products in hand.
Heather instantly feels judged and embarrassed then scowls at her ice-cream, it no longer tastes sweet. She says to Martha, "No, you can have it."
Today, Heather thinks she's learned that cruel, skinny people rule the world.
;;
It hits Heather Duke a year later, when she's in her final year of middle school, that she's only one year away from being a high schooler. High school: where things actually mattered.
(or, at least, that's what they say on TV )
She has to get skinny – fast.
;;
"Make a wish," Heather Duke says, thirteen and angsty. Bitter like your average pre-teen who's against the world and society's standards. It's Summer again and she's holding a dandelion in front of Martha Dunnstock's face.
Heather's already made her wish; to be skinny and pretty and popular. Now it's just Martha's turn to make one.
"I will," Martha smiles and open her mouth to suck in a deep breath – only for Heather to stick the whole damn dandelion in Martha's mouth.
A part of Heather doesn't know how but Martha somehow manages to scream on the top of her lungs while sputtering the dandelion seeds out of her mouth.
"Heather!" Martha yells, petrified.
But Heather's too busy laughing to take Martha's feelings seriously. Being mean is … it feels strangely good. Looks like Martha won't be getting her wish granted this year.
;;
It may have been luck or maybe just the world being a little shit, but, Heather Duke and Martha Dunnstock end up in the same high school along with Veronica and Betty and the rising Heathers who are solid Teflon.
Whenever Martha sees Heather Duke in class, Martha notices how her friend always seats herself at the edge of her chair. Heather's always on edge, the human definition of 'the edge of her seat' like she can't wait to get out of the room or the school or even this stupid little town.
"Is something wrong, Heather?" Martha squeezes a question before Heather is able to dash off.
Heather Duke's face turns green. She says, "I just feel queasy." – Then the next minute is followed by Heather rushing to the bathroom and Martha holding back Heather's hair without Heather needing to say anything.
"This is normal." Heather says mid-puke.
"Normal?" Martha echoes with tears in her blue eyes. "No, it's not. You're voluntarily vomiting, Heather. It's not normal to anyone."
"To me it is. I'm used to it."
Then Heather spends ten solid minutes throwing up and Martha spends ten solid minutes trying not to cry and panic over her friend's state.
;;
Of course, when Heather loses all her fat, her boobs and butt go with it. Previously, she was a chubby little girl but now she's nothing but a stick. And who the hell would make a skinny girl with no assets the most popular girl in school?
The answer is no one. No one would make her popular. She'll just be stuck as a loser stick girl. There's nothing to fawn over, nothing to look at, if she's just skin and bones. It's bad enough that she's short, she won't be able to grab anyone's attention with a flat chest and an equally flat butt.
As a teenager with no real money to her name, Heather Duke can't do anything about her chest herself. Oh, if only she had lost her weight through exercise building instead of starving herself and bulimia. If only she had been patient and learned throughout the excruciating two years of torturing herself that she could have gotten a fine ass through yoga or jogging or her mother's Pilates class.
So Heather begs for an alternative to her sad state. Heather Duke begs her mother for implants; something, anything, for that the population of Westerburg High to look at. Because if Heather doesn't have anything to show off then she may as well be nothing. And if she was nothing then that would make her a loser.
Being a loser – that is something Heather Duke refuses to be. Anything but that!
"You're fourteen," Her mother scoffs.
"So what?" Heather bites back.
"So you're too young. You're still growing." Mrs Duke reasons.
'Still growing'? That was something to laugh about, and not in a funny way. Heather knows she hasn't grown an inch since she turned thirteen. Puberty was supposed to hit her and make her super hot, not just leave her with zits and period pains.
"When can I get implants then?" Heather asks, not backing down.
Her mother looks at Heather straight in the eyes. The older woman presses her lips together and decides, "Sixteen,"
Ah, yes, sweet sixteen when the average American teenager is gifted with a brand-new car and the freedom to drive anywhere, anytime.
"SIXTEEN?" Heather shrieks back, mortified. No. No, that's too long. That's too –
"Sixteen and that's final." Mrs Duke says, putting her foot down.
;;
She's fifteen and Heather Duke figures, since she has no discernible personality along with her lack of assets, she may as well make herself look somewhat busy and important. So why not run the yearbook? It's not like anyone else will.
.
.
.
"Are you Heather? Heather Duke?"
Heather turns away from her copy of Moby Dick. But the moment her brown eyes took the sight of the blonde girl before her, she feels her jaw drop (along with her book) and her heart leaps to her throat.
A smile appears on the blonde's face, red lips curving with power. "Heather Chandler," She introduces herself but there's no need for it. Not really with Heather Duke's reaction.
And Heather Duke makes the right call when she shutters, "I – I know."
"Great," Heather Chandler says. "Then I'm sure my boon will be an easy one for you to fulfil."
"What boon?" Heather asks the blonde, more shocked than anything.
"You run the yearbook, right?"
"Yes?" Heather says, though the answer comes out in an uneasy certain manner. Just what does Heather Chandler want from her?
"Well, I didn't like how I looked the day my picture was taken. I thought it was ugly." Heather Chandler says, now studying her nails. "Too ugly. I thought I looked fat." She emphasizes and Heather Duke flinches at the words used to describe beauty. "Anyway, if you can change that picture to a more flattering one then I'm sure I can return the favour somehow." Heather Chandler's eyes snap back up to look at Heather Duke in the eyes. "Although, I think me gracing you with my presence is enough."
"I …" Heather feels her mouth turn dry. "I can do that. I can change your picture, it's no problem."
Heather Chandler smiles, though it doesn't quite reach up to her eyes. It's too measure. Heather Chandler picks up Heather Duke's copy of Moby Dick off from the floor then hands it over before she touches Heather Duke's mess of a hair, twirling it between manicure fingers. "That's good to hear, we'll be in touch. I'll e-mail you my best picture,"
;;
For the first week of the boon, Heather Duke spends her hours being ripped apart and ordered around and not getting a word in when she's with Heather and Heather. But mostly Heather. Conversations usually go like this; "Heather, I –" "Shut up, Heather!" "Sorry, Heather."
Rinse and repeat for a few weeks and Heather Duke soon grows accustomed to foul words and venomous callings. But, hey, at least Heather Chandler has finally allowed Heather Duke to be seen in public with the Heathers after all those gruelling hours of being treated like dirt under killer heels.
;;
"Your hair looks like a mess, more than usual." Martha observes Heather Duke's hair sticking out in odd angles, she notes that her friend probably didn't have time to comb her bed head.
Heather looks at Martha in a dry manner. She's been more stressed and tired, probably one hundred and ten percent done. Heather says, "Thanks, I was inspired by your mom's chest hair."
And in return, Martha just stares straight into Heather's brown eyes, squinting. "When did you become so mean?"
There's a blanket of silence for a moment. Heather … Heather didn't realize how Heather Chandler has rubbed off on her.
"Heather?" Martha voices.
Heather makes a clicking sound with her tongue and Martha opens her mouth to say something but Heather's already jammed the earphones of her Sony Walkman in to block Martha out. She doesn't want to hear it.
;;
"Heather, are you eating with Betty, Veronica and I?" Martha asks sweetly as she touches Heather Duke's green sleeve. Martha has long brushed off Heather's rude remark last week. She's noticed that Heather's been a wreck lately.
Heather pauses, seemingly embarrassed to be talking to Martha of all people – in public. Her face scrunches up in a readable way that says 'this is mega gross' but Heather doesn't say it out loud. Instead, Heather answers, "No, I'm sitting with Heather today."
"Heather Chandler or Heather McNamara?" Martha asks.
At this, Heather rolls her eyes. Martha should know which Heather she's talking about, it's in the tone of her voice. Heather repeats herself, telling Martha which Heather, "Heather Heather,"
Martha's face only twists in confusion. She says in a small voice, "I don't like how Heather Chandler speaks to you. I saw how she treated you the other day. It was mean." Then Martha pauses, once again, her soft blue eyes fill with worry.
Envy strikes itself in Heather's chest. Why couldn't she be born with such pretty eyes? Why did she have to be born will all the demerits of society? Flat chest, no ass, boring brown eyes.
Martha sighs, "Heather, I don't think you should be hanging out with Heather Chandler anymore."
This time, Heather is the one to pause. She holds her gaze against her childhood friend's, a faraway look, then says, "I have to sit with Heather, Martha. You know how it is,"
And Martha clenches her fists in return. No. No, she doesn't.
;;
"How did you do for the test?" Martha asks as soon as she catches up to Heather in the halls.
But Heather doesn't slow down. She's rushing, not towards the bathroom though. Heather's heading anywhere but where Martha is.
"I wrote fives pages of bullshit," Heather replies. She's been so stressed with Heather and Heather that she hasn't exactly had time to study. Great, so now she's ugly and dumb. Isn't that just peachy?
"I only wrote two pages." Martha answers, "I'm sure you did fine."
"My handwriting looked like a doctor wrote it while riding a rollercoaster."
"Oh, Heather." Martha says sympathetically.
But the dip of Martha's voice only has an opposite effect of what it's supposed to do, it ignites a rage in Heather's chest. Heather doesn't need this, she doesn't need fucking sympathy. She wasn't some pathetic hurt puppy that needed to be smothered.
"Two pages, you say? That bad, huh?" Heather laments. "Well, at least I'll know where to find you in the future. I'll drop by for sure to order something from McDonalds. The job suits you, though."
Martha immediately freezes, letting Heather walk ahead of her. Martha waits for Heather to stop, to turn around and say 'sorry'. But Heather doesn't. She doesn't.
And Martha thinks, Heather may as well have kicked her behind her kneecap and just leave her howling on the floor in pain.
;;
But, of course, Heather Duke knows Martha won't get it. She just doesn't. Unlike Martha, Heather knows hanging out with the Heathers is her one-way ticket out of Loserville. Even if it meant emptying her stomach, clutching onto a toilet bowl daily and kicking nerds that used to be her friends in the nose.
;;
"Congratulations, Heather." Heather Chandler says, throwing her beautiful blonde hair over her padded shoulders. "You're officially one of us now." She says, raising the alcoholic drink in her hand, striking red painted nails matching the equally red solo cup.
Heather McNamara smiles softly at their newest member and Heather Duke swears she almost cried but didn't. This was it, this was finally it! Her ticket out of Loserville!
…
We'll all miss Sherwood's little Eskimo.
;;
"I thought we were friends, Heather." Martha says the day she finds out that Heather Duke is no longer sitting with her for lunch today (or any other day for that matter). Martha finds her voice strangely cracking as she says this.
She's ... sad? Crying.
Heather Duke gives Martha a once over look in reply, not even bothering to turn all the way to face the crying girl. Heather doesn't reply but her actions speaker louder than anything she could have said anyways – You thought wrong.
;;
"Of course, you can stand to lose a few pounds," Heather Duke says as Veronica Sawyer stands in the bathroom, surrounded by the Heathers clique. But, really, Heather's just saying it to herself as she looks past Veronica and into the reflection in the mirror. Even on that fateful day, she was still looking at herself in a horribly negative manner.
;;
The Heathers walk into the cafeteria and as if it was all planned, heads turn to gawk and admire the popular girls. There's whispers and chatter about perfection and stylish clothes. Martha swears she can practically picture a sing and dance for the trio as they entered the room.
Heather, Heather and Heather.
That is, until, Martha realizes, it's not just a trio. There's another person with them. It's –
"Veronica?" Martha finds herself gasping.
And, low and behold, Veronica Sawyer stands there in blue with a large grin on her face. Veronica's wearing shoulder-pads and make-up, and there are sparkles in her eyes; the kind Martha sees in fairy tale movies where the princess gets all her wishes granted and more. The look on Veronica's face says 'Look at me, I'm finally beautiful!'.
"Wow," Betty Finn says, dazzled by it all too. "Ronnie's one of the Heathers now."
This makes Martha frown because no. No, Veronica isn't. She's not a Heather, she's a Veronica.
;;
Heather Duke is seventeen and finally at the top but also still at the bottom. The bottom of the Heather's pyramid, that is. Heather never makes Heather bend over for Veronica to write forged love letters, and Heather Duke hates it. She hates that she's finally on top but also still at the bottom and unhappy. So fucking unhappy.
She's worked so hard to get here. So why the fuck isn't she on cloud nine or whatever? Why isn't she happy and shiny?
Heather swears she can spit in the face of anyone who dares cracks a smile at her direction. Anyone. For example, her old buddy, Martha Dumptruck, who Heather's determined to keep the whole friendship a secret. Oh, how Heather hates hates hates Martha.
Martha who's content with herself, who wears soft pink and has unicorn dreams. So innocent, so oblivious to the terrors of high school.
The sight of Martha Dunnstock being happy with the way she is makes Heather Duke sick. Sick sick sick. Because there Heather is; skinny with implants strapped where her boobs should be, popular and green with envy at every happy person; and there Martha is; pink, innocent and a happy loser.
;;
Martha misses the days where she had big fun. With just her and Heather Duke. With her and Veronica Sawyer and Betty Finn. But now it's just her and Betty. The Heathers take everyone she cares about away from her. First Heather Duke who was her friend and then Veronica Sawyer who has been her best friend since diapers.
.
.
.
Long before that forged love note had reached her, Martha already knew: the Heathers ruined everything.
;;
end
;;
Notes
Oh look, what a surprise; me analyzing another popularity princess.
The scene about Martha saying Veronica isn't a Heather is taken after reading the deleted ending where Martha shoots Veronica and says "Fuck you, Heather!" and Veronica goes "I'm not a Heather. I'm not!"
– 19 May 2018