September 1st, 1989
The first impression I make of people is how would I kill them.
It's been an interesting first week at Westerberg High School in Sherwood, Ohio. The old man has had to move us across the country yet again – no big surprise. There's not much to say about the students at Westerberg High. They are bleak and vapid; they remind me of the ant farm I had in kindergarten. They obsess and create these pointless little forms. They think they're so complex but all one would need to do is give the farm a little shake. There's something fulfilling about watching the ants scatter while their tunnels all collapse around them, just like the students of Westerberg High.
There are a few cliques – nerds, stoners, everything one would expect – nothing too out of the ordinary. All the usual high school archetypes are there. Martha Dunstock seems to be the butt end of all the pranks and jokes here. Two ape-ish jocks named Ram Sweeney and Kurt Kelly are the male prototype of perfection – pretty low standards if you ask me. They stomp around the halls of the school like a couple of virgins dying to lose their virginity.
I keep imagining all the different ways I would kill them.
It keeps me entertained while I have to sit in these classes. The teachers are about as dumb as the students are.
The leading clique of this school is a group of superficial, carbon copy girls named the Heathers: Heather Duke, Heather McNamera, and Heather Chandler. No real threats to be honest – but I've planned out how I would kill each one of them too.
They have a fourth member, and she's the one who intrigues me the most.
She follows them around and follows orders like their slave. It's deprecating to watch. However, this young woman who I know nothing about, has me hooked. At some point I will have to open my mouth here and talk to someone, and I decided it would be her.
I wouldn't kill her.
So when the Heathers were taking their weekly, pointless lunchtime survey. I locked my eyes on her. When she first entered the cafeteria she spotted me. Observing her in the cafeteria was an experience. She was definitely not a Heather. She was a completely different breed.
The Heathers walked around the cafeteria with an air of ignorance and power. They have no idea that the real world will devour them in an instant. But how could they know that? To them, Westerberg is the world. Their small mindedness would make them so easy to kill.
The non-Heather caught my eye again. She fought a smile in my direction. One of the Heathers pulled her aside – no doubt to spread some gossip. They were looking in my direction, so one can only assume the things they were saying.
The non-Heather made her way over to me, following my eyes that had been glued to her. I let a grin play on my face as she approached me.
"Hello, Jason Dean" she spoke with a smile.
I sat a little taller in my chair, "Greetings and salutations," I greeted her, "So, are you a Heather?"
"No," she responded with a chuckle, "I'm a Veronica… Sawyer"
Her smile filled the silence, "This might seem like a dumb question,"
"Ah, but there are no dumb questions," I corrected her with a grin.
"You inherit five million dollars the same day aliens land on the earth and say they're gonna blow it up in two days… What do you do?" she smirked.
I was stumped. I let out a breath and spoke, "That's the stupidest question I've ever heard,"
This time she laughed. What a great sound.
A comfortable silence fell over us as I looked at her face. What beauty, what charm… she was so much farther above these Westerberg low lifes.
I could've stayed in that silence for a little while longer, but the lead Heather walked up to steal her away, "Come on Veronica"
Veronica shot a smile in my direction, "Later," as she walked away.
Veronica.
I like it.