A Chance Encounter

"Fucking bullshit" Heather grumbled as she went to push open the door of the 7/11 with her shoulder not wanting to grab the door handle with her bloody hand. Instead of being forced open, the door stayed firm and Heather felt her momentum carry her forehead forward into the glass of the door.

"OWWW!" she yelped after her head smacked against the glass.

A wave of rage washed over her as she held back a giant "Fuck". This was all MBetty Finn's fault. If that stupid sow hadn't walked behind her car when the brakes failed none of this bullshit would be happening. All her fake friends would still be by her side and she'd still be queen bee.

"They're all such fucking phonies," she grumbled.

"Reading a lot of Catcher in the Rye lately?" asked an unfamiliar voice from behind her.

"What? Who?" she spun around a little too fast and nearly tripped over herself after being caught off guard by the sudden interruption of her pity party.

Standing in front of her in jeans, a t-shirt, and an absurd trench coat that screamed "I'm going to shoot up the school if I can't lose my virginity in a month" was Jason Dean.

"You know it says pull not push, right there," he smugly pointed to the sign on the glass door that Heather had somehow managed to miss.

"I knew that schizoid," she shot back.

"Oh, so you were slamming your head into the door on purpose? My mistake, carry on," he did a stupid dip as if he were faking a bow for her.

Heather looked at the door handle and then back down at her hand, covered in the bloody ragged remains of an expensive skirt she had turned into an impromptu turn a kit.

"Just open the door, shit weasel."

"As the Red Queen commands," he grinned in a way that was almost attractive, but just a little bit more creepy before pulling the door open for her.

"That looks pretty bad, Red," he pointed to her bandaged hand as the two made their way into the gas station.

"Don't call me that, anyways why are you stalking me down the aisles? Don't you have an issue of Future School shooters of America to pick up?"

"My bad, I mistook your Holden Caulfield-esque rantings about the fakeness of our peers to be some sort of approximation of depth. But it looks like the only things you two have in common are the initials"

"Well fuck me gently with a chainsaw. You're such a snide little shit. You're not as smart as you think you are just because you can quote from a book we all had to read as sophomores. This isn't The Breakfast Club or Pretty in Pink. You're not the main character of a John Hughes movie, you're just an asshole," Heather huffed as she went back to looking for the bandages.

"If you're gonna be a nuisance then at the very least help me find the right bandage," she grumbled, but no snide reply came.

Turning around she saw Jason walking away.

"Hey you!" she shouted after him.

"You're not interesting enough to put up with the abuse, Red," he said without missing a beat.

"F-fuck you too, schizoid!" she shouted back, feeling already non-existent control over the situation slipping even further away.

"Hey, you two! Take your teenage lover's quarrel someplace else. If you keep shouting in my store, I'm throwing you both out!" The cashier saved Heather from another retort from Jason with his demand they stop.

After grabbing some antiseptic and bandages, Heather made her way to the cashier only to be greeted with the suspicious gaze of the cashier.

"You know you can't drink this stuff, right?"

"Of course I know you can't drink rubbing alcohol. I'm not an idiot. Anyways, if I wanted a drink I'd buy actual liquor, not cheap shit from a 7/11."

The cashier just rolled his eyes and began to ring Heather up.

"Did your boyfriend do that to you?" he asked while pointing at Heather's hand as if only just now realizing why she was buying the rubbing alcohol.

"What? Oh no, I broke a glass," Heather replied, thinking about how despite all the bullshit she'd been through since the suspicious car accident, the idea of any of the guys she was currently "dating" actually hurting her seemed so hilariously impossible that she hadn't even thought of it as a possibility.

"Alrighty then. Well, that'll be-" the cashier started before Jason interrupted.

"Add a large slushie to that, I'm buying," he grinned

"How chivalric?" the cashier responded sarcastically. "You finally decided to take care of your girlfriend, instead of giving her shit?"

"He's not my boyfriend," Heather cut in, only now realizing that the cashier didn't mean Kurt when he was asking about her boyfriend.

"Sounds like you're still in the doghouse, kid," the cashier chuckled.

With an exasperated sigh, Heather grabbed her things and left while Jason paid. This time her shoulder pushed the glass door open without any issues.

"You know some people might get offended if they paid for a girl's feminine hygiene products and then didn't even get a thank you in return," Jason called out to her as he sprinted to catch up to her.

Chandler stopped short, her neck snapping back as if it had been yanked by a chain and she glared at the lanky boy.

"Listen to me you, insufferable little shit. I don't know who you are-" She spat with venom before being cut off

"J.D. We have chemistry together."

Heather wanted so desperately to be pissed to see only red but instead, a sense of utter hopelessness descended upon Heather. And with that collapse in her ability to be enraged, she felt a compulsion to do something she hadn't done since she was a little girl.

"Shit, are you crying?" J.D. asked before Heather fully realized that was exactly what she was doing.

"I'm not crying," Heather blubbered, despite the hot tears beginning to flow uncontrollably. Soon there seemed to be no stopping the ugly crying that consumed her.

"Shit... uh, do you… I don't know... um, need a hug or something?"

"Fuck you, Jason-"

"J.D. is fine," he interrupted, trying to lighten the mood.

For a moment, the waterworks slowed and Heather just glared at him.

"You really think you're so smart?"

"Not really, mostly I'm just right about people," he grinned.

It was that same stupid grin that was a little cute, but more creepy, but for whatever reason Heather found that maybe it was just a bit cuter than creepy this time.

"What do you want from me, schizoid?" Heather spat between sobs trying desperately to regain control of the situation.

"Actually, the overpaid shrink my father sends me to as an alternative to talking with him thinks I'm more histrionic and negativistic features, but really what does that guy know?"

"What?"

"Oh, you don't actually know what those terms mean."

"Of course I don't know what they mean, I never listen to a word that comes out of my shrink's mouth," she replied, finally getting a hold of the tears situation.

"You know you've got all the signs of megalomania, Heather Chandler."

"I really don't give a rat's ass what you think… Also Heather Chandler? You're using my full name? Are you the school teacher or maybe my dad?"

"You run around with three other Heather. I think the last name is a valid qualifier," he said, reaching out and taking the box of bandages Heather was awkwardly trying to open and popped the top off with a knife he'd been keeping concealed, before handing it back to her.

"...Uh… Thanks. And it's only two other Heather's. The other girl is Veronica, but you already knew that since you can't keep your eyes in your head while stalking her every lunch. Not that any of that matters right now. None of those two-faced sluts will talk to me because of the car accident. They're too busy playing follow the leader with Courtney from the country club and throwing bouquets to themselves for coming up with the brilliant plan to nominate Betty for Junior Prom Queen."

Heather peeled off the blood-crusted strip of skirt and began to try and pour the rubbing alcohol on her cut only for J.D. to grab the bottle.

"This is gonna sting," he warned a little too late as he poured the burning liquid into her cut.

"Fuck," she shrieked as the pain that had dulled since her accident throbbed back to life.

"But, yeah, I can see why people might want to distance themselves from someone who ran someone's leg over," J.D. added as he bandaged up her hand.

"If you weren't bandaging my hand I'd slap you so hard you'd end up on February 31st. I didn't run over Betty Fin's leg. My brakes failed and the car rolled down the hill and pinned her leg against a wall. I wasn't even in the car when it happened."

"Maybe you should have gotten your car serviced more regularly?" he chuckled as he finished up tying a bow with the bandage on H.C.'s hand.

"Don't get snide with me Mr. Mass shooter. I had my car serviced literally 2 weeks before it all happened. Someone sanded down my breaks."

"Wouldn't it have just made sense for them to have just cut your brake lines? I mean it would have been much easier and you wouldn't have had a chance to escape before they failed," he replied between gulps from his slushie.

"Then everyone would know someone was trying to kill me. The little snake that wanted to off me wanted everyone to think it was an accident," she said while looking over her bandaged hand.

"So you think that you are at the center of an elaborate conspiracy to murder you and make it look like an accident? I know I said you exhibited megalomania, but maybe paranoid delusions are more your thing."

"Of fuck off, J.D.! I don't need to deal with the obnoxious quips of some virginal mall rat who wishes his slushie straw was as long as the one in his mouth," Heather began to stomp off towards her house.

"Well hold up H.C. Firstly, I'm not a virgin. Secondly, if someone is trying to off you, wouldn't it be better if you weren't walking around late in the afternoon all on your lonesome? You might need a little bit of protection," he brandished his pocket knife.

"It's Heather, not H.C. but I'll answer your question with one of my own. Why would I be inclined to have some gangly punk who I barely even know walk me back to my house in the dark? For all, I know you're the person that tried to kill me."

"Listen, Big Red, I'm in auto shop and my dad owns a construction company. If I had tried to kill you I'd have either loosened your lug nuts so your tires would fly off while you're going 65 on the freeway or I'd have just channeled my inner IRA fighter and rigged your car to blow."

The delinquent's crooked grin appeared again, and even though he'd just joked about blowing her to smithereens, Heather couldn't help but find it more cute than creepy.

"I bet you do a lot of blowing, based on how well you work that slushie straw," she giggled.

"Another gay joke? Really H.C. your material might be getting a little stale," he said, sidelining up next to her.

"Shut up and walk me home, asshole. I need to be able to throw you in front of the killer when they try to run me over," There was something stupidly romantic about being walked home by J.D. that almost made Heather crack an authentic smile... almost anyways.