Heather Chandler still hadn't decided what she was going to do, other than 'avoid Veronica at all costs on Saturday'. Maybe she'd disinvite Veronica to the Remington party tomorrow. If she was going to do that, she'd do it at the last possible moment, for maximum humiliation. Should she take Heather or Heather instead? Heather was hung up over Ram and wasn't interested in the Remington guys, but Heather was a pathetic flat-chested prudish pillowcase who'd seemed way too amused about Heather's impending death.

So Heather sat in front of her dresser for now and tested out a new eyeshadow. It was okay with her red cashmere sweater, but she didn't need her sweater in spring. It was better with the watermelon pink lipgloss than the cinnamon spice lipgloss. She should have gone out to get drunk at the nearest kegger, party while she was still alive. Hell, she didn't really believe Heather and Heather's crap, or did she?

She fluently cursed at the knock at the door that broke her concentration. Her father looked in and waited for her to finish.

"Hey, princess," he said. "My property developer's here. Going to blow up the old hotel for me. He's got a kid your age, starting school tomorrow. You want to join me in the meet and greet?"

"It depends. How much of a bribe are we talking if the kid's a loser?" Heather said.

"Fifty."

"Paid in advance only."

"A deal's a deal." Heather's father obligingly slid her a bill. He'd let it wrinkle in his wallet, which she never approved of, but she'd let it grudgingly go this time.

The property developer was some travel-stained old guy in an unfashionable tracksuit, and his kid was a column of black in the corner. That was a stupid description. Black was just all Heather saw, for that first moment. He wore a grotty old black trenchcoat and had very dark hair, that was all, above pale and slightly freckled skin. Heather Chandler would file him straight into the ugly loser bin without a second thought.

But a chill ran up her spine.

Oh. A dark man. Admittedly he's more short, dark, and greasy, as against tall, dark, and handsome.

She strutted over to him while their parents were locked in conversation. He was reaching for one of the ornamental books, which was dumb. Any idiot could see the spines were arranged by colour and they were for aesthetics, not actual reading, especially by disgusting greasebags like this guy.

"Don't touch," Heather snapped. "First question. Where did you move from?"

The kid's lip curled, as if he'd dared to judge Heather too and didn't particularly like her. "Most recently? Half Moon Bay."

In California. Technically, far away, Heather thought.

"Second question. You ever read books outside school hours?"

"No, I'm functionally illiterate."

Sarcastic answer. Yeah, he's Veronica's type, Heather thought. Heather McNamara's type was jocks who'd taken far too many footballs to the head; Heather Duke's type was a battered copy of Moby-Dick that she probably rubbed herself off with in bed; and Veronica's type was dark, sarcastic, and preferably into weird obscure shit that nobody else was into. Like that eighth-grade dweeb into mythology. If Veronica had kept him, she'd never have been allowed into the Heathers.

Heather Chandler's type was hot, rich college men who got her into the best parties, because unlike her other friends, she had common sense.

"Shut up and follow me," Heather said. Her heels clacked on the lino and it took a minute to realise he wasn't obeying her. She glared back at him. "I know where my dad's liquor stash is and you don't," she hissed.

"Absinthe a la Baudelaire," he suggested.

"Straight bourbon and you'll like it," Heather said. She could drink anyone she knew under the table, even Kurt and Ram. Ten to one this guy was a total lightweight who'd never actually sampled anything more serious than shaken lemonade.

"Listen," Heather said, sitting sideways on her father's red plush chair in the study, drink in hand. "My parents and I have a very well-defined relationship. If I scream loud enough, they give me anything I want."

"How lucky for you." The kid - apparently called J.D., no first name or last for that matter - handled his glass well enough so far, staring moodily into his remaining quarter-measure as if he didn't care enough to even look up at Heather.

"So you'll do exactly as I say, or my father will terminate your father's employment."

That got his attention. J.D. looked sharply upward at her. Some indiscernible expression flashed across his green eyes, which Heather didn't like: most people were extremely discernible to her. She always saw their little secrets and how best to prick them into spilling yet more secrets in anger. "You've made several unfounded assumptions about my relationship with my dad and my relationship with my dad's business. As it happens, I'm not inclined to help you out of charity," he said.

"My best friend is going to murder me," Heather said, at exactly the moment J.D. swallowed another gulp of bourbon.

She was satisfied to see him choke and cough for almost ten seconds straight.

"Must be your pleasant personality," J.D. said eventually.

"You stick to her. Her name's Veronica Sawyer. I'll make her wear her black and blue jacket tomorrow. It's very, all over patches, no one else has anything like it. Flirt with her or whatever. Then, on Saturday, kill me. Only, obviously, I'll fake my death. I want to see how my best friend responds," Heather said.

Everyone will rejoice at your funeral, Heather McNamara said in her stupid fake ghost possession. Heather Chandler didn't think that was true. She and Veronica had their slight disagreements, but they were friends; Veronica was sharp enough to actually appreciate some of Heather's best schemes. Heather Chandler and Heather McNamara had been best friends since elementary school, enduring the horrors of braces together and making sure everyone forgot that little fact about them. Heather Duke had needed a few years of convincing to stop following Martha Dumptruck around like a lost kitten and finally join the Heathers, but she was one of them now.

If Heather faked her death at Veronica's hand and got to see how Veronica and her other friends acted afterward, then she'd know.

She'd be willing to trade a lot just to know.

"Are you thinking knife, gun, noose, drowning, drinking liquid gold, burned alive, shoved in the oven of your gingerbread house?" J.D. asked. "Could get messy."

"Looks like I have to think of everything myself," Heather said sweetly. She hadn't missed that unsubtle insult he'd slipped in there. "Poison. Look for some bottle with a skull and bones on it somewhere in the cupboards. I'll fake drink ... et voilà."

"What do I get out of this?" J.D. said.

"You get to see how the story ends," Heather said. "Aren't you curious?"

J.D. shrugged as indifferently as he could, but he was in. Heather smiled in victory. She'd baited another fish to her hook.

Heather Chandler, queen of the school. Let them all mourn bitterly when she died. Veronica could do her worst.