"He fired a gun in the cafeteria. They should expel his ass," Heather Duke said.
"Fuck that. They should throw his ass in jail. With a three-hundred-pound cellmate who calls him Jessica." Heather Chandler teed up her croquet ball, and took a straight flawless strike. Her red ball hit Heather Duke's green one easily.
I thought it was hilarious, actually, Veronica didn't say. He fired blanks at Kurt and Ram - only ruined two pairs of pants. I'm sure they'll figure some way to get the urine stains out.
It was about time someone bullied Kurt and Ram back, Veronica thought. Everyone, teachers and students, knew exactly what they were, but because they were good at moving a ball around a field with a bunch of other sweaty men, everyone gave them a free pass.
At the mercy of Chandler's mallet, Heather Duke's ball flew well out of bounds. "Why?" Duke asked.
"Because I can. Take your shot already, Heather," Chandler said. She smiled as Duke fumbled between the bushes for her ball.
"I heard he's got a permit and everything for that thing. Because of being an apprentice hunter," Heather McNamara said. "I didn't know you could hunt ghosts with guns."
"They don't use scythes any more, Heather," Chandler said. "Did you know his dad's renting from my dad? It's the old place in Marigold Street, near the school. What a dump." Veronica knew that house, had gone to a party there once; you wouldn't exactly call it a slum, but the elm in the front yard was getting out of hand.
Duke's ball was hopelessly out of the game now, behind a fountain statue, a leftover fencepost, and thick shrubbery. She took her stance, raised her mallet, and hit anyway.
The ball ricocheted against the statue, changed angle on the fencepost, flew past the bushes, and rolled back on the lawn just next to the hoop Heather needed. It was an amazing shot. Duke looked as if she didn't believe in her own success at first, then she gave way to a triumphant, cheek-splitting grin. Great way to annoy Heather there, Veronica thought.
Veronica went forward, landing behind Chandler, in front of McNamara.
"Courtney's mom's funeral's going to be on Wednesday. Closed casket," McNamara gossiped. She hit her yellow ball and giggled inanely when it slipped away from her. "I hope the removalists work fast. I wouldn't go near the hospice now if you paid me in light-up Keds."
McNamara had a point for once, Veronica thought. If the removalists finished fast and got out of here, everything would be back to normal. She couldn't make that happen, but there was no reason why it wouldn't.
It was Heather Chandler's turn again. Veronica knew what Heather was going to do before she did it. She turned it into an instant replay, the game being to knock Heather Duke out again. Once more, the green ball disappeared far out of bounds.
Duke's face crumpled. "Why me?"
"Why not?" Chandler said. She turned victoriously to Veronica. "Enough fun and games. Let's get you ready for your first Remington College party. You screw up on this, and it's ice cream sodas with Martha Dumptruck for you until John Wayne Gacy either gets out of jail or goes to hell."
—
"Corn nuts! BQ or else!" Heather Chandler yelled from the car, parked in the disability spot. The bell rang as Veronica pulled open the Snappy Snack Shack's door. She helped herself to a long Cherry-On stick. Then she looked up.
It was Jason Dean, apprentice hunter, shooter of football bullies (with blanks), a formal-looking badge pinned to his black trenchcoat this time, packing pretzels into a plastic bag.
"Greetings and salutations." His green eyes bored into her face. Laying down some sort of a gauntlet, perhaps. "You a Heather?"
"I'm a Veronica," Veronica said.
"Gosh. They let you have your own name and everything," he said.
"Jason Dean. Shouldn't you be on the job scaring spooks or something?" Veronica said. This was playing with fire, touching the edges of a world she was never planning to even visit, but let her live dangerously for once. She wanted to answer this new kid's insouciant challenges with a flash of her own.
"The guys sent me on a snack run. I know my convenience stores," he said. "Seven high schools, seven states, and a Snappy Snack Shack in every one. It's like a little piece of home. Pop a Cheese-o-Rama in the microwave or eat the sugar walnut slice raw. Keeps me sane."
Veronica hooked off the BQ nuts from the pile. "Does your mommy know you eat all that crap?"
"Not any more. Care for a slushie?" He was slightly evasive, as if she'd managed to trip on a razor-wire of forbidden territory with that one-liner. His body language was still turned to her, open.
"Say, how long are you guys staying in Sherwood?" Veronica said.
He shrugged. "Depends on how the wind blows, what pricey jobs are on the market. It's less about following ghosts as following which town's paying the most bounty."
"Really. Not so much a hunter for great justice, then," Veronica said.
"Everyone's life has static. Is your life perfect?"
"I'm going to a college party at Remington. No, it's not perfect. I don't like my friends." It was so easy to tell an outsider, someone who'd be gone from the town in a few weeks maximum. Veronica found herself smiling despite herself. Outsiders understood how fucked up everything was.
"I don't like your friends either," he said.
"Maybe I'm just sick of sticking my finger down Heather Duke's throat to help her puke," Veronica said.
"On that charming note, did you say cherry or coke slushie?"
"I didn't. Cherry."
The bell rang again as they walked out together. Heather Chandler slammed her hand onto the car horn twice in a row. J.D. slung the plastic bag onto the back of a black and silver motorbike - behind what looked like an axe, ominously enough - and Veronica went back to her own ride. The cherry slushie hit her tongue with a numbing wave of cold sugar and ninety-nine shades of artificial flavouring.
—
Too much alcohol, boring conversations, and a college guy with octopus hands who wasn't interested in taking no for an answer. Veronica stormed out of the room and left the inept drunken groping behind her. It was too hot. She tried to clear her brain by an open window. The wind blew fiercely outside. She flicked on her cigarette lighter. Ever since she was a child she'd been fascinated by fire, wild and dancing and never the same from one moment to the next. She brought her left hand close to the flame, then drew back when it started to hurt. Chicken. The lighter dropped out of her hand and fell to the bottom of her glass. The alcohol caught aflame quickly. The glass was too hot in her hands, so she threw it out of the window. Get rid of the evidence.
She ought to find Heather and get out of here. Screw you sideways with a second-hand spanner, Heather. The music was too loud and each beat felt like it rocked her skull as well as her stomach. Veronica moved on. A couple of other college guys shared a joint in the hallway in a smoke-filled haze. She pushed her way past them, trying to spot Heather's red dress. "I'm looking for my friend, have you seen her?"
There, chatting to her own college guy in the corner. Mighty King David, sophomore at Remington University. Heather looked up and went straight to Veronica, grabbing her arm and hustling her to the other side of the room.
"Can we go, Heather? I don't feel ..." Veronica started.
"Why are you choking on my dick, Veronica?" Heather's hair was tousled, and her eyes were flaming. "Brad said you were the queen of No Funnington."
"I really feel bad. Come on," Veronica said.
"Grow up, Veronica. You were playing Barbies with Martha Dumptruck before I made you. And now you want to bail on a Remington party? I pulled countless strings for you, I made this happen, and this is the thanks I get - "
Veronica's stomach gave way. She fell to her knees. She'd been trying to hold onto herself, it was completely involuntary and deeply embarrassing, but a tiny part of her felt nothing but joy and delight at puking over Heather Chandler's new red Ferragamo heels.
"This is it. I put myself out for you and I get paid in puke." Heather's voice was almost a whisper, all low, concentrated fury directed purely at Veronica.
Veronica's inhibitions were more than broken now. "Lick it up, baby. Lick it up."
The party noises were changing into something different. Veronica looked up and around. Were the lights dimming? The wall looked like it was moving. A couple of people stopped talking and she thought she heard a creak from the house. A girl was complaining loudly about the chilly wind. No way. Something shook, rolled, and rattled across the floor.
"I can't wake Rob up," a male voice said. "Is he asleep? He's really cold."
"Is it a ... Or am I just like super paranoid?" a college girl said.
The house gave another shake.
"Ghost!" someone shrieked, and the panic began.
Stuff on the mantelpiece jogged up and down. A china duck flew out and smashed a girl in the face. Blood coated her cheek, and she fell to her knees. Someone grabbed her and started to drag her out.
What do they call the ones that move things? Poltergeists? Veronica tried to remember the classifications. She couldn't see anything even though she knew she should. The one time my stupid power would be useful and it's not. I love irony except when it can hurt me.
Veronica got up from the floor, trying not to put her hand in her vomit. Her own movement seemed to unfreeze Heather Chandler, who looked pale and scared for once in her life. They tried to make it to the exit with the others, but the big couch crashed and fell in front of them. Objects whirled in the air in a raging wind, a dust cloud of splinters and broken china fragments. The door flew off its hinges and landed on the other side, cutting them off at an angle. They were trapped. Heather shrieked.
Then the wooden wall behind Heather opened. Veronica finally saw that familiar shimmer for a second, buried somewhere deep in the wall. The panels splintered and opened, like teeth in a gaping maw. The wall grew a mouth of snapping splinters, crunching and spitting and moving in for the kill. Catch Heather in it, and those wooden teeth would rake deep bloody cuts in her skin.
"It's going to eat me!" Heather screamed. "Take Veronica instead!" She grabbed Veronica's shoulder. The girls struggled against each other.
Then the hunter walked through, fighting. The currents in the room turned toward the intruder. A heavy TV flew through the air to his head, but he raised an arm to block it. Where he touched it, the poltergeist lost its power and it fell to the ground. His black trench coat whipped around his knees. Where he walked, the room stilled and the rushing winds and dust died down.
J.D. on the job, apparently, Veronica thought. He was completely quiet and focused, not throwing out any one-liners this time.
He reached her and Heather, pushing aside the door that pinned them in. Heather ran, shoving Veronica back on her way. J.D. pressed his bare hands into the too-sharp hole in the wall. Veronica saw the strange mysterious something respond to him - flicker against his hands, against a thin line of blood on his finger, as if the presence fought against being slowly strangled - and thought too late that she shouldn't be standing and staring. The house felt still again, except for Heather Chandler's running footsteps shaking the ground.
"Thanks ..." she said. J.D. didn't look back at her. She headed for the exits behind Heather.
The Sherwood Ambulance had come around in front of the frat house. Someone handed her a blanket. Veronica felt embarrassed by it and just held it, ignoring the cold on her back. Stuff in the house looked like it was dying down, in the glare of the street lights. She watched the other removalists moving around, talking in low voices through handheld radios. A tall man with a seer's badge looked like he was in charge. She remembered urban legends that seers could easily recognize their own kind in an instant, and fit herself into the rest of the milling crowd.
The seer in charge seemed to give a final signal of sorts over his radio, and the group of removalists came together. All done, party's over, apparently. Still backing herself into the crowd, Veronica came upon the last person she wanted to see.
I've seen what you really are, Heather, I've seen your rank cowardice and fear and desperate desire to sacrifice my life for yours, and I know you'll never forgive me for it.
"You're dead," Heather said. She'd regained her confidence quite fast, some small analytical part of Veronica thought, even with an emergency blanket bundled around her shoulders like an old-fashioned shawl. "Quit school, move to Seattle. No one's going to play your reindeer games now, not even Martha Dumptruck. You were a Heather, and on Monday you'll be less than nothing. Talking to you will be more radioactive than Nevada. I'll bury you."
Oh, I'm sure in the divorce you'll get Heather and Heather, darling, Veronica didn't say. There'd never be a question which side of the clique the other two would pick. The jocks followed Chandler's lead too. Veronica had definitely seen Chandler's talents for wrecking social lives and reputations. She'd occasionally helped her. Chandler turned on her red puke-coated heels, took hold of her college boyfriend, and drove off in her car. So much for my ride.
The group was dissipating. It looked like all the other Remington party-goers had places to go to and ways to get there. It seemed no one was seriously hurt, the worst the girl with the cut face. Veronica stood there, awkwardly shivering. She wasn't going to walk home in high heels. Eventually her parents might connect the dots and drive up, if they were listening to the radio and not Miss Marple re-runs.
"Need a lift?" J.D. walked out of the gaggle of removalists.
"I thought you'd never ask."
The road, a white ribbon in the streetlights, rolled away beneath them in the night. Veronica addressed the back of the black trenchcoat in front of her. "Tell me more about this. What the fuck happened?"
"Poltergeist. We've been chasing it all night," J.D. said. "Drove it out of town, then caught up with it here. They look for spots with people - light, heat, blood. Sorry to break up the frat party."
"Don't be. It was a bust. Date rape central with backstabbing best friends," Veronica said. There were, she thought, things a lot worse than riding on the back of a softly purring motorbike with a guy she found - in a yes-it's-wrong-but-feels-weirdly-right way - fairly attractive.
"Ah thy people, marked cross from the womb and perverse," he said.
Veronica sat up straighter, awake in the night air. "Very interesting; he quotes Swinburne. I always wanted to play Lord Peter Wimsey," she said. The monocled detective was a master of the quote and bon-mot game, fencing against his lover Harriet. "Let's see - Everywhere the human soul stands between a hemisphere of light and another of darkness; on the confines of two everlastingly hostile empires, necessity and free will."
"Carlyle. Desire! I have too dearly bought with price of mangled mind, thy worthless ware."
"Thou blind man's mark. Just go left here. It's the second one." She was almost sorry to find herself so close to home. The lights in her place were on, pointing the way. "Why care by what meanders we are here in the centre of the labyrinth? Men have died trying to find this place, which we have found," she said.
Her mother must've heard the bike, because she rushed outside. "Veronica! Veronica, is that you? I'm sorry - we heard on the radio - we have been so worried about you! Your father wanted to set a curfew, but I thought maybe that wasn't a good idea. You'd better come in and have some pate."
Her parents let her off after one cup of chicken soup and two pieces of pate. Veronica thrust her monocle in her eye, frenetically writing in her diary.
I sold my soul for killer shoulderpads, power-play suits, and the crimped-hair Gestapo, and I will be dead for it on Monday. I long for the death of Heather Chandler. Believe me that it is not for selfish reasons, but rather for everybody's sake. A world without Heather is a world where we will all be free.
Veronica forced open a private drawer in her writing desk. She mixed the ingredients for a lime cocktail, took a long drink, and wrote onward.
I long for a sea-green incorruptibility, an impossible dream of another way. Here in the hot hard night I am finally myself, and I see the truth of everything Heather is. She will destroy me for my truth and justice. In my last moments on Earth, I accept my destiny as an outcast.
The cocktail gave her liquid courage and the power to smile to herself. She brushed and pinned up her hair, added a blue sweater to her outfit, and put back her diary under lock and key. She fixed the pillows so that to a casual glance it would look like someone lay there, turned off the lights, and left.
—