Overgrown elm trees in the front yards of neglected rental properties in Marigold Street were harder to climb than you expected, perhaps especially if you'd recently drunk quite a bit of alcohol. Veronica felt her right stocking rip open as she clambered upward.
Heather, ironically you're the one to blame for this. You'd better have told me the right house. Veronica perched on top of the elm branch at the second story window, looked in through the crack in the curtains, and took out some of her hairpins. She liked these nice old-fashioned locks; classic and highly pickable. She pried open the window lock and slid open the glass.
She couldn't see much inside. The window was just wide enough for her head and shoulders. Like a cat, where the head could go the rest could follow. Veronica stumbled on the sill and maneuvered herself onto the floor, thinly cushioned by a threadbare carpet. She'd certainly made a bit of noise. The bedside light came on, after a few seconds of reaching for it.
He'd very obviously been asleep in bed, though he hadn't bothered to take anything but the trenchcoat and his boots off. He was surprised and taken aback for a moment, but got back control quickly.
"Forgery, lockpicking, breaking and entering, Veronica Sawyer?" J.D. quipped. "Do you have any career plans that aren't heading toward five to ten in San Quentin?"
"Funny." Veronica crossed the room to him. "Heather's going to kill me on Monday. There's no escape for me."
"Heather Chandler is one bitch who deserves to die," J.D. said. His face was black in the shadow of the light. "I saw you try to resist her at school. Then she tried to feed you to a ghost because she didn't want to get her hair dirty."
'No, I want to forget about her," Veronica said. "Quote Swinburne to me."
He got the picture. His hand fisted in her hair and he roughly pulled up her head to kiss her. Veronica dug her fingernails into his arms, reciprocating, holding him close. She bit down on his lip.
They fell back onto the bed, which was kind of awkward since it was a small single. J.D. fumbled for the light switch again and left them in a hungry darkness. Veronica felt heat and wetness, wanting and needing something, something uncomplicated and primal and so very. This was easy; the games you played when you were upright were the difficult ones. The edge of her heel slammed hard against J.D.'s bare foot.
"Ow!" he complained. Her shoe skittered away, making a tearing sound in the mattress. She should have kicked them off already - a very easy fix. "Sit up. Shirt needs to come off," Veronica said. She slipped out of her stockings.
He had some serious muscle there. She pressed herself against the smooth planes of his chest, her mouth crossing his shoulder. He was trying for her brassiere, not particularly effectively, so she loosened the clasp herself. J.D. kissed her again and worked downwards, his hands around her waist. Veronica put her left hand over his right, guiding him. Her fingers interlaced with his and she felt a bandage on his right hand, a different texture.
"Are you hurt?" she asked.
"It's nothing," J.D. muttered, indistinctly, lost in the hollow of her curves. "A hunter trick. If you're bleeding, it gives your punches that little something extra. Of course, you can't take it too far."
His hands were rough-textured, maybe from older cuts, but there was nothing wrong with the way he could use them. "Good. I don't want you to stop." Yes. Lower. That's better. Mmm -
After that first frenzied heat, they slowed down, their bodies tangled together and moving more softly against each other. He kissed her on the mouth, languorously and carefully, as if he were trying to map out her features and remember them.
"Thank you. That was ... ah, neato," he murmured.
"Hmm, that's not much of a compliment." Veronica settled into the crook of his arm, resting her elbow on his chest. "Do you want a letter grade?"
"Depends on how painful a blow to the ego you had in mind," he said. She bit his shoulder. They laughed, which sent interesting ripples through the way they were joined.
"I don't want to fall asleep," Veronica insisted. "I'm not saying this goes in a hearts and flowers and candy direction. I think you're kind of the same."
"All you know about me is my taste in women and reading matter. Both of which, I admit, are pretty damn good." Veronica could hear the catlike smirk in his voice.
"You're going to leave town with your dad. I'm going to grow up, be an adult, and leave the high school bullshit behind," Veronica said, and kissed him again. "I just wish I could see Heather Chandler puke her guts out once, first."
—
Veronica took her books out of her locker. French, math, European history. Shit, she couldn't find her history book and they had a test today. She couldn't even remember what the test was supposed to be on. Studying beforehand might have been a good idea.
The locker door slammed shut on her hands. For a moment the pain felt good, a rush of blood and stinging that made her feel alive, and then it only hurt. "Bitch," Kurt Kelly cheered. He pushed her face into the locker and bumped fists with Ram.
Veronica crawled on the floor, looking for her notes. There was the book. The cover was scrawled all over in pink lipstick, dirty and disgusting from the floor. She opened a page and found the words were painted all over with the same lipstick as well, destroyed and vandalized. She couldn't read it.
"Loser." Heather McNamara walked by with an open carton of milk on her tray. It bounced off as she went past. It fell on Veronica's head, soaking her. It smelt like it had spoilt years ago. She tried to comb the mess out, but it clung to her hair and shirt, making her clothes translucent.
"Slut," nerdy Dennis Edelmann flung at her. Even he thought she was trash. Veronica picked up her books and walked on. God, let her not give way to waterworks for people so stupid and vapid and ...
"Martha?" she croaked, as her ex-friend walked past her. "We can hang out again, get slushies ..."
"You can't be friends with me when it's convenient for you," Martha told her. "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. What does it mean when even Martha Dumptruck is better than you, whore?"
Heather Duke had her nose buried in her copy of Moby-Dick, again, and her green croquet mallet dangled from her right hand. Just as Veronica walked by, she raised it, hitting Veronica's knees and bringing her down again. She didn't say anything, but only walked on, with the same expression as if she'd dumped another barf bag in the toilet.
"Kneeling is a good look for you," Heather Chandler sneered, somewhere far above her. She looked taller than usual, a giantess against the landscape, immaculate and powerful in red shoulderpads. "If you can't fly with the eagles, you crash and burn. And then we take out the trash." Veronica's clothes disappeared. She clung to herself, naked in the middle of the school, with jeers and hatred on every side of her. She had nowhere to go but to disappear in Heather Chandler's endless laughter.
—
It was still early in the morning, with sunlight coming through the open window. The nightmare had felt so real. Fuck, she hadn't wanted to sleep. Veronica was alone now, but the bed was still warm. She listened for noises. Were there two other people in the house at present, or just one? It sounded completely quiet. Her clothes were still scattered where she'd left them. The bedroom was pretty minimalist otherwise. She saw an open suitcase filled with books and clothes, a saxophone case, a movie poster for The Shining on one wall, and a live hamster in a cage nibbling peacefully on some celery. Apparently, the creature wasn't much of a voyeur. It was nice to get away ... now face the music. She got dressed again, tried to tidy herself up, and went downstairs. Sneak out the back door or not? There were sounds and smells from what was probably the kitchen. J.D. appeared at the door and called her.
"Conscious? I've always admired the broad, general principle of having mornings, but putting it into practical effect is another question." He looked as tired as she felt, and it seemed she'd given him a purple-black mark that stood out on his neck.
There was a plate in front of him with what looked like scrambled eggs and green tomatoes, and a mug of black coffee. Veronica was at the hangover stage where she knew eating would help, but her stomach wasn't necessarily backing her up on that. The saucepan was still on the stove, sizzling with the rest of the mixture.
"A healthy breakfast gives you three-quarters of your nutritional needs for the day, so they say," J.D. quoted. He gestured to one of the chairs. "Does our guest need the full menu, or is the house special acceptable?"
"Is your dad home?" Veronica asked.
"No. He's out jogging - you're safe until nine-thirty." J.D. gulped down some of the coffee.
"Good. Thanks for the breakfast offer, but I should head."
"Don't want to meet the king of the castle?" He quirked an eyebrow at her; his face was interestingly asymmetrical, one brow higher and more pointed than the other.
No way. He's probably that seer I saw last night. "Not now. Not with bullshit double standards - you know how it is," Veronica said. "People act like the guy wins and the girl loses, but I think it should go either way." She shrugged. "I've got to go over to Chandler's pronto, mix her a hangover cure or something. They say talking things over is always a good idea. Maybe she'll forgive me for the near death experience I saw her have."
"I'll give you a ride. Maybe even some moral support," J.D. said. He laughed, though it wasn't a particularly funny line.
The side door was unlocked; it always was. Heather Chandler ditched the Sunday morning trip to Grandma's even when she wasn't hung over. The kitchen was cheery, expensive, and kitschy, reds and pinks everywhere.
"Milk and orange juice. What's the upchuck factor on that?" Veronica said.
"I've always been a 'no rust buildup' man myself." J.D. held up a bottle of drain cleaner from a cupboard he'd been rooting through. "What say we use this to make her puke red, white, and blue?"
"Don't be a dick. That stuff'll kill her." Veronica turned back to her own cupboard. "Beef stew on the stove, add milk and orange juice. Even grosser. Then some toothpaste."
"We could make it a cocktail. Two shots of drain cleaner, spritz of detergent, dotted with extra bleach ..."
"You're not funny." Veronica poured the orange juice. "It's blue, she'd never drink that."
"Cup with a lid solves that." J.D. rummaged in the cupboard. "Put it in here, she'll never know."
"What about a phlegm goober?" Veronica said. They both started coughing at the same time, competing to see who could make the most disgusting noise. It wasn't successful; you had to laugh. "Never mind. Milk and orange juice it is."
"Good luck." J.D. touched her cheek gently, leaned in, and kissed her. It was very distracting. She could have just stayed like that for hours, forgetting all about Heather. Wouldn't that be nice. Blindly, her hand felt down to grab the cup. She broke the kiss and headed upstairs.
"Veronica, wait ..." she heard, and looked back at him. J.D. shook his head. "Never mind. I'll carry the cup."
Heather looked like a Botticelli angel in bed; and, probably, she knew it. She woke up gracefully, and her plus was missing no non whatsoever as she took in the two guests in her bedroom. "Veronica. And the Lone Ranger. Quelle surprise. Have you heard of Veronica's affection for regurgitation?"
"Last night, I think we both said - and did - a lot of things that we regret," Veronica said. "Shit happened, it was all pretty scary, and then ..."
"You planted hickeys all over the noble rescuer," Heather interrupted. "I thought high school boys were too immature for you. I don't know how you got the idea that a spook chaser in a moldy trenchcoat is a knight in shining armor."
"I basically came to apologize," Veronica said. "We can go to school, pick things up, make it like it never happened."
"If you want to say sorry, I hope you brought kneepads." Heather got out of bed, untwisting her blonde curls from her red scrunchie. "You heard me. Let's see some kneeling, bitch."
"Mixed you a hangover cure," J.D. broke in. He held out the cup. "Old family recipe, out of the goodness of our hearts."
"Oh, please, what'd you put in it, a phlegm goober? Toothpaste?" Heather paced around his back. "Like I'd ever drink that piss."
"Told you it'd be too intense for her," J.D. said to Veronica.
"Park, park," Veronica clucked. "Chicken." She'd probably never be forgiven for this extra offence against Heather's dignity, but this would make them even on the regurgitation front. You refused a reasonable offer, you tried to feed me to a ghost, and it's time to balance the scoreboard with a puke-tastic hangover cure. She tried to keep herself from smiling.
"And you think a little reverse psychology will make me drink it? Lameasses. Just give me the cup, jerk." Heather snatched it from J.D.'s hands.
Wait - it's the cup with the lid. Wrong one. Veronica noticed only the moment before Heather gulped it down. It was too late for her to call anything out. Heather must've tried to drain the whole lot of drain cleaner in one go. She choked, dropped the cup, and grabbed her throat. Her tongue stuck out from her face, bright blue. Her eyes popped out as she tried desperately to breathe.
"Corn nuts!" Heather cried, and crashed into her glass table. The shards went everywhere. She didn't move or get up.
"Is she ... Can we call nine-one-one?" Veronica didn't want to look at Heather Chandler, didn't want to touch the ... body ... in the center of the broken floor. It was J.D. who reached down. His hand shook as he did it.
"No. She's dead. This is kind of freaking me out." He leaned on Heather's dressing table, as if he couldn't quite stand on his own. Veronica collapsed on Heather's dressing stool.
"Oh god. They'll have to send my S.A.T. scores to the penitentiary," she said. "I just killed my best friend."
"And your worst enemy." J.D. shook his head. "Was she possessed by a wraith? No, there's not enough evidence." He looked around the room. "Evidence. We did a murder, that's a crime, can't tell the cops that she just couldn't take a joke." He bent down to the floor and scooped up something yellow and black. A cheat guide book. "The Bell Jar. What if it wasn't a crime? What if it was like a suicide thing? You can do her writing, can't you?"
Veronica tried to keep her stomach from roiling as she took up a pen from Heather's table. There was an unused writing pad, decorated with blood red-colored strawberries. Heather's style was right handed, spiky and sprawling, almost perfect grammar. "Dear world, I know you will be sad and shocked at the step I have taken. But believe me it was the only way to be free." She took some deep breaths, pausing.
"Little did you know, my problems were myriad," J.D. said.
"I was on my period." Veronica collapsed into horrible, inappropriate giggles that turned into weak gasping. "She'd never use myriad. She missed it on the vocab test last week."
"So it's a badge for her failures at school. It's the last thing she'll ever write, she wants to make it good," J.D. said.
"Okay. My problems were myriad. People think that just because you're pretty and popular and have killer clothes, you have no problems. Instead, I too knew the pain of loneliness, nihilistic anguish, and bullying. In death, I will find the only possible freedom in a brutal world where those with power crush those without."
"I die knowing that no one ever knew the real me," J.D. suggested.
"Good closer." Veronica finished. "Have you done this before?"
"Not with drain cleaner," he said.
"Right, the ghost thing," Veronica said. "You kill things on a regular basis. Forgot. No wonder you're so sane and well balanced. Is it different? Is it like a person?"
"I don't even see what I do. Ghosts aren't people, they're like tigers who need something to eat. They don't torture their own kind like a human can. I've killed people they were using as meat cases, but they were dead anyway." J.D. had started to get back some composure. "We need to get out of here."
"What if she ... comes back? As a ghost?" Veronica stared at Heather's body. Would she be able to see the familiar shimmer take shape and form around her, as Heather Chandler stepped out again to prey on people in a whole new way?
"Ghosts can't testify in court. Not coherent, don't know who killed them or lie about it, and it's always second hand anyway," J.D. said. How he knew to reel that off so slickly just raised more questions that Veronica wasn't sure she wanted an answer to. "If we get any removalist calls in this area, we'll take care of it. She was mad we saw her at the frat house, that's why her ghost made wild accusations. Time to motor."
—
Note: "I've always admired the broad, general principle of having mornings, but putting it into practical effect is another question." - similar to P.G. Wodehouse.