The hardest part of it was walking into school on Monday as if nothing had happened. Veronica had spent most of Sunday locked in her bedroom, writing in her diary and trying to sleep. Dear Diary, my teen angst bullshit has a body count. Heather McNamara went straight over to her and hugged her, while Heather Duke decided to be first with the gossip.
"Heather's dead," Duke said, and while she kept her face sad there was a barely suppressed glee in her voice that was sickening to hear. Come on, Veronica, you felt the same thing yourself. "She took some drain cleaner and crashed through her glass coffee table. Her parents found her when they came back from her grandma's."
"That's terrible." Veronica spoke into McNamara's shoulder. No one could see her expression, somewhere between hysterical laughter and desperate sobs. "How ugly. How cruel."
"Special school assembly in ten," Duke said. "Ms. Phlegm is leading the charge. I think she needs us to have a hippie love-in with incense and flowers and shit. And they invited a news station. I'm not missing that."
It was awful. Ms. Fleming had hung up bright colours everywhere, like puke made out of all the rainbow-striped colours of Halloween candy. Kids like Country Club Courtney talked about how they missed Heather Chandler and wasn't she such a sweet saint in life, always lending out her pretty clothes and contributing to charity, there for Courtney in sad times and happy. In reality, Courtney hated Heather Chandler. Heather Duke was in the thick of it too, thrusting herself in front of every last camera she could see. Heather was her very best friend. They wore each other's clothes all the time. Heather had certainly never bullied anyone or said a mean word in all her life. Heather would have wanted them all to come together and celebrate her life. It was the most beautiful suicide note anyone had ever written.
Then Veronica saw it. A red shimmer in the air, creeping up from under the floor, somewhere in the liminal space between Heather Duke and Ms. Fleming. She saw Dennis Edelmann walk right through it without noticing a thing. She blinked, but it was still there. Rounded shapes all in vivid red and bright incandescent gold, glowing, growing stronger. It was formless in the air, but the swirling patterns looked like they were all orientated one way - toward her. Oh, god.
"Is it good for you too, darling?" J.D. wrapped his arms around her from behind, whispering in her ear. He moved too damn quietly.
"Of course not. I was just leaving." Veronica shook him off. He followed her to the door and down the corridor.
"Don't pretend you didn't want it," he said. He'd come around to a sort of we-did-something-big-and-actually-got-away-with-it smirk.
"Wanting someone dead and serving them a wake-up cup of drain cleaner are not the same thing." Technically, I did not kill Heather Chandler, Veronica reminded herself. Even if she ... is ... she probably wouldn't even remember it.
"She's become more popular than ever. Heather would be so happy with you," J.D. said.
"Talk about your gruesome horror stories."
Ghosts moved at about the same speed as humans, give or take, Veronica thought she'd read somewhere. They blew in and out on the wind. You could outpace them if you knew where they were. And, if you were a hunter - or if you were with a hunter - they couldn't even harm you. A hunter's touch destroyed them. She put an arm on J.D.'s shoulder.
"You want to see a movie?" she asked. "I'll drive if you buy the popcorn."
—
He was down to his last item of clothing, and she was leading by three hoops.
"It's my first game of strip croquet. First game of croquet in general." J.D. hunched over the mallet, as if it hid anything.
"You've done pretty well. But prepare to be destroyed." Veronica was down to brassiere, skirt, and underwear, her bare feet wet on the grass. She stood up straight, posing, capturing his gaze and pleased about that.
Heather's funeral tomorrow. Let's do normal couple things, stay up very late, and be too exhausted to feel anything the next day, Veronica thought. She had such brilliant plans. Skip school with the new boyfriend, crack jokes about bad movies, hit some slushies at the Snappy Snack Shack, and get home and hide inside her bedroom whenever he had to work.
They were good together. It felt good; they fitted together. She liked the way he looked and the way he touched her, tasted her. He was cynical, smart, and knew when people were feeding them a line of bullshit.
She made her shot and sent the ball through the hoop. Victory was hers. "You know the rules. Strip 'em."
He took off the underpants. "It's a cold night, you know." He gestured to his groin. Veronica looked him up and down gleefully.
"Don't be embarrassed." She slipped off the last of her own clothes, ready to abandon the first of their games. "To the victor go the spoils of battle."
The sky was dark and clear and star-filled, over the neighbour's swingset. Veronica pulled up J.D.'s trenchcoat to cover them both. It was nice and comfortable, a sort of post-coital glow, looking up into the darkness and into pale glittering suns from light years away. "It's more interesting doing it this way than just boning away. Don't you think?"
"I don't know. There's a lot to be said for - ow! - I mean, there's a lot to be said for a good croquet game too." J.D. yawned. He'd been working this afternoon; there was a new bandage on his hand. If it was anything she should have known about, she was pretty sure he would've told her. He smelt of sweat and smoke, and men's cologne; he'd made an effort and she liked the results. She leaned in and nuzzled his chin.
"You think we could play another round?" she asked, and moved her hips so as to leave absolutely no doubt of what she meant.
J.D. sighed in mock exhaustion. "The passion that slays and recovers, Dolores," he riffed. "I'll see what I can do."
When he finally caved in and slept, she was still awake and looking up at the stars. Sleep for her would be okay, but not really necessary. J.D. breathed evenly, looking slightly stupid with his mouth half open. She'd be nice and let him rest, his body wrapped protectively around her.
"Hello, Veronica." The voice hissed and echoed around the neighbors' garden. It wasn't her mom or dad. Probably not the neighbors either, who'd be more likely to scream something completely incoherent. Veronica stayed still and slowed her own breathing. Imagining things.
"Having fun, best friend?" No, she wasn't imagining it. J.D. slept on, his body warm around her. Was she lost in a dream too? "Since you killed me and all."
The ghost of Heather Chandler floated into view. Gold, red, and human-shaped, she was translucent and glowing in the darkness. She wore the bright silken dressing gown she'd had on when Veronica was accidentally an accomplice to murder, her face glowing with seeming health and beauty. When she opened her mouth to speak, it was all blue and dripping with the drain cleaner that killed her.
"What do you want?" Veronica whispered. Ghosts weren't supposed to have coherent conversations, dammit. Ghosts weren't supposed to remember.
"I want to see you burn in hell with me, and your little Jesse James there too," Heather said. Her voice echoed so loudly around the area, and yet J.D. and everyone else slept on. "I get that you're avoiding me, darling. Trying to use him as your personal human shield. But we ghosts have our little ways of breaking shields."
"I ... didn't mean to do it. You have to believe me." Pleading for mercy might be the only answer here.
Heather made the same dismissive gesture she'd used ten thousand times when alive, right arm casually sweeping away last year's shoe style or Country Club Courtney's pathetic striped skirt. "You already tried begging me, and we know what happened then. Midnight's coming for you, best friend. Welcome to your own personal circle of hell."
The ghost laughed, and her form rippled. She trailed away lazily into the sky like dying wisps of red and golden smoke, flying away to who knew where. The laughter reverberated for a long time after her, coherent and deliberate and frightening. Veronica knew with a cold certainty she would be back for her.
Of course it was fitting, she thought, that Heather Chandler would turn out to be the demon queen of ghosts.
—
The church was packed to the gills. Of course it was; a popular teenager was dead. The priest, paunchy and red-faced like an overstuffed lobster, leaned over the altar. "Let us pray that the other teenagers in Sherwood, Ohio know the name of the righteous dude that can solve their problems. We won't find him on any of our modern MTV video games. His name is Jesus Christ. We need to read the book. He's jazzy, he's hip, and he's for all eras and all da hoods."
"Wow, it's a great turnout," Heather Chandler said. She floated up to the front of the church, moving and swaying her hips. "It feels like I'm major news. Super famous and very hot right now." Veronica was the only person who could see her. She felt J.D. turn his head when she gasped. "I approve of the floral arrangements. Terrifically very. And I look damn good in a coffin. Like fucking Snow White, but if any necrophile gets any fucked-up ideas, I'll kill him."
The ghost slipped past Heather Duke. She reached out an intangible hand, touching through Heather's heart. Duke only shivered as if a wind was at her back. "Delicious," Heather Chandler announced, even while the priest droned on in the background. "Fresh blood, smoky, hint of lemon bitterness combined with sad-sack tapioca. Just kidding, one person tastes exactly the same as the next one. I guess a sense of taste was one of the things you stole when you murdered me. Don't forget, Veronica. Everyone I feed on helps me get stronger." She smiled, with her horrible blue lips, and kissed Heather McNamara on the cheek. It was McNamara's turn to shiver slightly and press her face with her handkerchief. Heather Chandler dipped and spun past Martha Dunnstock. "What a loser she is. Even I wouldn't drain her. We ghosts still have some standards." She hung in the air with one hand on Kurt's head and the other on Ram's. Her shape rippled in and out like she was breathing, draining away their life's energy.
Heather tossed back her head as if she'd found herself in some ecstasy of feeding. Her colours were brighter and her mouth glistened a still more livid, scintillating blue. "Does it bother you, Veronica? I mean, if you'd made your little confession to your psycho boyfriend about being a seer last night, he could have hunted me down then and there. With a croquet mallet." Heather's airy laughter filled the church. She drowned out all other sounds in Veronica's ears. "Now I'm stronger, dear. Don't have naughty thoughts - there are no second chances in this game." She waved a finger at Veronica. "I guess you feel all sad about the murder. You're waiting for your guilt to kill you. Keep waiting for the blow to fall. It'll go down with a real bang."
Heather disappeared through the church door, suddenly moving at superhuman speed. The priest had finished his speech about five seconds ago. That bitch had planned her timing to the exact moment for Veronica's slowness to look weird to everyone around her. "I'm coming," she promised J.D. "This is obviously a difficult time ..."
—
Martha Dunnstock left the church. Going to the funeral of someone who bullied you was the right thing to do, wasn't it? Fanny Price in Jane Austen's Mansfield Park would have done it, gone to Mrs. Norris' funeral and tried to be kind to the people who were actually sorry the person was dead. Veronica Sawyer looked terrible in the church, so pale and distraught. She'd left Martha some years ago and gone on to the Heathers, and Martha tried so hard to understand and move on herself. Heather Duke must be having a tough time too. The old days were so simple and uncomplicated, when it was all about liking books and eating paste and swapping Valentines out of red butcher's paper. Martha and Veronica and Heather dressed up as Athos and Aramis and Milady out of the Three Musketeers and played swordfights in the treehouse. Kurt Kelly kissed Martha behind the first grade classroom.
The sun shone white-gold over the fountain outside in the church garden. It was a strangely bright day to think of death. Heather Chandler was pure evil - no, she had troubles of her own; she died because of them; she was sixteen years old and had parents and grandparents. Those were the nicest thoughts Martha could manage about her. Martha followed the path, trying to stay with the crowd and not be noticed. But when you were built like a beluga whale, staying invisible was hard to do.
"Martha Dumptruck! Get out of the way, wide load, wide load!" Ram Sweeney shouted. He shouldered past her, Kurt Kelly in his wake. They moved in a weird, clumsy way, as if they'd broken out a kegger before going to the funeral. Kurt used to date Heather, didn't he? Martha reminded herself. The most popular girl and the two most popular boys. Obviously they were friends. Maybe Kurt and Ram had just tried to drown their sorrows in the only way they knew.
She still had that sweet note Kurt sent her rustling in the back of her jeans pocket. He'd be embarrassed and ashamed to ever be seen with her in front of other people. But part of Kurt still remembered that time in the old days, when he and Martha always held hands in games and gave each other the very best out of all their Valentine's cards. Martha had her dreams that someday she'd be thin and pretty, or Kurt would grow up and be less ashamed of her, and then they could be together forever.
In spite of everything, she was a romantic.
"Hey, Martha, wear a yellow raincoat, people will think you're a taxi cab!" Kurt yelled.
"When you step on a scale, does it say, 'To be continued'?" Ram asked her.
"Martha's funny - when she falls down, the sidewalk cracks up!" Kurt added.
"Martha Dyketruck," Ram called, "a big fat dyke!"
"Martha munches carpet like it's the mayonnaise special at the Snappy Snack Shack!" Kurt said. "Hey ... Veronica!"
Kurt got distracted, stumbling over himself to talk to Martha's old friend. Heather McNamara was holding Veronica's arm. Ram pitched himself over to the cheerleader, choosing her to hit on.
Martha had escaped. On the other side of the garden, she saw that new kid watching her, with a fixed, level stare. Yes, everyone look at the fat pig and how everyone treats her like a joke. His name was Jason something - the one who shot blanks at Kurt and Ram in the cafeteria. A scary thing to do. He sat astride his motorbike, revved it up, and disappeared.