People looked like colorful dolls in the fall sunlight, like mannequins being pulled by threads into position. As if they knew they had to act out the role destined for them, stoners lighting up in the parking lot and geeks buried in pocket calculators and jocks playing the bully, even if inside they desired and felt something completely different. Veronica's head ached. She walked slowly down the stairs, dragging her feet.
"Veronica, I know you're not looking well. I forgive you for that little episode of Parkinson's disease at your house, and I won't even ask you to do anything strenuous." Heather Duke stepped out of sunbathing in the light of the big window. "All I need is one signature. You like Big Fun, don't you?"
Veronica only regretted slapping her because of how it affected her now.
"Dennis Edelmann thought he was signing to help Ugandan refugees. Grace Bailwick thought she was signing for a sauna in the cafeteria. Tracy thought she was signing to make pot legal. They all like you, Heather, but I know you," Veronica said.
She'd seen Heather changing outfits like a chameleon would its skin, dancing through all the social groups in the school, pushing in and putting down. The trails of a red scrunchie like Heather Chandler's glinted in her hair.
Duke was the omega Heather once. She was the lowest and least in the clique, bulimic and vulnerable, the butt of Heather Chandler's constant refrain of 'Shut up Heather'. She'd risen. Spread rumors about Veronica, stole Heather's plaid tartan earrings, and moved to dominate as if Heather Chandler had never existed. She'd even started to play the fake note game on one of the geeks and Jennifer Forbes. Nothing ever changed.
"I'm doing them a favor. They might think Big Fun are a bunch of tuneless Eurofags, but Westerburg will be on the map when they come to play at our prom. Why are you fighting me on this?" Heather said. "Even Martha Dumptruck signed."
"Because she's still scared of you," Veronica said. "You helped Heather break her. And I did nothing at the time."
"And you want to go back to playing dolls with Dumptruck? I thought you had more taste," Heather said. "Just sign, and I'll stop riding your traces."
"Don't talk to me like that. Don't talk to anyone like that. You think it makes you powerful to make other people feel like shit?" Veronica said.
Heather actually seemed surprised that someone was trying to resist her. "It was J.D.'s idea, okay? He made out the signature sheets and everything." She thrust the sheets toward her. Veronica froze. "Go ahead."
"No," Veronica spat.
He's playing you, I know he's trying something - she thought.
Heather Duke smiled instead of got angry, as if she thought she'd hit something, laid a finger on a bruised streak of soft vulnerability. "Jealous much?" she gloated.
Veronica raised her hand to slap her again. This time, Duke grabbed her before she could hit. She lowered Veronica's hand back to her side.
"I joined the Heathers because I wanted to have friends and survive school," Veronica said. "Why did you have to be such a mega-bitch?"
"Why not?' Heather Duke said, and the sound of her laughter as she walked away echoed like the silver of Heather Chandler's.
J.D. came down the stairs while Veronica still stood there, black trenchcoat flapping around his legs, a book bag slung over his back. She didn't turn and walk away from him. He went to Veronica as if he couldn't help but come. He spoke softly, brushed her hair back from her ear and embraced her from the side, drawing her in as he said what was only meant for her to hear.
"I missed you, Veronica. You understand. I knew you'd come back, I was positive," he whispered. "You need me and I need you. I was so sure."
It would be so easy to take him home with her and fall into bed. He was warm, his breath was soft on her hair and on her cheek as he whispered to her, and his arms were gently wrapped around her waist. She could be comfortable and protected, safe in the aegis of J.D.'s body heat, and just go to sleep for hours with no fear of ghosts in the night. She missed sleeping together, not just the sex, waking up warm with her body pressed into his back. She'd been so tired lately and it would be so simple, so comfortable, to rest with a hunter. Laugh about Heather Duke and make morbid jokes and drink wine coolers.
He gently kissed the side of her face. She didn't yield, didn't turn her head, but part of her wanted to.
I know what you are and I know what you made me do, Veronica thought, and the cold precision of what she needed tipped within her like a knife coated with frost.
"You're planning something. What is it?" she said.
"Come with me and find out. Want to go out tonight? We could catch a movie, play some miniature golf." He kissed her again, carefully trailing from her ear to her cheek, his touch warm and supple and awakening a fire within her as well.
"I was thinking more along the lines of slitting Heather Duke's wrists and making it look like suicide."
Something in her still liked it when she made him laugh like that, gravelly and unexpected. "Now you're talking! I could be up for that. Her favorite Moby-Dick has plenty of 'Oh what a cruel world let's top ourselves' key quotes."
And the cold ice solidified inside her. "Your line there was, 'No, Veronica, I've seen the error of my ways and I'm out of the homicide business for good'."
She stamped on his foot, hard, and he let go of her.
"It's over. Grow up!" she yelled. She dashed to the stairs. J.D. didn't try to follow her, but his usual ironic detachment was utterly gone from his face, replaced with a clear anger and hurt in his eyes.
"But I was right! You were wrong and I was right! Strength, dammit, strength!" he cried. Veronica didn't look back.
J.D. waited for Veronica to change her mind. She could realize he was right, flounce back, talk to him, dammit - no. She wasn't coming. He'd seen her at a distance at school, watched her and longed for her. He sometimes smelt her perfume in the halls, making him remember her vividly. Those Heathers and hangers-on still spread rumors about her. She and Martha had patched things up - a good move, Martha deserved none of the bullying she'd been given - and Veronica herself looked exhausted and frail. He'd seen Heather and Veronica and Martha interact in the cafeteria, briefly; Martha had lowered her head and looked like she couldn't bring herself to speak at all.
He could work a little swap, trade some of his leverage with Heather Duke for a temporary band-aid. Temporary was all that was needed, under the circumstances. Heather only thought she set the ground rules of her relationship with him, such as it was. A Heather was never to be seen talking to a loser in public but she would most certainly get the jocks to leave him alone, as if that mattered to J.D. She pictured him like a dog begging for the scraps from her table. He knew the direction they were really heading toward.
Heather carelessly left her copy of Moby-Dick on the side of her lab table in Biology, so J.D. pocketed it as he went around to get a test tube. She stayed behind to search.
"You dropped this," J.D. said. He put the book on the table. "Some of your recent behavior is unworthy of you."
"What an interesting tactic, and by 'interesting' I mean 'hackneyed and obsolescent'. Criticism edged with just enough implied flattery to keep one in the conversation. What's wrong?" Heather didn't reach out to take back the book.
"The quality of a woman is measured by her enemies," J.D. said, and made it big and pretentious. "You already pushed Miss Dunnstock into the pond once. Move onward, move forward, move ever upward in the social stream. Dream bigger and dream better. Let Excelsior be your motto. You understand my general drift?"
"Why are you defending Martha Dumptruck?" Heather Duke turned the proposition over in her narrow and prim and proper mind, coming out with the inevitable malice. "I know you're still hanging out with her, and it can't all be for blackmail. There's only one other thing Martha could possibly be giving you." J.D. had to hand it to her; he'd never seen someone deliver innuendos in such a starched, buttoned-up way while still making it clear what she meant.
Pass it off lightly, and she'd take it in the same spirit. "What red-blooded American teenager doesn't have a sexual fetish for broken bones and surgical casts?" he drawled.
Outright crudity still had some ability to embarrass Heather. "Eww. I don't really care what your sick and twisted game is," she said. "I guess you'd say that Veronica's a loser too now, isn't she? Moping around all the time. She tried to slap me again. That kind of shit means you've lost any control you ever once had.
"Did you know that in the seventies, Jason was one of the top five boys' names in the United States over and over again? In all those schools you went to, did you get sick of being one out of many? Sometimes I lay awake all night and wondered, what would it be like to be the only one," Heather said, and a sort of veil of twisted delight slipped over her eyes. "Interesting pep talk, coach." She picked up Moby-Dick, but rather than slip it back in her handbag, she handed it back to J.D. "A little gift for you. I don't need it any more."
J.D. watched her leave, walking jauntily out in her little red tartan suit topped with Chandler's red scrunchie. It was perfecto. Heather versus Heather, and the whole school wins. Veronica would certainly approve. He flipped through Moby-Dick, considering meaningful passages that were worth an underline or three.
—
Poor Little Heather, someone had written on the blackboard. It was quite a good cursive font, but Veronica wasn't certain whether it was Heather Duke's or not. It didn't have to be hers for her to be responsible.
Heather McNamara used to be her friend, Veronica supposed. The beta Heather, tall and blonde and athletic, trusted to always follow when asked, the second girl in the line to bring out a jeer or putdown against the victim Heather Chandler wanted to take out. She wanted to be cheer captain this year, but didn't get there after missing too much practice.
She made the tragic mistake of calling into the 'Hot Probs' radio show and talking about her sad feelings. Veronica and Martha had listened to the program together in Martha's room; Martha wasn't really paying attention, poring through a new modelling book and adding sticky notes to projects she wanted to build when her sprain was better. Veronica found it obvious who was talking as soon as Heather McNamara started with, 'My name is Heather. No, it's Madonna. No, Tweety. No, wait.' Heather knew all her friends listened to the show. She should have been smarter, more careful, kept her head down. You stupid bitch, Veronica had thought at the time; you poor, pitiable, stupid bitch.
It was just possible, Veronica thought, that she still wasn't over the way McNamara left her in the graveyard and told the school she willingly screwed Kurt and Ram.
Duke had been the most enthusiastic participant to spread the program's contents around the school, ignoring Martha and Veronica in pursuit of a new target. Poor, whiny little Heather, all sad that her parents were divorced and she was failing math. Her ex-boyfriend killed himself because he was gay. Dumb, insecure, slutty blonde.
Heather Duke whispered something to Rod Swirsky in the front row that had him explode in laughter. She slipped him a note, which he moved on to Grace Bailwick. Great trick, Heather - how original, Veronica thought. She closed her eyes for a moment, tired and through with it.
Heather McNamara came into class last of all, and a shudder of laughter from almost everyone greeted her. She saw what was on the blackboard. She made as if to put her books down on her desk anyway, but then she lost courage and ran out.
"Where's Heather gone?" Grace asked.
"Heather's gone to cry," Heather Duke announced, and there was more laughter as if that comment made her the second coming of Oscar Wilde. The teacher called for silence, ineffectively.
Veronica stood up. "Sick," she said.
She pushed open the door of the girls' bathroom in the sports wing, but she was not prepared for what she saw there.
Heather McNamara was on the floor by the taps, pressed into the wall as if she wanted to hide herself by sinking inside it, tears running down on her face through black lines of mascara. A closed pill bottle lay discarded by her side. And next to Heather, Veronica saw a reflection of her own self, dressed like she'd been for that Remington frat party, gorgeous and head-turning. The vision of Veronica floated in the air and looked down at McNamara with a merciless expression. Beside her was Heather Duke, back in one of her green outfits, laughing and taunting. And leading them was Heather Chandler, glorious in red, at the height of power and control.
"Your ass is off the cheerleading team," Heather Duke said.
"Did you think you ever had a brain, Heather?" the vision of Veronica said. "Did you do the buy-one-get-one-free lobotomy special?"
"You were my only real friend, Heather," Heather Chandler said. "I need you to follow me. Do it now!"
And suddenly there was a yellow-handled razor in Heather McNamara's hand. Veronica saw a tendril of Heather Chandler's form leading to McNamara's head, feeding her the sights she wanted her to see. The power of an Ariel, sending dangerous and destructive visions to people. Heather wanted another death, and needed it to be bloody. Heather McNamara stabbed down at her wrist with the razorblade.
Veronica rushed through the ghost and grabbed Heather's hand, ignoring the cold. She wrenched the razor away from Heather and threw it away, then forced Heather into a cubicle and locked the door. That wasn't enough to keep any ghost out, but it was enough to get Heather's attention. She slapped Heather across the face, and Heather's eyes fixed on her instead.
"Later, best friend ..." she heard from Heather Chandler, and hoped that meant the ghost would disappear for now.
"Heather, it's me, Veronica. Heather, look at me. Don't look at anything else."
"Veronica? You told me to kill myself ..." Heather said.
"No, of course I didn't. That wasn't real, what you saw wasn't real. Just look at me." Veronica held her tightly, digging her fingers into Heather's shoulders, and hoped that physical solidarity was enough to make Heather separate what was real from what was a lie.
"I saw Heather," McNamara said. "She wants us to join her. I saw two of you, Veronica. One of you looked like a supermodel you. I saw Heather and Heather. Am I going crazy? Should I die because I'm going crazy?"
"How many people can fit inside this cubicle?" Veronica snapped.
"Uh, two?"
"There you go. It's just us here. You can't see anything else," Veronica said, and hoped that Heather believed her. "There are lots of reasons why people see things that aren't there. Have you eaten anything today?"
Heather looked at her, and her eyes finally started to focus on what was real. "The pep rally's coming," she said, "I can't afford to put on any weight, Veronica. They'll kick me off the team if I'm fat."
"Your life is more important than some dumb pep rally." Veronica pulled down the toilet seat and sat with Heather. "We're going to the nurse and she will give you chocolate. I won't let you be a statistic in US-fucking-A Today." The school nurse gave anyone hot chocolate who asked for it; it was a basic remedy in case of any stray ghosts in the area.
"Heather and Kurt and Ram did it," Heather said. "Am I weak if I don't do it? Am I wrong?"
"If Heather and Kurt and Ram - " went out and hanged themselves, Veronica almost said, and thought much better of it - "... wore rainbow tie-dye leggings to school, would you do it?"
"Probably." Heather sniffled.
"You'll get through this, Heather. Promise," Veronica said. "If you were happy every day of your life, you wouldn't be human, you'd be a game show host."
Heather started to sob, clutching Veronica and dampening her shoulder with her tears. When she quieted down a little and cleaned her face by wiping it on Veronica's shirt, she looked up.
"Can we go get that chocolate now?" Heather said. They walked out of the cubicle together. "I wanted to tell you before, Veronica, I'm really sorry about that time with Kurt and Ram. Now I know they were gay, I don't feel as bad about it and stuff, but I'm still sorry ..."
"Your overdue apology is considered," Veronica said.
"Let's go shoe shopping or something," Heather said. Veronica kept her arm around Heather's waist, feeling strangely fulfilled. One life saved, out of all that I've done, she thought. It's a good start. Or a good ending.
—
The world was crazy. Party harder, Carl Kellerman thought. He was hockey team captain and he currently couldn't be riding higher in Westerburg, in spite of everything that had happened. Heather Chandler killed herself because she was too popular. Kurt and Ram killed themselves because they were fags. Ugh, he'd never have seen that coming. Made him sick to his stomach to think he'd been in the same locker room as them on various occasions. Now he and his friend Rod Swirsky were real men, the two big men on campus, almost scoring with one Heather each. Heather Duke was a real pricktease and probably the only virgin in the Heathers, but Carl was sure she'd put out for him someday.
Carl didn't see himself as a dumb jock. He was pretty good at math, understood what most of his teachers were talking about most of the time, and while schoolwork was never fun it was something you had to do if you wanted to get anywhere in life. However, lately, everything had been so busy and stuff, and he'd gone to five big parties in the past two weeks and stayed up drinking until early in the morning. Yeah, he'd need to cut back if he wanted Westerburg to win the hockey finals. Maybe after he'd gotten into Duke's panties.
His buddy Rod wasn't particularly dumb either, but this English class wasn't his best suit in the pack. Mrs. Pope had separated Carl and Rod from sitting together, total bullshit but she was one of the teachers who liked to think they were hardasses. She stuck Carl on the right, Rod on the left, and fat Martha Dumptruck in the middle of them. Looking at girls like that was enough to turn your stomach. It was oppression against men, like meninism or whatever.
And, crap, there was a pop quiz today. Carl cordially hated Moby-Dick with all his heart. He skimmed a Cliff's Notes version once at the beginning of semester and vowed he was never going to read the whole thing. Rod was completely with him on that one. Pope dealt out the quiz papers, a dense row of twenty-five questions that barely fit on the page, and announced it would be a big part of the grade. Fuck. Coach would get crucial on him and Rod after they failed this.
But what else did God invent fat girls for, if they weren't at least a little bit nerdy? Martha Dumptruck had already started to scribble away. She'd actually read the book, considering she didn't have time to do anything other than be fat and try to off herself.
So the solution here was pretty obvious. Carl and Rod looked at each other behind Martha's back, nodding and grinning at the plan that passed through both their heads. At her own desk, the Pope pulled out a thick book of her own and started to read at her leisure while her students worked.
Carl filled out the parts he could remember from his Cliff's Notes, then stole glances at Martha's work. She was writing slowly with her left hand and her handwriting was pretty awful. Fuck you, Martha, couldn't you have at least sprained your non-writing hand in the bullshit suicide attempt? Carl made out the gist of her answer, and started putting it in his own words. Martha would never dare to tell even if she noticed. He and Rod would both team up against her, and her life would get even worse the moment she ticked off the popular crowd. Law of the jungle, man, Carl thought, and wished he could work that philosophy into one of the questions.
Rod was having a harder time on his side, with Martha's fat arm getting in the way of her work. That made his cheating a bit more obvious as he leaned over. He finally got what he wanted, and started to scribble as well. By the time the bell rang, Carl thought he'd got his work together all right, done well enough to survive another day without Coach getting too upset with them. Rod looked pretty relieved too.
Mrs. Pope got up to collect the tests, starting with Carl's row. When she reached for Martha's test, Martha held onto it. "Could I have time to redo the test over lunch, Mrs. Pope?" she said clearly. "I got a lot of answers wrong."
Mrs. Pope gave her a cold smile. "We'll see how you do first. There's no need for immediate pessimism."
"Only I wasn't the only one who got the answers wrong," Martha said, still holding on to her test. Carl felt as if his eyes were about to pop out of his head in absolute disbelief. "If you look at Carl's and Rod's papers, I think you'll find they got exactly the same wrong answers as me," she said.
Shit, Coach was going to kill them for attempted cheating. Mrs. Pope sentenced the three of them to retake the pop quiz over lunch, separated from each other. No way he and Rod were going to pass. Carl was royally pissed off that he'd been played like a dumbass by a stupid fat girl, pissed that some stupid fucking Moby-Dick test cut into time he should be spending playing hockey, and above all pissed that one stupid moment might be enough to ruin everything for him. He'd tried so hard to keep his nose clean since that stupid drug thing in eighth grade.
So the answer of what to do was pretty obvious. He and Rod were teenagers, acting on impulse, the whole thing was easy. After school, they raided Mrs. Pope's classroom for the thing Martha made, that stupid piece of extra credit, and took the ship in the bottle with them like a trophy. What kind of fucking freak made a ship with bones on it anyway?
Out in the parking lot, they were messing around with the other guys, kicking a football and punching each other. Rod got the bright idea to bring out his and Carl's new toy and smash it around as well. Rod jumped on the glass bottle to break it open, then they took turns kicking the wood to bits. It was a whale ship, made by a whale. It was kind of poetic that it would come to such an end. There were a couple of other kids in the parking lot, the stoners who never noticed anything in front of them and the creepy trenchcoat guy in black, but Carl's and Rod's buddies would never tell on them. They were having a good time. They kicked the splintered remains of the ship into the grass and headed home.
—
Note:
'You can always judge a man by the quality of his enemies' - Oscar Wilde
In 1989, there were probably a greater number of high school students in the United States called 'Jason' than 'Heather'.