Chapter Text
He'd been here less than a full day, and he already knew he hated Sherwood, Ohio.
Knowing his father, they wouldn't be here long enough for it to matter, but that didn't make this hellhole of a town any better. He'd already seen signs of the place being exactly the same as any other when his father marched him in to register him, and while Bud had laid on the charm pretty thick with the principal, he'd kept a warning hand on JD's shoulder the entire time.
He'd done his part, played the sullen but almost dutiful son, and he hadn't said a damned word about what happened the night before in their hotel.
It didn't matter. His father was good at hiding the bruises, and no one had believed him the last time he tried to tell someone. He would never forgive that guidance counselor. That dick had called his dad and thrown him right back to the monster he'd been looking to escape.
He walked back into his room, past the boxes stacked in it, and went to the radio. He didn't bother unpacking them. There was no point. He'd dig clothes out as he needed them, but everything else might as well stay locked up, just like he was.
He started flipping through the band, almost sure he wasn't going to find a good station around here. He'd get stuck with the same old mindless crap that was on every station everywhere.
“You ever get the feeling that everything in America is completely fucked up?” A distorted voice asked across the airwaves, and he found himself smiling as he sat down on his bed.
“Why, yes, I do,” JD answered, knowing that the dj couldn't hear him. “All the time.”
“You know that feeling?” the voice went on, almost like he was talking directly to JD. “The whole country is one inch away from saying... 'That's it. Forget it.' Think about it. Everything's polluted—the environment, the government, the schools—you name it. Speaking of schools... I was walking the hallowed halls the other day, and I asked myself... 'Is there life after high school?' Because I can't face tomorrow, let alone a whole year of this shit.”
JD leaned back on his bed, closing his eyes and thinking about just how much this guy, whoever the hell he was, seemed to know exactly what he was thinking.
Maybe Sherwood, Ohio wasn't half as bad as he thought it was.
“Yeah, you got it, folks. It's me again with a little attitude for all you out here in white-bread land, all you nice people livin' in the middle of America the beautiful. Let's see, we're on 92 FM... and it feels like a nice, clean little band so far. No one else is using it, and the price is right. And, yes, folks, you guessed it—Tonight, I'm as horny as a ten-peckered owl. So stay tuned because this is Hard Harry, reminding you to eat your cereal with a fork and do your homework in the dark.”
“God, why do you even listen to this crap, Veronica?” Heather Chandler asked over the phone, and she grimaced, not wanting to hear more about the stupid question that Heather just had to have for the lunchtime poll. “He's just some overgrown boy looking for an excuse to jack off, and who the hell cares?”
Veronica did, and she wasn't the only one. Heather was just pissed because this unknown radio personality was becoming more popular than she was. She didn't like competition. Look at what she was trying to do to Paige Woodward, just because Paige was popular without being a bitch to everyone.
Not for the first time, Veronica wished she'd been smart enough to befriend Paige instead of getting herself involved with the Heathers.
“Sometimes he's funny,” Veronica said, though it was the angst and the bitterness against the school that drew her in more. She swore he went there, to Westerburg, but she didn't know who he was. And anyone that hates you as much as I think he does is someone I think I like.
“Grow up, Veronica. You're going to a Remington party tomorrow night. Act like it.”
Heather hung up, and Veronica set the phone down in the cradle, grimacing. She knew she'd pay for that tomorrow. She just didn't know how.
Nora leaned back against her pillow, biting back a groan. The show was already over, one of Harry's shorter broadcasts, and she hated when it was short. She could listen to that voice for hours. She'd tried picturing him and drawing him, but she hadn't gotten very far. Maybe she wasn't supposed to see him. As a voice, he had power.
Maybe his body would ruin that.
She didn't think she cared what he really looked like. It wasn't about that. It was about the way he seemed to understand how she felt—how they all felt—trapped at this hell that was Sherwood, Ohio and Westerburg High.
She couldn't wait to be done with this place, with the popularity contests and the pressure to be perfect like Paige Woodward.
Nora was far from perfect. Hell, she was enough of a loser she didn't even fit in with the rejects or the geeks. Not that she wanted to be a Heather, god no, but she was tired of feeling like the only person she could relate to was some unknown voice on a radio.
Mark heard his parents arguing again as he came up the stairs. He wouldn't be surprised if it was about him again. That seemed to be the only thing they ever talked about—about, not to—and they seemed to miss the point. If they were so damned worried about him being miserable, why had they dragged him to this backwater town?
And he didn't care what the test scores were like at Westerburg. The school was no better than anywhere else. The same cliques, the same soul destroying world everywhere he turned. He didn't know what he would do if he hadn't had the radio.
His father's misguided gift had been useful after all, even if there was no hope of it ever contacting anyone out east that really gave a damn about him.
He could actually talk as Harry, could say what he was thinking and feeling and to hell with all the people that didn't understand.
Or the Heathers, since he knew that at least one of them was trying to convince everyone in the school he wasn't worth listening to.
It didn't matter. He wasn't doing this for her. He was doing it for himself, to stay sane.