Chapter Text
Dear God,
I met a girl tonight and I’m convinced she is the holiest person in the world.
I’ve never regretted disliking movies before this Halloween night, but a “Lydia Deetz” blessed my trees with toilet paper and my windows with shattered eggshells. When I ran outside armed with the rotten baseball bat sacrificed to the back of my closet years ago, there was no red blazer or varsity jackets. Only a ghost, paler than the moon with a smile as devious as the Cheshire cat.
I nearly screamed. If my name wasn’t Heather I certainly would have made such a fool of myself. But she was only a girl. A curious and bold one, but a girl nonetheless- no different than the ones who stare and laugh and cower in the halls of Westerburg. No better than Heather.
Something disgusting crept across my skin when I thought of the state of my appearance- the unkempt hair, plain face, the skin of my arms and legs visible in the night. I wondered if I was seeing things, and Kurt, Ram, and Heather really were there, hiding around the corner with pig’s blood and a camera. The thought made me want to flee inside and hide away.
But the only thing worse than that would be a student seeing me, knowing me, and spreading my embarrassment around the school like a silent wildfire, burning with every small snicker and examination. Heather would make me change my name.
So, I walked toward her. And she ran up our oak tree with its branches high and wide enough to tap my bedroom window, and its bark a rough warning to my hands and bare feet. “Don’t follow,” it said.
What are you doing, I asked her. She still smiled at me with anticipation, excitement, and a cockiness reminiscent of Heather, but void of her judgment. The light of my bedroom poured across her, and the ghost transformed into an angel.
Forgive me, God. My heart palpitated like a drug addict’s high when I saw her face clearly.
My grand escape didn’t exactly go to plan, she laughed. Damn, I smiled against my will and prayed she didn’t see it.
Clearly, I said with as much annoyance as I could muster, which turned out to be very little. My voice was small and breathy, and I hoped once more that we were entirely alone. My lungs failed to breathe, and my eyes couldn’t look away. Maybe she was a ghost, and I, a mortal under her possession.
Even in the most ridiculous outfit of ratty black clothing, strange black hair saturated in gel, and an old camera hanging from her neck, she was the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. Her eyes were black, her skin was smooth, and her features sharp and angular.
What are you supposed to be? I tried to sound like Heather, but she only laughed like she knew my game.
Lydia Deetz, obviously, she said without pause. I guess I had a funny look on my face, cause she continued to crack up like a drunk girl in the euphoric limbo between painful sobriety and date rape. Can you believe that? Ten feet in a tree, a cornered animal, laughing like a vandal not caught red-handed in the most affluent neighborhood of Sherwood.
You haven’t seen Beetlejuice? She asked like an old friend and not a stranger, not a felon, and not someone who knew a damn thing about me. Pretty out of touch for a Heather, she smiled coyly.
A Heather.
I might be immune to my mind’s reminders, but hearing that name off the girl’s lips sent a shock through my body, like the feeling of being thrown into the icy waters of Heather’s pool in the dead of winter. It’s impossible to be less aware of your mortality and the state of your body at that moment.
I’m calling the police. Her smile did not fall, only simmered patiently under calculating eyes. And how, she asked, will you keep me from running away while you’re calling the police?
Pillowcase, Heather would say.
Ditz, spaz, airhead. It was almost a relief. If Heather were actually hiding in the bushes behind my house, not an ounce of self-restraint her vicious mind contained would prevent the reaming, visceral reaction my words would cause.
I looked at her in the eyes and I conjured Heather’s presence over my shoulder. You have no idea who you’re talking to. Are you trying to be a social pariah? A nobody? My back was straight as an arrow, my hands on my hips, my face carved into the peak of disdain. And she? Not a movement, not a frown, and not a shimmer of fear.
I was wrong. This girl is not like any others I know in Sherwood, and certainly not Westerburg. She did not spare a flinch. Only a raised eyebrow and incredulous kind of look. Either her poker face is worthy of Circus Circus in Vegas, or she is truly unafraid of Heather- Chandler or otherwise.
When I scrambled out of the pool, clothes soaking and clinging to my body like a sick kind of porno for the partially blind, laughter filled the vacuum occupied moments before by the hum of water. Ram howled, Kurt clutched over, MacNamara giggled, and Heather led the pack of ravaging hyenas to the dinner table; laughing not for the humor in it, but for the gore.
In my backyard, on Halloween night, Heather laughed her same laugh over my shoulder from miles across town. A laughter with whispers promising I will never be her.
But, for the first time that night, the girl was not smiling. No, she climbed down one branch, two branches, and landed at the base of the oak, less than a foot from me. We are the same height, and I could see clearly into her eyes, steady and deceptively warm. Any bluff, any thought of Heather, fled my mind in lieu of a static buzz.
I have a pretty good idea of who you are, she said, and for some reason that made my heart skip a beat. She took a step closer and the bat slipped from my hand and landed in the grass between us.
God, forgive me.
Every inch she floated forward conjured the memories of soft lips, skin, and hair. The memory of gentle touches under white sheets, the feel of thighs and sweet voices. Her smile, gently building a castle to breathtaking heights, created a haze like that of the tobacco smoke in the unnamed bars where sinners rendezvous to love; she was the draw of Smirnoff in the empty tub of my bathroom.
In the haze of Raleigh’s burning, clouded by my drunken state, and dazed by the bliss of gentle touch, I feel closer to you, God, than any baptism, congregation, or fucking letter could imagine. I feel holy, and I feel seen. So, forgive me.
She could see through me, too.
The girl is curious and bold. Her eyes poised an unspoken question to me, quietly waiting for my consent before uttering a sound. I nodded. Well, she said, I have two more houses, three rolls of toilet paper, and a carton of eggs. You could end my humble social life, or you could join me for the night.
The week after Halloween, the halls of Westerburg were abuzz with unrelenting gossip. Not even Heather’s glares and bargains could dent the masses riding a high tide of a shaken hierarchy. It seemed to the general populace of the school, someone targeted the houses of the three most popular, richest, and powerful girls at Westerburg on Halloween night.
A change was coming, some dared to voice. Heather won’t be on top for much longer. It was hard to suppress a smile every time Heather frowned at their words. The satisfaction I felt from her discomfort was worth every excessive vomit jive and demand I endured during the aftermath.
A smile still assaults my face when I think of the girl. My cheeks have been bruised and sore for the past week, and Heather has shot my joy looks of disgust that painfully extinguish the fire in my heart. It’s a miracle my face isn’t actually black and blue, and my shame, my sin, visible for the world to see. Only visible to Heather.
And to Veronica, as I’ve come to learn, the quiet and boyish girl in the back of my AP English Language class.
Amen,
Heather Duke