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Heather Chandler was a goddess.
That's the common consensus at Westenberg.
They mean in looks partly- Veronica disagrees. She can't remember Aphrodite in pleated skirts, red scrunchies, thigh highs and a polyester jacket. They mean in countenance really.
Heather had this aura of untouchability: "I don't have to give out handjobs to degenerates to get my way," she once sniffed at Heather Mcnamara.
She seemed to float down the halls, skimming above every low life- which had included Veronica at a time. She leered over the school like Michelangelo's David- vulnerable in nakedness, cold in sneer, unparalleled in size.
A goddess in countenance. Veronica rigorously agreed- she might still, if it wasn't for that Friday night. A university party- as was Heather's prefrenece, two plastic cups filled with whiskey tainted punch.
"Veronica," she was saying, "Veronica what the fuck is wrong with you?"
She made no response. Looking at her with that cocked-head manoeuvre that always unsettled people.
"I got you into a college party. I- I gave you everything. I fucking made you," rage seethed from her like steam from a kettle, stumbling over her words until they melted into an intangible stream of insults, "depressed little loser, didn't even know your elbow from your asscrack,"
she was spitting.
Veronica's face remained clear, a kind of slight curiosity on it.
"I honestly doubt not sleeping with a 20 year old is going to do any significant damage to my reputation, Heather." The way she said it. In that lofty "I'm-better-than-you," tone.
Heather wanted to smack her.
Rolling her shoulders back, regaining her bitch face.
"Why is it that you rejected him anyway, hm?"
Veronica made no answer.
"It's funny, the whole time I've known you, you've never so much as looked at a guy."
"Why is that Veronica? Is it that," she licked her lips, "is that you're a dyke or something?"
Veronica looked at her in horrified silence, all traces of haughty indifference gone.
Slow venom stings more than spitting lava.
"I could have sworn I saw you ogling Heather when she got out the shower. She saw it too. Maybe that's why she doesn't invite you over anymore- I mean you wouldn't want a pervert over would you?"
"How fucking dare you." Veronica stood up, her face white.
"Is that what it was with Betty Finn? Did you only hang about with her because she let you eat her pussy?"
Veronica's hand was flying towards her before she could comprehend it.
A resounding smack. A hand print an ugly red on Heather's cheek.
Soundlessly she brought her fingers up to touch the scalding mark.
"Heather," Veronica reached for her with a trembling hand, "Heather I'm so sorry-"
"Don't you dare touch me." Heather shoved her, her back hitting the wall with a sickening smack.
She leered over Veronica, who now looked like a bird about to be shot.
Hatred. Brewing inside her like an acid tide that threatened to spew out of her.
Jerking Veronica towards her, smashing her mouth on hers. As though trying to spit the acid back into Veronica.
Veronica froze, lips irresponsive. Heather caught her bottom lip, sinking her teeth into it as though it were a ripe fig. She yelped, shoving Heather away, eyes wide, a bead of crimson forming on her pale pink mouth.
Green eyes met brown.
Veronica, face flushed and hot, reaching for Heather, a look of fascination in her face. Cold hands sliding up Heather's face, the latter whimpering uncharacteristically, before sliding their mouths together again. A hot, messy collision of teeth and lipstick. Licking metallic blood off her mouth. Pressing closer, hands wandering. Melting together in the heat until the outlines of the body disappeared. And they were one mess together.
One feminine, disheveled mess.