Chapter Text
September 1st , 1989.
Dear Diary, Veronica Sawyer writes during lunch. I think I'm a good person.
Pen poised just above her page, she pauses for a moment, reconsidering her statement.
There was a time when she would have said that she would definitely count herself a good person, back when she stumbled through these halls, wide-eyed and idealistic, straight out of middle school. But after the torment and trials of three gruelling years of Westerberg High School… she isn't so sure.
I believe that there’s good in everyone. That sentence is as firm as the other was uncertain. Veronica has been taught her whole life to look for the good in people, and she wholeheartedly believes that it is there – sometimes you just have to dig a bit deeper under the surface to find it.
But here we are – first day of senior year! The tiny part of Veronica that was excited this morning quickly shrivels up and dies. And… I see these kids I’ve known my whole life and wonder: 'What happened?'
Veronica glances up from her diary for a moment, allowing herself to acknowledge the world outside of her private haven of paper and ink, and gets her point proven almost immediately. She can hear the regular, tried-and-tested insults being thrown around carelessly: 'freak', 'slut', 'burnout', 'bug-eyes', 'poser', 'lard-ass'. The same stupid names as every other year. After having been called quite a few of them herself, Veronica has to admit that she'd really appreciate some new ones. It almost takes the offence out of it if no-one has any originality.
Almost. Words still sting.
It's only a few years ago that we were all tiny. We were happy, too – playing tag and getting chased, and not even thinking about how best to hurt the people around us. Veronica notices some insults she overlooked: 'loser' and 'short-bus'. How could she forget?
We used to sing and clap and laugh and nap all day. Bake cookies and eat paste.
Veronica's ears prick up as some more distinguished insults start to make an appearance: 'bull-dyke', 'cripple', 'stuck-up' and 'hunchback'. Not by any means an impressive or varied vocabulary, but 'hunchback' has nine letters, and Veronica had previously given up hope for her classmates using any more than eight.
Then we got bigger. That was the trigger. Veronica grapples for a poetic metaphor. Like the Huns invading Rome. Huh. It’ll do. And then everything changed. All anyone cared about was being the coolest and the prettiest and suddenly girls I'd known since kindergarten wouldn't even talk to me. Amongst the bitches, the dutiful followers, the jocks, the art freaks, the performing arts kids, the awkward geeks, the anxiety-riddled wallflowers, the desperate wannabes and the nerdy nobodies, I didn't know where I fit in. Veronica remembers the terror of her first week of Westerberg. I just picked a category and decided to fit in there rather than not belong at all.
I'm holding my breath, counting the days until graduation. College will be paradise if I'm not dead by June!
Everyone says it gets better after High School. Well it damn well must do, because if it doesn't, Veronica's writing to the board of further education and lodging a formal complaint. She's spent the entirety of her teenage years planning out college, sketching out her life for when it finally gets the hint and becomes worth living. It has to get better at college. It just has to.
Veronica rethinks, not sure if she's being too harsh on Westerberg. Some – well, most – of her year are idiots, but a fair few are alright. She just tries to avoid jocks and the like, but if you exclude those blasphemies on academics, the general consensus of herself and her inner circle (consisting of exactly Veronica, her cat and Martha) is that the student body is roughly… OK-ish.
But I know, life can be beautiful. I hope, I dream, I pray it will be one day. I pray for a better way than all of this stupid name-calling. We'll regret wasting this time on petty things when we're older. If only jocks saw it that way. Veronica's eyes wander over to Ram Sweeney, the prime example of a washed-up footballer who sacrificed his brain to gain brawn. And he doesn’t regret it one bit. It's – what? – his third year of being a linebacker and yet his eighth of smacking lunch trays and being a huge dick. Guys like him make Veronica worry for the world.
Things will get better as soon as my letter comes from Harvard, Duke, or Brown. That's her mantra. It got her through last year's exams; it can get her through senior year. Everything will work out once I get accepted. That's it, Veronica. Focus on college. I always knew I was going to leave Sherwood, Ohio. Ride out of there gleefully on horseback, preferably, waving my diploma in the air. Although I would probably settle for a quiet car ride to the airport. I have to get out. Away from this stupid little town with its stupid little people. My life will be beautiful. I know it will. I just have to get through this year, all the while trying my very best not to set this dump ablaze. Wish me luck.
Veronica closes her diary and tucks her pen into her jacket pocket, turning around. She lets out an involuntary gasp of shock as her best friend accidentally startles her. If she wasn't half a second away from a heart attack, Veronica would probably feel a little guilty when she realises that Martha's likely been stood behind her for ages, too gentle to bring her back to reality from her diary. She does get quite lost in it. And Martha's a teddy bear – warm and cuddly and endearingly shy.
She is so happy to see her.
Nevermind that she last slept over at her house only two days ago.
"Hey, Martha," Veronica manages, regaining her breath as her heart returns to is designated place in her ribcage.
"Hey!" Martha pushes her pink-rimmed glasses higher up on her nose, smiling with both an apology and the excitement of their last ever first day of school. "Sorry for scaring you. Are you OK?"
"Fine," she assures her, with a little wink. Martha and her have been practically like sisters since they were in diapers, after all – it's not like she hasn't been startled by her plenty of times before.
Usually after renting a ghost movie too scary for them.
That always goes down really well with their moms.
"So!" Veronica links her arm in Martha's, grinning, "How's your first day of senior year going?" She asks, as they turn down the hall. Slowly, they begin the walk towards the cafeteria, every teenager's favourite venue for their daily brush with potentially fatal food poisoning.
Which is still not quite as life threatening as having the misfortune to come into contact with a clique, but nonetheless a concern.
"I can't believe we have no classes together on Mondays this year."
Martha hums in agreement. They already complained about this to one another last weekend. Last year, homeroom with Martha was the best possible way to start the day. She's going to miss it a lot.
Not just because it was essentially free chatting time, but also because it gave Veronica a convenient chance to defend Martha if anyone tried to be a dick. Which they often did.
Veronica has always said that Martha is the best person she knows. She's kind, and considerate; smart and funny, and never has she ever tried to change herself to fit the status quo. Nor should she have to.
It's simply that her life would be so much easier if she did.
Martha is gentle as a lamb, and would never stand up for herself against the idiots who bully her for her weight; her smarts; for favouring pink sweaters with Disney characters and unicorns on them. That huge heart that Veronica loves so much is not enough to warrant respect in this Thunderdome.
So ever since the bullying started back in elementary school, Veronica has made it her job to be the defense squad for her best friend. A job she honours and practises at all times.
"It was good," Martha's grinning too widely as they collect their trays and join the lunch queue, a slightly giddy kind of grin that makes anxiety bubble in Veronica's stomach, because it only ever means one thing...
"I got partnered with Ram for a biology project!" The genuine, breathless excitement in Martha’s voice when she shares the news puts a small, sad smile on Veronica’s face. Her utter adoration of that utter asshole seems as strong as ever, then.
Veronica hates what Ram does to Martha. Without saying a thing, he makes her doubt herself, the way she looks, the way she dresses. He makes her look for the fault in herself, because her best friend doesn’t understand the way Ram functions. She is too lovely of a person to fathom that he is the dickhead he's proved himself to be tenfold ever since kindergarten ended; too self-depricating to realise that she is far, far too good for him.
But Martha loves fairytales. For better or worse, she wants to maintain her sweet fantasy and picture Ram Sweeney as her long lost Prince Charming. Veronica thinks maybe it just makes the bullying a little bit easier for her cope with – in a world where everyone seems somehow blind to just how beautiful this girl is – she's clinging to a shred of hope and self-confidence. Veronica doesn't have the heart to take that away from her.
"Cool!" Veronica settles on eventually, injecting enthusiasm into her voice that sounds false even to her ears. She'll end up doing Ram's part of the project, without recognition or thanks. As usual.
"Hey, are we still on for movie night?"
"Yeah!" Veronica sighs in relief at the change in topic, letting the words loll like they're obvious. "You’re on Jiffy Pop detail!"
"I rented 'The Princess Bride' ," Martha beams, a totally unnecessary addition. Of course she did.
Veronica laughs in the same familiar way she has since Martha first discovered her all-time favourite film. It's a warm, amused laugh with no malice behind it at all. "Again? I swear you must have every line memorised by now?"
(The both of them do, to be fair.)
"What can I say? I’m a sucker for a happy ending."
They pay for their food and make their way to their lunch table, chatting easily as they pick at the slop that passes for nutrition in this school.
The conversation is effortless, and when it slows, the silence is comfortable. Relaxed. Veronica loves that about her friendship with Martha. They can just be happy in each others' company and not have to talk to fill the void.
That is, until halfway through the lunch period, when Kurt Kelly decides to grace them with his presence, sauntering up to them with a smug grin that reeks of misogny and priviledge.
Much the same as every other year, Kurt appears to be continuing his personal philosophy to make the lives of the students of Westerberg High as miserable as possible. And getting away with it. Without fail. That red varsity jacket he wears is like impenetrable armour – it protects you from any kind of scrutiny or consequence. It does actively kill your brain cells, though; Kurt is barely clinging on to his precarious position as the smartest guy on the football team.
A position which, Veronica likes to say, is kind of like being the tallest dwarf.
As he stalks up to them, Veronica braces herself for whatever petty taunt he's going to deliver. She sets her jaw and resists the temptation to punch him right in his arrogant, little face.
"If ya wanna lose a few pounds, you need more protein in your diet," comes the patronising drawl, making Martha sink into herself and righteous fury simmer within Veronica.
"Martha Dumptruck," taunts Ram, tagging along, arm slung over Kurt's shoulder. "Wide load!"
If they were saying the same about her, Veronica knows she would hide underneath the table and shy away. But they're not. They're targeting Martha because they know she won't fight back, and Veronica will not stand for it.
"What is wrong with you?" She pushes back her chair, secretly terrified by the way the scraping noise silences the whole of the caf'. She finds her suddenly unsteady feet and comes face to face with Kurt, refusing to let herself be threatened by the height difference.
"I'm sorry," Kurt laughs. "Are you actually talking to me?"
She doesn't answer right away. The room's spinning a little bit.
"M'buddy Kurt asked you a question," Ram pushes in front of her, and in some sudden rush of adrenaline, rather than backing off, Veronica stands her ground. Why shouldn't she get to talk to him? Neither he nor Ram are any different to her or Martha or anybody at Westerberg. All they have is stupidly over-gelled hair and a spot on the football team and everyone's supposed to bow down to them like they're Harrison Ford or something?
"What gives you the right to pick on my friend?" Veronica retorts, somehow not shying away like any person with a brain would. Like Martha is right now at the unprecedented attention. "Look at you – you're a high school has-been waiting to happen, a future gas station attendant." She scoffs, and rolls her eyes in blatant disgust.
When he responds, it's slow and brief, and Veronica can tell he's still struggling to process her little declaration.
"You got a zit, right there," he points out. Everyone laughs. Loudly.
A part of her wants to scream whilst the two of them swagger back to the table reserved for popular people. She doesn't. She just balls her hands into fists and sits back down, Martha gaping there in awe. "How did you do that?" She breathes, astonished.
"I– I don't really know," Veronica admits. Now that it's over, it seems crazy and dumb and she wonders why she did it in the first place. Her and Martha are quiet people: they hide in the corners and leave everyone alone. It's safe that way. "He insulted you, so I had no choice, I guess."
"I would never be brave enough to do that. You were incredible. You stood up to Kurt Kelly–"
Veronica is moderately aware that Martha keeps on talking, but she zones out eventually, her eyes involuntarily drifting over to The Popular Table. The stuff of dreams. That's the table where you get to copy people you don't know's homework and have someone else buy your lunch. You don't sit there until you're invited. You just don't. There are invisible but unconquerable social boundaries prohibiting you from doing so. Nobody really remembers or knows when they were constructed, but the important thing is they're there. And the ever-present status quo is maintained.
The Popular Table is strange. Some of them get to sit there because they're pretty and have perfect hair; some because their parents let them throw these crazy parties. Some of them are there for being on the football or cheerleading team; some because of who they know. Yet they're all dictated by one common goal: to make their fifteen minutes of stardom as obnoxious as humanly possible. Because the unavoidable fact of the matter is, in a few months they'll be forgotten. Useless layabouts who have nothing to contribute to society whatsoever. Because sitting at The Popular Table is only second prize. There's a higher power, one even more terrifying. One that actually gives you something in life. The Heathers' table.
Ah, The Heathers. What words can describe The Heathers? They're… cruel. And… beautiful. And… untouchable . So removed and remote. Peasants like Veronica don't get to even dream of talking to The Heathers. People love to hate them. They float above the normal struggles of high school and get worshipped for it. They're solid Teflon. Never bothered or harassed.
If she were like them, Kurt and Ram would never dare speak to her like that. Martha would be cool by association.
Yeah, Veronica would give anything to be like them.
To be beautiful, like them. To be equal parts loved and hated, like them. To parade around school like she owns the place, like them. Which, Veronica reminds herself, they kind of do. The Heathers' parents have paid so much to the school at this point that they probably own about half of it.
Heather McNamara's dad in particular is loaded. He sells engagement rings. Rumours go around every so often that he's made a very generous donation to the PTA in exchange for good grades for his little princess. And she is. In her striped skirt and tailored blazer, hair bow and kitten heels, Heather McNamara is never anything short of impeccable. Oh, and she's Cheer Captain too. Even when she's flipping and kicking and spinning and shaking her pom-poms, there's not a hair out of place on her head. Perfectly put together in all situations; usually found in some bright shade of yellow.
And Heather Duke's mom is supposed to have a fitness empire. The story goes that she made millions on fitness DVDs and books in LA and then moved to Sherwood to give Heather a quiet childhood. (Although apparently that didn't stop her paying for her daughter to have breast implants.) But that's just a myth… Maybe. Nobody really knows. With her designer crocodile skin purse and seemingly permanent scowl, it's easy to imagine most things being true about Heather Duke. After all, with the astonishing lack of any discernible personality, the sky's the limit for Westerberg's imagination. In fact, there are so many rumours circulating about her, Veronica has a theory that Duke made half of them up herself. She might not have McNamara's polish, but she's a conniving, cunning girl with anger eternally boiling inside of her. She runs the yearbook, too. Only fools don't cower when she enters a room.
But neither Duke nor McNamara have anything on the almighty. They might hold positions of power, but those would be nothing if they weren't best friends with Her Highness The High School Overlord. On their own, they could bully, degrade, and ruin someone. With her beside them, they can make someone regret living – they can hunt down any person they dislike, rip them open and hang their organs above their mantlepiece for decoration. And then throw up someone else in front of them like a shield to emerge as if nothing had happened. Teen royalty. Especially chosen and trained by the Queen herself: Heather Chandler.
She is a.
Mythic.
Bitch.
Heather Chandler is formidable. She has every person in school on a string. She's the single most spiteful person Veronica's ever known of. And yet she understands politics better than most adults. She knows what she has to do to maintain her spot on her flaming pedestal. After all, a leader is only a leader as long as they act like one. And Heather's only too willing to fulfil the position of Eagle, punching people in the face and then stepping on them to climb higher. Her crown is a flaming red scrunchie she wears threaded carelessly through her blonde waves. Don’t even contemplate wearing a red scrunchie if you go to Westerberg; she will find you, she will take it, and she will scoop your innards out with a blunt spoon. It’s rather worrying that Veronica’s not entirely sure herself where the hyperbole is in that statement.
These girls are fourth-generation bitches. Their mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers were too and they passed the knowledge on. Because unlike The Populars, The Heathers maintain their power after High School. They're legendary. Because that's all Sherwood cares about, isn't it? Who's got the prettiest hair and the most expensive outfits and who's throwing up before they digest. Who can produce the most petrifying progeny. Westerberg needs Heathers; that's the fact of the matter. They need someone beautiful and bitchy to hate but follow mindlessly when they tell them what to do. That's just politics. They need a clear leader to threaten them into submission. To tell them what to think and who to hate and what's in and what's out – Heather Chandler.
There's a reason McNamara and Duke wear a blazer and skirt: because Heather Chandler did it first. Only her clothes are vibrant scarlet, the deep red of blood. It's her signature colour, and she's always wearing it in some fashion. Today she decided to make a statement for the first day of school. Her tiny skirt and knee-high socks, her blazer and scrunchie – all bright crimson. Veronica wouldn't admit it, but she couldn't keep herself from wondering if it's an intentional metaphor: 'Look at this girl; look at how she wears the blood of her victims. Cross her if you dare.'
*****
Veronica does not care about her zit. She does not care that the whole school laughed at her. Which is why she does not spend the remainder of lunch in the second floor girls' bathroom, examining it.
"It's not that bad," she murmurs to herself, carefully looking at the angry red blemish in the mirror. "Nobody noticed it before Kurt was a dick. Nobody will remember tomorrow." As a rule, Veronica tends to be easily forgettable.
The door slams open, as if on cue, and who bolts in other than Heather Duke, clutching her hands over her mouth as if she was going to–
"MOVE!" She half-screams, half-begs, shoving open the nearest stall door. And not a moment too soon, because she immediately loses the contents of her stomach explosively and violently. Heather's eating disorder has been an open secret for as long Veronica can remember, probably since before they even started high school. How awful for her.
"Grow up, Heather," Veronica's head snaps around as she recognises that voice, even from the hallway. The bored drawl that would strike fear into a braver person than Veronica. The door bangs open again, and then Heather Chandler appears, lounging leisurely against the doorframe. God, she's even more beautiful up close. But it's a cold, hard kind of beautiful. The kind where you can see someone's meanness in their face. "Bulimia is so '87."
Veronica just stares, mouth wide open, partially tempted to scurry off and hide. Heather McNamara strides in as well, and for a few moments there is a deathly silence as Chandler and McNamara's eyes meet Veronica's.
"Hey, you're the zit girl!" The smallest Heather breaks the silence, pointing with a perfectly manicured yellow nail. Veronica closes her eyes. Jesus Christ.
"Yeah, you are," Chandler says reflectively, chewing on a piece of gum. "How very."
Heather Duke – presumably unaware of the topic of conversation due to her head having been in a toilet bowl for the majority of it – retches one last time, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and changes the topic. "Heather, I need a mint."
Chandler doesn't bother to address such lowly matters as that of her best friend's serious medical condition. Duke is below her, after all. It's only Heather McNamara who – for once – strays from Heather's lead, not completing a survey of the nobody with her in the bathroom. Veronica's not sure how to feel about that. It wasn't exactly fun to have two pairs of eyes boring holes in her, but at least McNamara's gaze was a bit softer, a bit more relenting than Chandler's. No. Heather Chandler looks Veronica up and down like she's sussing out a puny competitor in a boxing ring. Like she's the predator and Veronica's prey.
McNamara turns away from Veronica and puts a comforting hand on Duke's shoulder. "What you need, Heather, is to see a doctor." But she hands Heather a mint nonetheless, sighing in a familiar way that suggests to Veronica this is a regular exchange.
Duke elects to ignore the comment.
The school bell rings, its shrill metallic shout snapping Veronica out of her fog and reminding her that she's supposed to be in her French class.
Shit. She cannot get detention for being late on the first day of school.
She hastily makes her way towards the door, just glad to have survived an interaction with The Heathers. But an arm shoots out to stop her, grasping her shoulder with a surprisingly strong grip, the red talons sinking deep into her flesh.
"Not so fast, zit girl."
Panic turns to ice in her veins, not only at being singled out by the most popular girl in her school, but also slightly at the faint possibility that might be her nickname for the rest of the year.
Heather chews once more, blowing a bubble and popping it with her tongue before she talks again. "Kurt was such a bitch this morning. Martha Dumptruck? Fine, but you're relatively cool. You know, not many people would have the guts to stand up to him." There's tactical consideration behind her every word, an ulterior motive that Veronica can't quite figure out.
"Martha's my friend. I stand up for my friends," Veronica grinds out from between gritted teeth, not daring to rip her arm out of Heather's hand. She gets a terse, tight smile in return.
"Fine. If you wanna hang with lard asses."
Chandler finally releases Veronica from her hold, going to talk to Duke and shooing her shortest crony out of the bathroom stall. McNamara stumbles to the sinks, a box of mints which she hastily clamps shut in one hand and something else in the other. She straightens out her blazer, going over to the mirror, and takes the opportunity to discreetly slip a blue tube into Veronica's open hand. Zit cream.
"You've changed your hair," McNamara comments quietly, adjusting her hair bow in the mirror.
"Um, yeah," Veronica responds, not so aware of what she's saying as that she needs to reply. If she doesn't, it could be taken as a sign of disrespect, and disrespecting a Heather is dangerous work. She's just surprised that someone as high up as a Heather would ever have noticed her existence, never mind her hair. "I cut it for senior year." Veronica remembers how it first felt when she was first rid of her long tresses. It's shorter now, just above her shoulders, and her head feels lighter. Like a weight that she previously unknowingly carried is now gone.
"It looks nice," she says, smiling a slight, hesitant smile. "Suits you."
"Oh, uh, thank you."
Internally marvelling that she's survived an interaction with The Heathers, Veronica shakes her head and beelines for the door, just as it swings open. Again.
She steps out of the way, pressing herself into the corner, suppressing the urge to groan when this time, it's Ms Fleming who's lurking cross-armed by the door, clearly delighted to have found some delinquents on her self-instructed hallway patrol.
Not for the first time, Veronica resists the urge to give her guidance counsellor some advice: mind her own business.
"Ah, Heather and Heather…" She tuts, one hand on her hip. Heather Duke throws up again audibly. "... And Heather. Perhaps you didn't hear the bell over all the vomiting. You're late for class."
Veronica's not surprised that Ms Fleming hasn't noticed her. She's not very noticeable, after all. Not an insult. Just reality.
Heather Chandler's eyes flash with something malicious and terrifying. She curls her lip to bare two rows of sparkling white teeth. A smile. Or maybe a threat. "Heather wasn't feeling well. We're helping her."
Ms Fleming is unfazed. "Not without a hall pass you're not. A week's detention."
Veronica sighs, patting her pockets for a pen and a familiar little piece of paper whilst The Heathers shout widely varying protests.
Heather Duke emerges from the bathroom stall. "What? No way, that's not fair!"
Heather McNamara tries to frown but just succeeds in scrunching up her face like a confused kitten. "But, Ms Fleming, I've got cheer practice!"
Heather Chandler abandons all subtlety and just growls into her teacher's face, "My parents pay your salary."
Veronica's hand closes on the evasive slip just as her fingers find a pen. It takes her a matter of seconds to scribble three names in Mr Ashley's large, fumbling letters. Next to the clumsy 'V. Sawyer', there's now 'H. McNamara', 'H. Duke' and 'H. Chandler'.
Perfect.
She blows on it once to dry the ink from smudging too badly and holds the hall pass up with triumph.
"Actually, Ms Fleming," her voice cuts through The Heathers' shouts and silences them. Ms Fleming is suprised to even see her there. "All four of us are out on a hall pass. Yearbook committee."
The Heathers turn to face her with three distinct faces of confusion, incredulity and rage. Ms Fleming raises one eyebrow. She doesn't believe her, and for good reason.
Still, Veronica holds it out for inspection casually; confidently, not worried even when Ms Fleming seizes it from her to check. Veronica knows that she'll get off with that note. Her forgeries always work. If three years of being bored out of her mind in classes too easy for her has taught her anything, it's when and where to make the decision to skip.
"I see you're all listed." Veronica smiles innocently, as if any other possibility was out of the question, and Ms Fleming scowls, handing her the pass with an irritated flourish. "Hurry up and get where you're going."
She stomps off, leaving them alone in the bathroom.
The door has barely slammed shut before Heather McNamara's face twists with confusion.
"But we're not on a hall pass."
Heather Duke rolls her eyes and Heather Chandler snatches the note from Veronica's unresisting hand, holding it up to the light.
"This is an excellent forgery," she remarks, after a beat. "Who are you, anyway?"
And Veronica will forever wonder for the rest of her life what on God's green earth possessed her to open her mouth and say her next six words.
Maybe it's a sense of accomplishment; a knowledge that for once in her life, Veronica is superior at something. Maybe it's that it's the first day of Senior Year, and she's not thinking straight in her joy that she'll be out of here soon. Or maybe – just maybe – it's the past seventeen years of her boring, goody-two-shoes life hitting her like a ton of bricks in the millisecond it takes for her to open her mouth, making her suddenly wish for something, anything, to happen. She's studied and learnt and done everything her parents want from her. She's been a perfect little good girl her whole life. And she needs to know what it's like to make one huge mistake before her chance is gone; before college starts and real life starts. She needs to have her own little, private rebellion, because if she doesn't now, when will she?
Maybe that's what makes her clutch her diary slightly closer to her chest, tighten her grip on the zit cream in her hand and say, "Veronica. Sawyer. I crave a boon."
*****
Veronica still hasn't got used to it. It's been three weeks since she became friends with The Heathers and she still isn't used to any of it.
Well… 'friends' isn't exactly the right word. It's more like The Heathers are people she works with and their job is being popular and shit.
Only there are a lot of rules and requirements that come with that job. The Heathers ran her through them after school that first day, when she was dragged to Heather McNamara's spotless semi-mansion, shoved in a chair in front of a dressing table – which probably costs more than every piece of furniture in Veronica's house – and tumbled head-first into Heathers bootcamp. In a mere few hours, they taught her how to do her make-up, file and paint her nails, perform proper skin care, make boys do her bidding, pick out an outfit, remove her body hair, flirt to perfection, and attempted to teach her to walk in heels before abandoning the idea entirely when she fell over for the seventeenth time.
Veronica left that house with more beauty products, clothes and shoes than she has ever carried in her entire life. Every possible surface in her bedroom is littered with them now (she ran out of space in her wardrobe and drawers a long time ago). Her parents don't know what to make of it. If they've noticed that she has to get up an hour earlier now just to get ready in time for school, they haven't said anything.
Heather Duke was very specific on that front. Veronica remembers because she was stood behind her, yanking a comb through Veronica's hair without even entertaining the notion of being gentle, and said, "You could have such pretty hair if you tried, Veronica."
To which Heather Chandler responded, "She could have such pretty everything if she got off her fat ass and put in some effort, right, Veronica?"
She quickly learns to get past the catty digs. They mean nothing and they're only designed to get a rise out of her. To reinstate the invisible boundaries whenever it becomes the slightest bit unclear who's in charge. So Veronica smiles tolerantly and takes it. She doesn't have any other choice. It's worth it to be a Heather. Albeit an honorary one. For years, Veronica has admired The Heathers, how nobody bothers them and they get away with murder. The reality is so much better.
The Heathers are the prettiest poison you've ever seen. Fear them; love them – it makes no difference. They'll walk right over you regardless.
People fall at their feet. They get into any party, no questions asked. Anything they want is theirs as soon as they say the word. Rules just don't seem to apply. They even walk like they know they're better than you; with heads up, their backs unnaturally straight. Teen royalty. The entire student body wants them for either a friend or a fuck.
Bur they're just so mean. They laugh at people's misery, and, despite herself, Veronica finds herself laughing along with them at the same people she used to joke with in Debate Club. She hates it.
And yet she loves it at the same time.
It was so startling that first day. It took exactly two seconds for the whole school to forget 'zit girl' and remember Veronica Sawyer, with her blue blazer and blonde curls. She might as well be a whole new person. And she kind of is. Nobody even knew her name at first. She could hear the whispering, the mutters, as they tried to figure out who the mysterious new babe was. And then all she could hear was the shock, hurt and betrayal in Martha's voice as she exclaimed, "Veronica?!"
If Veronica was a better person, she would have given it up after that one time at their lunch table. Handed back the zit cream and apologised. She doesn't know what she's doing with them anyway; why they're entertaining this ridiculous dress-up game.
But for some reason, they are. So she keeps on hanging with them and sitting with them and wearing the clothes they give her. For the first time in her entire life, Veronica belongs somewhere. And she isn't ready to lose that. Because… the feeling of striding through the school doors in a morning, looking like hell on wheels, is so fucking amazing that she couldn't have imagined it. She's finally popular, soaring on borrowed wings above the issues of the rest of Westerberg. That's all she's ever wanted. And if she has to obey Heather's every command to stay that way, so be it.
September 22nd , 1989.
Dear Diary, Veronica Sawyer writes that evening.
Life can be beautiful.