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The cafeteria at Westerberg was usually a battlefield, but today, it felt like a funeral—or a very tense ceasefire.
Heather McNamara nudged Veronica, her eyes wide behind her yellow-tinted lenses. "Do you see that?" she whispered, nodding toward the head of the table.
Veronica took a slow sip of her slushie, her eyes darting toward the two girls in question. Heather Chandler was meticulously picking at a salad, her gaze fixed firmly on the far wall. Next to her, Heather Duke was buried in a copy of The Bell Jar, her knuckles white as she gripped the spine.
Usually, Chandler would have already told Duke to stop reading "that depressing trash" or commented on the caloric density of her breath. Today? Nothing. A heavy, magnetic silence vibrated between the red and the green.
"They haven't spoken a word since first period," Veronica noted, leaning in. "Last night... the sleepover. You and I both bailed because of the flu and that history project. It was just the two of them."
"Chandler didn't even yell at her for wearing that shade of green," McNamara whimpered. "It’s unnatural, Ronnie. It’s like the end of the world."
The duo decided on a "divide and conquer" strategy. Veronica caught Duke by the lockers, while McNamara cornered Chandler in the choir room.
Veronica went looking for Duke and Mac went looking for Chandler
"Heather! Hey," Veronica said, leaning against the lockers with forced casualness. "Rough night? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or like you’re waiting for an execution."
Duke didn't look up. "I'm fine, Sawyer. Go write in your diary."
"Chandler’s been... quiet," Veronica pressed. "Usually by noon she’s called you a 'useless appendage' at least three times. What happened at her place?"
Duke’s face went through a fascinating transformation: from pale, to pink, to a deep, sickly emerald. "Nothing. We watched movies. We ate snacks. I left. Now back off before I tell her you’re asking questions."
But the way Duke’s hand flew to her lips as she walked away told Veronica everything she needed to know.
On the other way...
"Heather? Are you mad at Duke?" McNamara asked, her voice trembling.
Chandler didn't turn around. She was staring at her reflection in the piano’s polished wood. "Why would I be mad at a shadow, Heather? Shadows are supposed to be quiet."
"But you're acting... weird. You didn't even make her carry your gym bag."
Heather shoulders stiffened. "I’m practicing my inner peace. Now, if you don't want to spend your weekend scrubbing the bleachers with a toothbrush, I suggest you find a different topic."
...
Back in the present, Duke finally snapped. Late that afternoon, under the bleachers where she’d fled to escape the suffocating atmosphere, she found McNamara and Veronica waiting for her.
"Fine!" Duke hissed, throwing her book down. "You want to know? You want the tea?"
"We want the truth," Veronica said.
Heather. D paced, her heels digging into the dirt, and then began to recount what had happened.
{ The day before } :
It had started with a box of Pocky.
With McNamara and Veronica out, the cavernous Chandler mansion felt too big. The tension that usually fueled their "Leader and Follower" dynamic had shifted into something restless and uncomfortable.
"It's a game, heather. Don't be a prude," Chandler had challenged, her red-painted lips curling into a smirk as she held the chocolate stick between her teeth. "Unless you’re afraid of losing."
Duke, fueled by years of resentment and a desperate need to prove she wasn't just a "placeholder," had bitten the other end.
They had clicked through the biscuit, inch by inch. The air became thick, the sound of the crunching chocolate unnervingly loud. When their noses finally brushed, Duke expected Chandler to pull away with a laugh and a cruel joke.
Instead, Heather. C had tilted her head.
The last millimeter of the Pocky disappeared, and suddenly, the "game" wasn't about chocolate anymore. It was about the way Chandler’s hand curled into the lapel of Duke’s green blazer, and the way Duke finally stopped following and started taking. It was a collision of teeth and lip gloss—a desperate, angry, beautiful mess that tasted like cocoa and power struggles.
McNamara gasped, her hands over her mouth. "You and Chandler? Like... dating?"
"No! Yes? I don't know!" Duke cried, looking terrified. "She hasn't insulted me all day because I think she’s afraid if she opens her mouth, she’ll either kiss me again or vomit. And honestly? Same."
Just then, a shadow fell over them. Heather Chandler stood there, her red scrunchie glowing like a crown in the afternoon sun. She looked at Duke, then at the other two.
"Duke," Chandler barked. The old authority was there, but there was a flicker of something else—a rare, genuine vulnerability. "My house. Seven o'clock. No more games. We’re actually talking."
Chandler rolled her eyes, but as she turned to walk away, she reached back and briefly caught Duke's hand, squeezing it for exactly one second.
"Holy shit," Veronica whispered.
"I know," McNamara beamed. "I need to find a flower to match their wedding."