Can't We Be Seventeen? (If We Still Got The Right)

7- The Assembly

October 9th, 1989. Monday.

(16 days after Veronica Sawyer's murder)

After Veronica's death, Heather began to hate school.

Before, Heather used to treat school with the same nonchalance she had towards everything else. She didn't love it, she knew she was superior to everyone and everything in Westerburg High; the teachers with their depressing lives and small salaries, the disgusting cafeteria food, the dull hallways, and every single student...Heather was above it all. High school was just something she had to do before she could truly begin her life. An expensive private university, maybe a sabbatical year traveling to Paris or London, then working at her dad's law firm and marrying a rich man.

Of course, being worshiped by everyone made it all a bit more pleasant, she loved the appraisal, how the boys all looked at her like she was Pamela Freaking Anderson, and how the girls turned green with envy.

High school wasn't something that excited her, something to look forward to when she woke up or something that she would look back and think fondly of —she didn't intend on being those lame middle-aged women who peaked in high school and had nothing interesting happen to them after those four years of glory. Heather wanted her glory to last way beyond Westerbug— but it also wasn't that bad.

Until it was.

Veronica wasn't there anymore, and that was the problem. But, ironically, she was also everywhere.

Heather would go to the bathroom, and memories of the day they first met and Veronica, still a greasy little nobody back then, boldly introducing herself would invade her brain; Heather would go to their lunch table and she could almost feel her presence, as though if she turned her head she would find Veronica seating right next to her, hunched over the table with that old diary of hers.

She was everywhere. The hallways, the classrooms, even Heather's own house. Heather could smell her perfume. She could practically see the flashes of bright blue from her clothes. Veronica felt so close but so far as if Heather was constantly trying to grasp something that was just a little bit out of her reach. And it pained her to think that that was it; that was all she had of Veronica now.

On Monday morning, Ms Fleming had an assembly. Constantly trying her best to stay relevant and secure her useless job, Fleming was always milking every situation possible, to use it as an opportunity to get kids to talk about their feelings and all that hippy peace and love shit.

She talked about how terribly sorry she was for that tragedy, and Veronica would be missed. Then, she proceeded to talk about what girls could do to avoid finding themselves in a situation like Veronica's. No walking alone at night, no drinking too much, no wearing short clothes that grab men's attention. Funny how not once did she tell the boys no raping and murdering girls.

Heather watched as Fleming rambled on and on, the students growing more and more restless with every nonsense spewing out of her mouth, checking their watches and groaning, surprisingly eager to leave and go to class.

Heather herself didn't wait until the end. She stormed off through the sea of students, most of them making way for her to pass as if she were a celebrity.

She walked to her locker. Heather saw she wasn't the only one skipping Flemings's little kumbaya as she caught a glimpse of Courtney and two of her country club friends, chatting by her locker, just a few feet away from Heather.

From the corner of her eye, Heather could see Veronica's locker, not far away from hers, with police tape wrapped all over it; its presence was off-putting, not only because of its bright yellow color but the entire concept of everything that once belonged to Veronica now being part of a murder investigation.

Heather tried her best to ignore it and focused on her own locker instead. She rummaged through her mess of books and makeup looking for a cigarette; she really needed a smoke at the moment but found nothing.

"Ugh, it was sooo boring," Heather could hear one of the preppy girls, Courtney's little friend, say. She wasn't trying to overhear their conversation —she didn't care enough about those wannabees to bother to eavesdrop— but it wasn't like they were speaking quietly. Besides, the hallway was mostly silent, so their squeaky voices were very hard not to hear.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I would have preferred Chem class over that snooze fest," the other one laughed.

"Did she really think her little speeches were necessary?" Courtney scoffed. "Please, not all of us are stupid enough to get ourselves in a situation like that."

Heather didn't need to be a genius to realize what they were talking about.

"Like we're all gonna walk around town dressed like sluts and drunk off our asses."

"Right?" Courtney continued. "I mean, no offense to Veronica, I'm sorry she's dead all and blah blah blah, but if you do all of that, you're just desperate for attention, and that's exactly what she got."

Heather doesn't remember her feet walking in the girls' direction, but in one second, she was by her locker, the next she was inches away from Courtney's face.

"What the fuck did you just say?"

Courtney's widened eyes stared back at her. "I-i nothing. We were just talking, about the assembly and...and Veronica. I was just saying I wouldn't do what she did."

"What, so it's her fault that she fucking murdered?"

"No! That's not what I said. But come on, Heather. Those kinds of things only happen to certain types of girls-"

The sound of a slap echoed through the practically empty hallway. Courtney put her hand on her cheek, eyes filling with water. Heather got closer to her, grabbing her by the collar of her sweater.

"If I ever hear you talking shit like that again, I swear to God, I'm going to punch you so hard not even your clown makeup will be able to cover up your black eye. Do you get it?"

"Yes, Heather," Courtney swallowed dryly.

"Good." Heather let go of the girl and walked out. As she exited the hallway —not really sure of where she was going next, but far away from Courtney and her friends so she wouldn't hit them too— she passed by Jason Dean, leaning on his own locker, his hands hidden on the pockets of his dusty trench coat, dark eyes practically boring into Heather's soul, and an undecipherable expression on his face.