Heathers Oneshots!

[CHANDLMARA] cherry.

It's was honestly a mystery on how Heather Chandler always managed to taste like cherries. It's a cliche thing to state, but Mac had noticed it during that game of spin the bottle freshmen year from a quick, startled peck on the lips.

She had noticed it a few months later in the back of Duke's jeep when it had been too late to focus on what was going on until McNamara was already leaning in.

Or when they finally stopped stepping on eggshells and finally asked one another to that dance sophomore year. And Heather—the red one—had been so overwhelmed that she had practically yanked the poor cheerleader's arm out of it's socket in the process of dragging her up to meet her lips, once again—red.

During dates at that dumb drive-in on the outskirts of Sherwood that half of the student body went to on Saturday nights.

When they both rolled over at sleepovers and they were positive Duke was asleep. When McNamara was pulled forward by the collar of her yellow nightgown in the dark and the only thing she could get out was small gasping breaths in-between kisses. Then there was a hand trailing up the side of her nightgown and—oh. Okay.

It's movie nights before senior year roars it's ugly head.

"To stupid teenage first loves," McNamara had grinned.

"Cheesy as ever, honeybee. Shut up and kiss me."

McNamara always complied.

The smaller girl managed to snag one between the dancing at Ram Sweeney's homecoming party. Heather Chandler was laced with alcohol—yet, the stupid taste of cherries always lingered. They had both smiled.

Who knew that would be the last time?

McNamara didn't taste cherry the next morning when her phone rings. She didn't pick it up because she was late for cheer practice, but when she gets there everyone is staring at the floor.

"What?" the head of the squad had awkwardly commented, shuffling over. "Who died?" she joked. She joked.

The whole team winced.

"You. . .didn't hear?"

"Didn't hear what?" Heather McNamara's pace slowed.

The team opened their mouths—yet, no sound came out.

Someone spoke up. An unknown voice, random teen on the team. It doesn't even matter who it belonged to.

"Heather Chandlers' dead."

Weeks later when McNamara shoves a handful of white pills down her throat, she tasted a lot of things. It tasted like powder. Horrible, horrible—like chalk dust. It's so bad she almost gaged. Almost. She'd locked herself in a stall and when Veronica yelled at her to open the door. Open. Open. Open—she couldn't.

She tasted blood, which ironically enough, was red. How ironic.

Yes red.

The last thing Heather McNamara tasted was red.

But, it wasn't cherries.