Heathers Oneshots!

[MCNAMAWYER.] hotlines.

Mentions of mental illness and possible suicidal thoughts.

Heather eyed the crumpled flyer in her hand as she dialed the number. The colors are only black and white, but still manage to be streamed and spotty from that stupid printer in the teacher lounge.

"Westerburg Teenage Help Hotline!" was spiraled at the top and the cheerleader ignored the feeling of vulnerability in her gut. This was stupid. She felt stupid. It was the end of junior year, her reputation racked up by now.

Most popular 'clique' in school. Heather, Heather, and Heather. She shouldn't be caught dead dialing this. Her blue eyes nervously swept to her locked bedroom door, though she shouldn't be worried. Her Dad wouldn't be back for hours.

With a pathetic whimper she sunk against the headrest, holding the cellphone to her ear. Fucking stupid. Calling some 'help hotline' put on by student council for mental health awareness month. Student council. Kids with strained ties and braces. People she'd snicker at towards lunch. It felt like dialing a number could bump her down a dozen pegs in a mere second.

The receiver crackled and McNamara clutched her white pillow on the bed, forgetting to breathe.

"Hello! I'm Veronica, this is the student help hotline. What's up?"

Heather stiffened. The voice isn't familiar. Neither is the name. Some random student. Not enough to affect her or be relevant enough for a Heather to know her name.

Veronica didn't speak for a moment, obviously awaiting a reply. The cheerleader's words suddenly felt lodged in her throat.

"This—this is anonymous, right?" She murmured quietly into the receiver. Her knees drew to her chest, body a bundle of nerves. She felt like she had been being watched.

"Mhm," came the fabricated response. "Totally anonymous. I promise." The words were so oddly stern it almost makes the clique member shiver. She was uncomfortable. "We only tell the police if you're in like, danger danger, ya' know?" Veronica seemed to convey a shrug over the line.

"Right." Heather croaked. "I— " she huffed, squirming in place. "I don't-don't really know how this thing works." She admitted, time rushed and anxious.

"Oh." Veronica seemed to understand and Mac can't help but wonder if she'd heard it before. How many had called? Had any? She didn't know which answer she preferred. No one calling just isolated this awful feeling more. As if whatever had been picking at her mind for the last two months was a personal problem no one else had to deal with. Like she was some weak link, a broken puzzle piece. Her nails dug into the pillows fabric.

If others had called it almost made her more scared. Others meant the fabricated faces she saw in the halls had stories sealed underneath. It made her ill. She knew her smiles were more statue like than genuine, but the fact someone else could be doing that made her wince.

"That's okay." The girl on the other end replied. Her tone was quieter. Patient. Heather frowned. It sounded like Veronica was talking to her like a child. This didn't help validate anything. "Just—tell me your name and maybe start with how your feeling."

The girl's freckled nose crinkled up. It sounded like a cliche therapy session. Like the ones she used to have after her Mom left Sherwood in the eighth grade.

And how does that make you feel?

She'd never gave solid answers. Like as if her Mom packing up and leaving was just another part of the schedule. She'd begged her father to drop the sessions before summer began. She'd be murdered if Heather and Heather found out. She'd be a weird laughing stalk. Like those girls who sit in the back of the caf' and cry about how their boyfriend's broke up with them.