It was September 9th, 1989. Heather was adjusting her signature red scrunchie adorned on her head in the little mirror in her locker. She was only 9 days into her senior year and was already over it. Suddenly, she noticed Heather coming towards her with a little shopping bag in her hand. “Here you go.” Heather says as she hands Heather the bag before walking off with Heather. Heather opened the bag and pulled out two bright blue hair bows. “Perfect.”
Heather walked over to where Veronica was talking to Ms. Fleming, presumably about her grades or some extra credit. That girl was such a nerd. Why anyone would anyone want to do extra work was beyond Heather. She broke from her thoughts and strutted toward Veronica as Ms. Fleming walked off. She abruptly dismissed Veronica’s greeting and stuck out the shopping bag in front of her. “Here are your hair accents. You’re not ready for scrunchie status yet, so you’ll be wearing these from now on.” Heather swung the bag back and forth waiting for Veronica to grab it. Veronica, confused, took the bag and opened it. She pulled out the two bows and displayed a look of annoyance, disgust, and confusion. Heather smiled mockingly.
✮⋆˙ @redscrunchies-and-cornnuts ✮⋆˙
Ronnie’s pride and ambition of being apart of the goddamn Heathers faded as quickly as it came by the end of her first week of being a Heather. The thought of being on top of the Westerberg Social Class, the thought of people finally leaving her alone were all just some fantasy.
In reality, she found herself in a tight blue blazer (that was definitely fitted for another Heather) and a skirt she felt the length could have been a bit longer. The longer skirts, the jackets covering her figure; they were just more comfortable. Now, having to be Sherwood’s version of Seventeen Magazine, the image was harder to maintain.
She’s heard she had a new name: fresh meat.
Ronnie was simply asking for the syllabus, holding onto her last bit of sanity and dignity of her intellectual ability before that’s washed away by lip-gloss and how to dress and her life being taken over. The classic, almost rhythmic click of Heather Chandler’s heels was easily identifiable. Having to suck up to this bitch was hell on earth.
Ronnie turned on her heels, immediately being cut off by a bag in front of her face. Gee, trying to be nice to these assholes was like talking to a wall. Her demeanor deflated when she saw the bows. Not one two. Pigtails? Was this some joke? It was almost as if this bitch saw her as a child! The still loser girl, a newbie. What the hell was a scrunchie status?! Did they see her as Martha?!
No, that isn’t bad. In Ronnie’s eyes, at least. Martha was a sweet girl. That didn’t matter in high school…ugh! Just shut up!
Dark brown eyes met Heather’s lighter brown, Ronnie’s eyes flickering up to the damned red scrunchie sitting atop of beautiful blonde curls, before flickering back to Heather. Her lips became tight, scoffing. This bitch was basically saying she would forever be a newbie. Goddamn, this sucked.
“Gee, Heather,” she finally scoffed. She cleared her throat, trying to seem a bit pleased despite the growing disgust on her face. Blue ribbons, just like first place awards. She is an award. A trophy! Isn’t that what every teenage girl wants: being treated like a shiny trophy for diversity purposes by Satan’s youngest daughters sent from hell?
“Thanks, Heather. I will be forever grateful to never be scrunchie status.” Her tone was anything but grateful, her tone becoming a bit of mocking babyish. If that’s how she will be treated, she’ll just do it back!
