Modern Heathers

Chapter Two: Beautiful

I quickly began eating my lunch: a sloppy joe, some potato chips, and a bottle of lemonade. A tiny amount of shitty food that I paid way too much for. But either I eat it or I starve so it isn't like I had much of an option.

Scooping up the green plastic tray, I was about to throw out my trash and return in to the counter when a fist punched it out of my hands. Kurt Kelly. Quarterback. Dickhead.

"Fuck you," I mumbled as I reached down to pick up my stuff.

"What did you say?" He snarled, grabbing my sleeve.

I struggled to get out of his grip. "Nothing!"

He narrowed his beady eyes. "That's what I thought."

Didn't know you could think.

Kurt shuffled by me to harass his next victim.

The hour was only half over. So I dumped my stuff and stood awkwardly by the trash cans. Like a fucking loser. But I mean, I guess that's what I am. A loser.

Several thoughts hit at once and I quickly pulled my diary out.

Dear Diary,
I believe that life can be beautiful, and good, and happy. So why isn't it like that? Why am I always a complete nobody? I think the last time anyone "popular" spoke to me was in kindergarten.

Why can't we go back to that? We changed then, so I don't see why we can't change now.

Life sucks.

It doesn't have to, I don't think. But it doesn't. Life can be beautiful. It just isn't today. But maybe that will change tomorrow, or the next day. I hope it does. I pray it does.

The three Heathers walked past me, their footsteps in unison.

Heather Macnamara. Her blond curls were pulled back in a tight braid, her jean jacket embroidered with a golden H. Underneath was a simple black tee shirt and a pleated yellow skirt that fell just above her knees. Her outfit wasn't all that impressive; I could get something similar at a thrift store. But I knew it was in the most expensive brands you could find in Sherwood, Ohio. Her dad sold engagement rings.

Heather Duke. As far as I could tell, the ginger had no real personality. I'd never seen her without the other two, and the only extra curricular I could remember her doing was running the school yearbook in sophomore year. Her reddish orange hair was beautiful, in my opinion, and I knew that she naturally had freckles, but she always covered them in makeup. Other than the heavy concealer, though, her makeup was very natural, in contrast to Chandler's red lipstick and dark smoky eyes. Her black skirt was as dark as her eyes and probably almost as dark as her heartless soul. In fact, she was dressed almost entirely in black except for the green half jacket she wore over her tank top.

And Chandler. The almighty.

She was a mythic bitch.

I couldn't understand why no one ever bothered them, harassed them, but I'd have to deal with it. Was it because they were beautiful? Because that honestly would explain a lot. My black hair frizzed around my ears, my dirty grey sneakers, my faded blue jeans. A cheap, plain tee shirt that I got at Walmart.

I wish I could be like them.

Not personality wise, I can't stand them. But popular, being accepted. Being admired. That's what I wanted.