BWW Blog: Hey, Yo, Westerberg! Meet The HEATHERS!

Dear Westerberg:

A final farewell from the class of 1990. Gone, but not forgotten.

HEATHER CHANDLER--Class of 1990
~Rest in Peace~

Dear Westerberg:

While some find it challenging (or, let's face it: impossible) to be the best--and I mean the very best--perfection has never been a problem for me. Some people are natural leaders. Don't even think about looking to your pathetic football team for social guidance; Ram and Kurt have nothing on my impeccable powers of "gentle" persuasion. Also, Ram is gross. Like, really gross. And don't be fooled by Veronica Sawyer's sensitive-girl-turned-savior routine. She may think she can run this place, but she will be eaten alive. It's actually sort of cute. I can't wait for the carnage. It'll be so very.

Here's something you should know about me: I. Run. This. Shit. And people know it. And they love it. I just wish there were some real men here, instead of these boys. Like Brad Pitt. He and I would make a great pair. And it's not like he'd say no to me. Get crucial. I'm the complete package. And in ten years I'll be even better. These losers who are peaking in high school can bite me. I'm peaking now, and I'll peak again at 20. Then at 30. Then at 40, 50, and probably twice at 60.

You may have met my minions, the other Heathers. They're a little confused about their role in my gnarly power trio, but let me make this clear. I am the brains. I am the beauty. They are nothing but back-up Supremes to my Diana Ross. I'm continually having to shut them up, which is so exhausting. You'd think they'd have figured out the pecking order by now. I control the shit here at this Ohio cesspit they call a school. Every now and then there's a teacher or new kid who thinks they have a chance to best me. They don't. And it pisses me off that they even try. Word of advice, Sweetie? Don't fuck with Heather.

That means you, Veronica. And your psycho little boy-toy, too.

Heather Duke--Class of 1990

Dear Westerberg:

Thanks for nothing. I'm glad this school year is almost over so I can put all this ugly drama behind me and move to Los Angeles where I truly belong. No more Ms. Fleming lurking in the bathroom (seriously, doesn't she have classes to teach?) and no more dodging gross, sad people in the halls. Ever since Heather and Ram and Kurt died, things haven't been the same--this high school really is a death trap. That's a proven fact. But we don't all have to live like we have targets on our back. Seriously--you're not dead yet: so stop living as if you are!

I'm looking forward to one thing before I can leave this nuclear waste dump forever: Prom. I've heard we're having some dumb boat theme, but I'll change that. Hollywood Glamour. That's what I'd go with. Then I can wear the tightest, hottest dress imaginable, and everyone will finally recognize that I've always been the pretty one. Heather's gone, I have the red scrunchie, the school is mine. Heather and Veronica may have written me off temporarily, but who cares? The rest of the football team is still alive, and the young republicans at least understand the value of having nice things, so it's not like there's no one to hang out with. After graduation I'll have an awesome summer of tanning and relaxing in preparation for my career in television media. Maybe as a weathergirl. Maybe as reporter. Maybe as an LA Kings ice dancer. Really, the possibilities are endless. I'm overflowing with talent, so lick it up, Baby. Lick. It. Up.

Heather Macnamera--Class of 1990

Dear Westerberg:

High school has been ... confusing. I mean, you know, fun and all, but there are things that I just don't get. For instance, Martha Dumptruck. She wears weird clothes and is always happy. Nobody should be that happy all the time. I'm not that happy, and I'm a cheerleader!

Sometimes I have dreams that I'm smothering Heather. Then I wake up and realize it's me that I'm smothering. That scares me but also makes me wonder if maybe Heather's ghost is haunting me? I don't know what I'd do with like, my future with Heather's ghost in my head telling me to shut up all the time. I mean, being a Mary Kay saleswoman is hard enough without dead friends popping up and making you smother yourself with your own pillow.

I'm sad about Heather's death. I mean, she was our best friend, right? But you're supposed to be able to tell your best friend everything, and I couldn't tell Heather anything. I mean, I always thought that if she and Heather weren't at school then I'd just go home sick, but now that Heather is gone and Heather is taking over, I'm not sure what to do. Just go home and watch videos, I guess. I like Dirty Dancing. And Footloose. I like it when the guys dance out their feelings...I wish I could do that.

I also wish I could wear purple. Is that so wrong? Just because there isn't a purple croquet ball, I should still be able to wear it! I had to start wearing yellow because my shoes didn't match my purse Freshman year and Heather said I had to stick to the uniform, or get out, and she said that yellow balanced our color scheme better and was more applicable to all seasons, you know, for continuity, but I had this really great purple lipstick that Heather stole and I'll never get it back because it's discontinued, and she's dead. And that makes me re-evaluate how I feel about love and loss.

At least high school isn't that bad with Heather gone. Yesterday I saw Duckie looking at me from across the quad, and I liked that--even though he's a dweeb. Although, now that the jocks are gone, maybe I'll have to start dating different types of people. Prom is coming up, and I guess I'll need a date... I don't know what the theme is, but I voted for "Dancing at Sea." My dad knows someone with a yacht.

Veronica Sawyer--Class of 1990

Dear Westerberg:

As we take our next steps into the bleak morass of sameness that everyone refers to as "adulthood," I'll take the opportunity to remind you all that nothing changes when we leave high school, except you're going to have to give up the bullshit personas you've been hiding behind since first grade. Martha? You're amazing. Don't let anyone make you feel otherwise. Kurt Kelly? I know you're dead, but if you weren't I'd tell you that you're an idiot. But the worst kind of idiot. The kind of idiot who can help it, and could be smart enough to know better.

I'm like most high school girls on the cusp of college; I like Blue Velvet, but I'm not above watching 21 Jump Street on mute just to see Johnny Depp do that smolder thing he does so well. I relish the notion that in ten years I'll be writing the next great American novel, probably a sarcastic-yet-beautiful farce that details growing up in the suburban hell known as Sherwood, Ohio. No more being left in the parking lot at 7-11 by my bitch friends. No more waiting for the rest of the class to catch up when I've already read the book we're studying in English. And hopefully no more recurring dreams where I'm in the car with the Heathers and things are going fine, but then the brakes fail and there's nowhere to go but flaming out in Thelma-and-Louise-style fireworks, down into the abyss. I better get my brakes checked, just to be sure.

Some people say that high school is the best time of your life. I say, "a witty saying proves nothing." High school is only the best when you're at the top of the food chain, and even then, your position is tenuous. You still have to contend with gym shorts, hallway gossip, "Meatloaf Mondays," bullies, assholes, and the school budget getting handed over to the football team. Not to mention the inflated importance of prom. I'd prefer a tasteful evening of finery, like "Midnight in Paris, 1790s style." Instead, the rumor is we're doing "Dancing at sea" on someone's yacht. Except we live in Ohio, so I'm not really sure where they think they're going to get an ocean. At least I no longer have to be on clean-up crew. Martha and I did that one year after homecoming. Never again, Westerberg. Never again.

HEATHERS: The Musical runs for one more weekend at Center Stage!
November 12-15. Get tickets now; we're selling out!

Heathers: The Musical
Produced by Out of the Box Theatre Co.

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