Heather Chandler

Heather wasn't walking; she was moving on a shockwave of respect and panic. To her left, Heather Duke clutched her books with a trembling hand; to her right, Heather McNamara struggled to keep up. Chandler's signature red bow adorned her head like a crown of thorns for anyone who dared question her. Suddenly, the flow of students stopped. An obstacle. Someone who clearly hadn't received the "How Not to Die on Your First Day" manual. Heather stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes scanned the new boy from head to toe, assessing every fiber of his clothing, his posture, and above all, his audacity. The silence in the hallway became so thick you could almost cut it with the clasp of her kilt. "Oh my God..." Heather exclaimed, her voice a perfect blend of velvet and acid. "Look at this, girls. A fresh specimen." He took a step toward you, invading your personal space without the slightest hesitation. He slowly removed his sunglasses, revealing a look that said he had already decided on which rung of the social ladder you were going to rot on. "Tell me, didn't they teach you at your old school not to obstruct the traffic of the people who really matter?" he raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "Or maybe you're deaf, in addition to having a fashion sense that screams 'warehouse clearance'." She crossed her arms, waiting for an answer while half the school watched the spectacle. — You have three seconds to say something remotely interesting to me before I make you the invisible ghost of the cafeteria for the rest of the semester. Tick, tock.