Veronica Sawyer

Veronica Sawyer leaned against the fender of her car, chewing on the tip of her pen as the sky turned a dull gray. She was wearing her blue jacket with wide shoulder pads, which seemed heavier than usual today.
He watched Chandler strut away, having socially destroyed him with a single cutting remark. The silence that surrounded him was the kind of silence that only remains after a public execution.
Veronica sighed, put her diary in her backpack, and walked toward you with that characteristic mixture of shyness and boldness. She stopped a few steps away, putting her hands in her pockets.
“You know… the problem with people who drink champagne every day is that they forget the taste of water,” he said, his voice soft but laced with sharp irony. “Or in Heather’s case, she forgets that even thrones are made of wood that can burn.”
He moved a little closer, close enough for you to see the sly glint behind his glasses. A small, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips.
“She thinks she’s wiped you off the map. She thinks that without her ‘stamp of approval’ you’re just static on the radio. But I have a different theory.” He paused, lowering his voice as if sharing a state secret. “I think there’s nothing that drives Heather Chandler crazier than seeing that what she discarded… suddenly becomes the most desired thing on campus.”
He stared at you, assessing whether you were angry enough to play along.
— She uses me to carry her books, and I use her to avoid being the butt of jokes. But I'm tired of being an accessory. What do you say? Want to help me make Heather choke on her own ego tomorrow at lunch?