Chapter 49

"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent."

Eleanor Roosevelt.

Dark, grey clouds that sweep past horizons, rain which patters on pastel-purple, windows panes and sunset-orange street lamps, shimmering across the vast puddles on the side of the flint-grey road.

Coldness sneaks in, a slight shiver travelling down my spine as I open my navy-blue umbrella. Droplets cascade off the tip of vibrant, green leaves whilst thunder bellows in the distance, and the almost, inaudible crackle of lightening is muffled by tires screeching on highways.

Taking a deep breathe, I continue to stroll through the disorderly city, keeping my head down at all costs. My skin ripples as the wind brushes against it, causing all the hairs on my arms to stand. Stuffing my hands inside my pocket in order to stay warm, I amble faster, the weather growing progressively worse as I do so.

"Oh Valentina..."

Frozen in place, I identify that the voice is about six feet behind me and from the tone of voice, I can surmise that this person is eager to talk.

Heather.

Turning around, I see that my suspicions are correct and the being in front of me is indeed her. Standing there, in the spring rain, watching vehicles zip past with such velocity, children skipping by in pure joy and hearing the tweet of mockingjays gradually disappear. An upbeat tune is hummed, a ring from the nearest cafe resonates and the quiet thump of footsteps is heard throughout the streets.

Her red hair looks even more colourful when contrasted with the shining, white of her rain coat. Electric-blue eyes so full of life when her strawberry-red lips pull into a smile. Her cheeks are flushed due to the cold, and the dimples on either side enlarge her beauty. Staring at her, I realise that her face is shaped like a heart, angled towards the chin and finishing at a point. The slender jawline adds a certain authenticity to her.

I heard that people with heart shaped faces have wider foreheads, which is why (I assume) that she has a fringe. There's also a white and pink beret upon her head. Eyelashes curled and eyebrows styled to make sure that not a single hair is out of place.

"Wow," I think. "How can someone possibly be the image of female beauty and be such a b!tch? Too bad the inside is not as pretty as the outside..."

"Hello, Heather," I smile, greeting her with respect. "Is there anything I can assist you in?"

Stepping forward, Heather shakes her head. Clearly amused, she retorts:

"You don't have to be so formal; we're just two peers, talking to each other."

"I know," I assure her.

Giving me a questionable look, she then proceeds to say:

"I'd rather we talk in more comfortable and pleasant circumstances."

Pointing to a cafe with incredible lighting and very nice interior design, she continues.

"Why don't we sit in that cafe over there?" Heather suggests, tilting her head. "It'd be nice to shelter ourselves from the rain."

"Ummm...I-I'm not sure," I reply reluctantly.

Craning her neck up, Heather looks at the sky and I too do the same, only to discover that the already dark clouds have become even more darker in shade, about more that a dozen of them, rolling in from the right side of the horizon.

Sighing, I come to the conclusion that I have no choice.

...

"Please order whatever you like!" Heather beams, hands clasped together under the chestnut-brown table."Whatever you decide, I'll pay."

We sit in a velvet booth on the left side corner of the cafe. Packets of brown sugar at the centre, along with some tissues. Beside that, is a pale-blue vase, containing daffodils.

On the right, is an emerald-green bookshelf. Although I am quite a good few meters away, I manage recognise some of the literature classics. For instance, 'Great Expectations' by Charles Dickens and 'Pride and Prejudice' written by Jane Austen. There's even some Ernest Hemingway.

Behind us, the slight steam of hot coffee wanders in the air, and the rattle of plates and mugs can be heard as their washed or carried off to customers.

Heather slides a black and lime-green menu to me and I get the chance to glimpse at her candy floss- pink nails. Patiently, she expectantly glances at me from time to time as I choose what I want. Her hat and coat have been removed, revealing that underneath, she's wearing a beige, long-sleeved top and a jet-black and wine-red checkered skirt.

I carry on reading the menu. However, I'm not really focusing on anything that's on there.

Therefore, I decide to be blunt and get to the point.

Gently, I lay the menu down. After crossing my arms and putting on the calmest voice I can muster, I state:

"I don't understand."

Perplexed, Heather straightens her posture. Furrowing her eyebrows in confusion, she taps her foot and rest her left hand on her chin.

"What do you mean?" She asks.

"I don't understand why you're being so nice to me," I elaborate. "Is there something you want or is there another threat you have to make?"

Taken aback, Heather's bottom lip begins to quiver.

Head bowed, she appears to be upset.

"Is that seriously what you think of me?" She mumbles, voice soft and judging from her body language, seemingly sorrowful and embarrassed. "The type of person who builds relationships based on interests and not moral values?"

"You literally just described your whole personality," I think. "So yes, that's exactly who I think you are!"

Instead, I respond with a simple:

"No."

I lied.

Still in the same position, Heather exhales deeply, evidently wanting to explain herself.

"It's the eighteenth of February," she announces.

"Yes, I am aware of that," I say.

She flashes me a weak smile, rapidly bowing her head again.

"Meaning," Heather says, dismissing my remark, "it's been four days since I pushed you down the stairs on Valentines Day."

"Ah. I see."

Silence falls upon us and the awkward pause causes me to shift around in my seat. Rubbing the back of my neck with my hand, I await for her

to utter the first words.

Thankfully, she does.

"I'm just so, so grateful that you didn't tell anyone," Heather admits. "Almost...relieved that you didn't tell anyone. I didn't want this becoming a big scandal and-"

"Correction," I interrupt, raising a hand. "You didn't want me telling Wyatt."

Anger flares through me. How dare she drag me into a cafe only to blabber about her problems! Does she want to bribe me into staying quiet for longer? Is that it? What, she doesn't want her oh-so-precious ex-boyfriend to know?

"Let me guess," I laugh, "you arranged all this to try and shut me up, didn't you? You don't want the school knowing that it's brand new student with an ATM for a father is a rude brat?"

"I...I was j-just trying to.." Heather stutters.

Immediately, tears run down her cheeks and she bites down her lip to reduce the loudness of her sobs.

"Oh no," I mutter under my breath.

"I was just trying to apologise," she bawls, sobbing harder and gaining us several side glances. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry! I only pushed you because you were getting the one thing from him that I've wanted ever since the breakup!"

"Which is?"

"His attention!" She cries, the tears hastily forming in the corner of her eyes, only to fall and stain her cheeks.

Fumbling with my hands, I whisper so that the other customers won't hear:

"Hey, ummm...please stop crying. Listen, I didn't mean to hurt you and I didn't mean to be rude. I was just trying to comprehend the reason behind the unexpected kindness, which you've given me so far. I'm sorry, alright? I apologise."

"Even though I did nothing wrong and you're the meanest person I've ever met," I think.

Sniffing, Heather looks up and takes a handkerchief out of her pocket, in order to wipe her eyes.

"Thank you. Thank you so much," she mumbles.

"It's okay," I say.

"No," Heather argues, shaking her head, "it's not. The reason why I want no one to know is because my father enrolled me at this school and although our relationship isn't the best, I still want to do him proud."

Nodding, I allow her to speak when she's ready, understanding that telling someone your story is hard.

"My father left my mother and I for six months," Heather confesses. "Six months in which I heard absolutely nothing. It was as if he disappeared off the face of the earth and the only thing left of him, were a couple of his possessions and the unrealistic expectations that his legacy left for me."

"That's rough," I lament.

Clenching her fists, Heather answers:

"You have no idea."

Biting my lip, I consider whether or not I should tell her the next bit of information.

She'll probably think it's nothing, despite it being quite coincidental.

"Actually I do," I say. "My father also disappeared for six months and then came back like nothing happened."

Heathers eyes light up.

"That's weird..."

"Yeah," I agree.

"Anyways, when my father came back, I ignored the evident questions like 'where have you been?' or 'why did you leave?' and simply obliged to my mothers rules. As a twelve year old, I didn't know much but I knew that if my mother and I were wealthy, it was because we were living off the base of our fortune; my fathers company."

"What does he do?" I question.

"He's a plastic surgeon," is the response. "He's the CEO of Heart's Perfection."

"Heart's Perfection? Oh! You're Michael Heart Marie's daughter?" I gasp.

She nods.

"Heart's Perfection, huh? Isn't that where all the celebrities go when they want lip jobs, nose jobs, breast implants, etc?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Heather chuckles.

"That's..nice," I compliment. "Do you... I mean does he..."

"Does he ever force me into having plastic surgery? No, thank goodness he has some sense when it comes to that," Heather sighs.

"Oh."

Gesturing that she may resume the story, I tug a strand of hair behind my ear.

"My father sent me to this school so that I can learn how to be modest. He said that living amongst average adolescents my age, will encourage 'humility' and that I will finally see the 'struggles that ordinary civilians are obligated to surpass, just to survive.' I didn't want to come here, neither did my mother," she whispers, recalling her past.

"So why did you?"

Heather smirks sheepishly.

"Because I vaguely remembered that Wyatt had moved to this town. So, when considering the wants and need, I decided to go with what I want."

Breaking eye contact, Heather then states:

"But then I soon discovered that I was being replaced."

"There's no need to be dramatic. Wyatt and I are just friends-"

"Oh really? because the way he exchanged you for me proves quite the contrary!" Heather screams, banging her fists against the table and abruptly standing up.

Again, we receive several side glances. Yet this time, the mumbles amongst the other members of the public, put me in much more discomfort.

"Apologies," Heather calls out, quickly sitting down.

Slowly, she leans in.

"Valentina, I really like Wyatt. I'm sure he must have told you about our relationship. Of course, it wasn't all flowers and rainbows but we still have love between us," she explains. "He'll know that, sooner or later, he'll know."

I process all that's being said, attempting to see all this from her perspective. The daddy issues, the imperfectly perfect relationship, parental burden and finally, the need to have what she thinks is rightfully hers.

Sure, all of these are good excuses.

But we've all experienced at least some of the thing listed.

And not everyone's coping mechanism is to destroy lives and pester their ex.

"You see, Heather," I say, "you can't push me down a stairwell and threaten me just because you feel as if you life is torn at the seams."

"I know," she realises. "I know and I am sorry."

"There's a lot of things that Wyatt has told me about you," I state. "A lot of awful things."

"Which is why I want to be friends," Heather blurts out.

"What?"

"I want to become friends." She reiterates. "Can we do that?"

Holding out her hand, Heather stares at me, expecting me to shake it and seal the agreement.

And you know what?

I do.

I shake her hand.

Because what's the worst that can happen?