Heather Chandler knew she was going to die.

She took credit for leading Westerburg High through its supernatural phase, even if she wasn't personally conducting seances or shuffling tarot cards. She designed push poll questions along the lines of, 'You die and come back as a ghost, then you discover a massive fortune in buried treasure. Then you find out that the apocalypse is coming in three days. What do you do with the money?'

Heather McNamara claimed to see ghosts and apport objects with her hands and legs tied to tables. Heather Duke carried out tarot readings in an acid-green lame (it was both lamé and lame, how convenient was that?) cloak she'd bought at some filthy little thrift store. Veronica played the role of the sceptic, so those who didn't believe also had someone to follow. Veronica was always bright, perhaps a little too bright for her own good. Heather Chandler liked her, even as she knew she had to regularly freeze incipient signs of rebellion in the bud. Veronica needed to know her place.

It was another tedious lunch hour in the caf. Veronica left early to the library over a dumb French assignment. The lunch poll was over and Heather McNamara and Heather Duke were setting up their acts. Heather Chandler closed her eyes for a moment, like a lizard sunning herself in the warm glare of popularity. Some nerd turned off the lights, leaving only the seven black wax candles glimmering around Heather Duke, glinting on the painted cards she constantly shuffled from hand to hand.

Heather McNamara did her usual sighs and moans, while tied to the lunch table with Ram's shoelaces. She told Country Club Courtney that her dead darling pooch - a horrible fat terrier that always nipped at visitors' heels, and died of a well deserved heart attack - was happy in the afterlife and wished her well. Some clouds of glowing ectoplasm drifted effectively along the table. Heather Chandler had happened to see fake hands, muslin sheets, luminous paint, and string in Heather McNamara's locker at different times, and so took no alarm. Heather channelled some poor Nigerian chieftain with a ridiculous mangled name and encouraged Peter to send charity donations to turkey farms so Africans could have a good Thanksgiving.

The lights came back on. People started to dribble out. Heather Chandler gave a smile here, a frown there, a subtle needle and push over there. You had to give the little people at least some access if you expected to rule; be surprisingly gracious where they didn't expect it, and give sudden sharp orders to those who were a little too pleased with themselves.

The Heathers were practically the only people left in the caf when Heather McNamara turned to Heather Chandler, looking pop-eyed as if she were still channelling some ghost.

"You will die this Saturday," Heather said. Her voice sounded low and raspy, like she was speaking through a mouthful of pins. "I see a dark man coming from far away. I see your best friend. Not Heather or Heather. Blue and black are the colors of your death. She and the dark man will kill you together, and everyone will rejoice at your funeral."

"The hell?" Heather Chandler said. It was a weak and lame line, not worthy of her. But Heather McNamara was already halfway across the room, on her way to gym class. "Heather, did you hear what Heather said?"

"Sorry, Heather." Heather Duke sounded confused. "I didn't hear anything ... ?"

"Bag it, Heather." Heather Chandler grabbed one of the tarot cards and flipped it over. She saw a skeleton in a black robe. "Fuck." No way, no day; this was some stupid prank by Heather and Heather. She grabbed a second card. It was also a skeleton in a black robe. "Tell Heather this is very hilarious, Heather. I thought you and Veronica were best bulimia buddies, she's the only one willing to shove her fingers down your throat, it's funny you would say this retarded crap about her. I don't believe a word of your shit."

"I don't get it, Heather," Heather Duke said in her usual beaten-puppy whisper. She was such a pathetic pillowcase it was almost no fun to put her down any more. Her hands stumbled over her cards and they fell down to the table in a tangled mess. Heather Chandler snatched a third card to turn over.

Also a matching skeleton in a black robe. Heather Chandler laid it out with the others she'd drawn.

Heather Duke's chair scraped backwards. The squeak was sudden and the shocked expression on her face looked almost genuine, baby-pink lips open and cow-like eyes wide. "Heather, I only have one Death in the pack. Where did those come from?"

Heather Chandler drew again. And again. She didn't get anything else but Death. Heather Duke snatched the cards back from her and paged through them frantically. As Heather looked over Duke's shoulder, she saw empresses and priestesses and lovers and knights, most of them cards she'd want to draw. Hell, she'd even take the gap-mouthed Fool above her pick. But she plucked again, and somehow the card in her hand was always Death.

"I told you my powers were real, unlike Heather's," Heather Duke said, growing the tiniest bit of a smirk on her face, and took her cards out with her to head to class.

For once, Heather Chandler let her go without a word. She sat in the caf and skipped class for the rest of the afternoon, thinking about how Veronica would murder her on Saturday.