by Micol Ostow
Val looked at me. “Archie,” she pointed out, “if FP Jones is working for your father, then why isn’t he, you know … working for your father?”
“I …” I didn’t know what to say. The conversation that Dad and I’d had at lunch came back to me like a voiceover in a cheesy movie—he was glad I’d be staying at Jughead’s because … but he never said why.
He never said why because he didn’t want to admit it—what happened, really, between him and FP. He didn’t want to admit that FP didn’t get clean, didn’t pull away from the Serpents the way he’d had Jughead believe.
“I’m an idiot,” I said, the weight of it hitting me like a body blow.
Val put a hand on my arm. Her skin was surprisingly soft. “You’re not an idiot. You just prefer to give people the benefit of the doubt. Honestly, it’s a good thing. And it’s in rare supply these days.”
I was startled by how nice she was being, the kind things she was saying to me, about me. Everyone knows the Pussycats are fierce and talented and gorgeous as hell, but I’d never really taken a beat to notice Val.
But now, I couldn’t help it. She was right there. And it was … nice.
“Does Jug know about his dad, do you think?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I doubt it.” And I did doubt it—but I couldn’t be sure. Because we didn’t hang out anymore. Because of Geraldine.
And that was what it all came down to, wasn’t it? Geraldine. Here was Val. There was FP. And Jughead was around, somewhere, and he could probably use a friend. But I had … plans. And no matter how much I liked to think of myself as the good guy, those plans were my priority.
Val’s phone buzzed again, breaking the momentary spell between us. She flicked her gaze at it, then sighed. “Reggie Mantle is nothing if not persistent,” she grumbled.
I thought of Reggie’s texts from earlier in the day. “That’s an understatement.” I laughed.
“He wants us to play some gig in New York City,” she said. “Tomorrow. Like, after our set at Town Hall.”
“What? That’s amazing!” I couldn’t help it—I reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders. “You have to do it! The City—that’s the dream!”
“I know, right? But I’m not sure it’s Josie’s dream is the thing.” She shrugged. “Daddy issues.”
Josie’s dad was a famous jazz musician who dominated the downtown music scene in New York by his own right. You’d think that would make Josie more eager to prove herself there.
But there was FP, lying to Jughead about how he was spending his days. And my father, keeping the truth of his partnership with FP a secret. We all have our parent issues, I guess. Nobody knows what’s going on with anyone else, truly. I was in no position to comment on Josie’s decisions.
I took Val by the wrist and looked her in the eyes. “Well,” I said, “I hope it works out for you. But, you know, you guys are crazy talented. This won’t be your only shot.”
She blinked. Her eyelashes were full like an anime character’s. “Thanks, Andrews. That’s sweet of you to say. I hope you come to the show tomorrow.”
“Of course,” I said automatically. Then I remembered my plans with Geraldine. I didn’t actually know how long our date would go on. I only knew that I’d never be the one to cut it short. “I’ll definitely try.”
I’ll try. It was looking to be my new mantra. But was it enough?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: Old acquaintance
Hello Fred,
I suppose it’s a cliché to say, “Long time, no see,” but what do you say, instead, when that happens to be the truth? In any case, I hope you’re well, and that you’re happy enough to hear from me despite our … well, our rocky past.
I wish I could say this was just a friendly check-in—I can just hear you now, going on about how there’s always an ulterior motive with a Lodge. And in this case, unfortunately, it’s the truth. You see, I may be back in town again, and soon. Very soon, if the whisperings here among the Manhattan elite are to be believed. (There are always whisperings; it’s the veracity of the rumors that needs cautious scrutiny.)
It’s Hiram, just as you always suspected it would be. I suppose he wasn’t always as careful as he claimed he was being. And yes, you can say, “I told you so,” if you promise not to gloat too badly.
Needless to say, he’ll probably be going away for a time. I probably don’t need to say more than that, do I? In which case there’s a good chance I’ll find myself back in my old stomping grounds—our old stomping grounds. Riverdale. I’m sure you have some thoughts about that.
There are a lot of things I could tell you I’ll need: a job, a source of income, some kids my daughter’s age to show her the ropes at Riverdale High. (Although, if I’m being honest, she’ll probably be running the school in a week, who am I kidding?) And I guess I am, however obliquely, asking for those things now.
But most of all, what I’d love—even if I don’t, truly, deserve it—is your friendship. I’m hoping that after all this time, after everything that’s happened …
Well, I’m really hoping that it’s not too much to ask.
With love,
Hermione
[Delete]
BETTY
Dear Diary:
Finally, finally, Cleo and Rebecca went home for the evening. I always thought 5 p.m. was the end of a business day. But the news cycle on a blog never really stops, so believe it or not, that was pretty early for them. Rebecca must’ve thought I was crazy for sticking around, or maybe they both thought I was sucking up, trying to prove a point.
“It’s a holiday, Betty,” Rebecca said, like she hadn’t just spent the whole afternoon posting articles on nail polish trends and the latest in home décor, as if it were any other day of the week. “And when I said I was going to forget about the closet thing and give you another chance, I meant it. You don’t have to stay all night to prove something to me.”
“Thanks,” I said, feeling a weird mix of gratitude that she was being cool, and fury at having been set up in the first place.
“What, don’t you have somewhere to be?” Cleo asked in a faux-concerned tone. Like she was sure that I didn’t and wanted to be certain that Rebecca knew it, too. Poor lame, sad, un-hip Betty from Podunk little Riverdale, and with no cool LA friends to speak of.
She had to be the one who framed me. No question. But it was okay now. Because I was going to prove it.
I shot Cleo a smug little smile. “I have dinner plans,” I told them, “but my date is finishing some stuff up of his own. He’ll be here soon. It’s no big. You guys go. I’ll lock up.” Cleo probably thought I was making my date up. Again: I didn’t care.
“Thanks, Betty. Sorry that Lodge girl was so hard to track down. I really appreciate the write-up you prepped.” At least I finally did seem to be on Rebecca’s good side, in spite of the day’s drama.
“Of course. Anytime.” I gave them both a wave. “Have a great holiday!”
“You too,” Rebecca said, while Cleo gave a more noncommittal murmur, hot on her Charlotte Olympia platform heels. (See? LA Betty WAS picking some things up.)
I set a timer on my phone when they left to count down a full ten minutes. I figured that was a safe enough buffer. As the numbers ticked down, I paced the space, randomly stopping to straighten a book on a color-coded shelf, or fan out a magazine display more neatly.
I counted the number of green apples in the kitchen fruit bowl (six), and the number of red (three), then spent a few minutes wondering if that was the typical ratio we kept on hand, or if people just preferred red to green. Then I spent a few minutes wondering why I was wasting my time wondering about that.
When my phone timer finally chirped, it was like a bomb going off in my stomach. And I mean that in a good way, believe it or not. I jumped, and shut the alarm off so that it was quiet and still in the office again. All I could hear was the sound of my own bre
athing.
All those years reading Nancy Drew stories like they were textbooks—it wasn’t for nothing. Yeah, I didn’t get the chance to break into Cleo’s phone. She guards that tighter than most people hold their Social Security numbers. But when I was snapping pictures of her desk earlier, I’d managed to catch one thing, almost unintentionally …
Her employee pass.
At the time, it seemed borderline useless. Great, what was I going to do, log her in and out of the building? That would be helpful if I were trying to frame her for something, but (for now, at least) that wasn’t the plan.
It wasn’t until I was at my desk a half hour or so later that it dawned on me. Another, better use for the pass.
“Make sure you log off before you leave,” Rebecca told me, watching as I pecked away in vain at this non-story about Veronica Lodge. “Otherwise you won’t be able to log on remotely and finish the article later, if it comes to that.”
“Yep.” I said it absentmindedly, on autopilot, still fixated on how to pull a compelling profile out of absolute thin air. But then the full impact of her words hit me:
Our office was mostly made up of freelancers, temps, and interns—transients who didn’t have dedicated space in the office. Unlike Rebecca, who, of course, had her own office, we were relegated to playing musical chairs at the numerous “floater” desks scattered throughout the bullpen. That meant that in order to ensure the security of our data, we each had to log into a computer specifically if we wanted to use it.
And our login code was printed on our employee pass.
I had Cleo’s employee pass, ergo, I had access to her whole online history at Hello Giggles.
Respectful? Not so much. But turnabout is fair play.
I checked my phone: 5:20 p.m. Brad would be here soon. But I could work quickly. A few keystrokes was all it took to get into Cleo’s system. HELLO, her screen welcomed me.
(It was the warmest greeting I’d received since starting at Hello Giggles, now that I thought about it. How lame was that?)
Her files were a mess—a jumble of story ideas and half-baked pitches that I knew from being at the editorial meetings she’d never even bothered to bring up. The desktop painted a different picture than the sleek, composed girl I imagined her to be. This Cleo was a frustrated wannabe writer, stuck behind the reception desk the same way I was stuck in filing.
In truth, in another universe, we should have been friends. We could’ve been allies for each other. But some people aren’t built that way. If this were a reality show, Cleo’d be the one saying she didn’t come here to make friends.
Which was fine. She hadn’t. Too bad for her.
If her document files told me she was a frustrated writer, her emails told me she was a social-climbing striver who just couldn’t get a foothold. So many back and forths with Rebecca about an upcoming event for … Toni Morrison!
Cleo had good ideas for the event: She knew a caterer who’d give a fair price, she communicated with the event space and was super professional with Toni Morrison’s publisher and her publicist. I hated to admit it, but she was handling all the organization like a pro.
(I mean, I really hated to admit it. It felt like this gig should have been mine to lose.)
But then, buried ten emails deep in a multiperson, upper-staff thread, I saw it:
betty cooper to be assigned as ms. morrison’s on-site handler?
Written by Rebecca herself. I blinked and read the sentence three more times—once out loud, for good measure.
It turns out, Rebecca had taken note of me, somehow, even if she hadn’t made it known before today. She’d seen how interested I was in the editorial process—AND she’d noticed that I almost always had a Toni Morrison novel tucked under one arm.
Score one for the Pollyanna girl next door from Podunkville, I thought, satisfied.
Well, now I knew why Cleo was so resentful of me. Too bad for her. In a certain way, I pitied her (but not that much, given how she’d been so nasty to me all day for something I had nothing at all to do with in the first place. I’m Betty Cooper, Nice Girl Next Door, not Betty Cooper, Effing Saint.). Cleo was gross, sure, but it was hard to stay too mad at her when I suddenly knew I’d be getting my biggest break yet—and a chance to work with my literary idol!
I logged out of Cleo’s system and broke out my phone to text Polly. I knew she’d be thrilled for me. But before I could get the words out, the front door buzzed. Brad was here. Through the glass-paned door, I could see he was holding a bouquet of peonies, my favorite. At the sight of him, I broke into a face-splitting smile. LA Betty was killing it today.
I guessed Polly could wait just a few minutes more.
I let Brad in and impulsively pulled him in for a monster hug, still a little dizzy from the Toni Morrison reveal. He didn’t protest, but he did pull back after a minute, laughing. “Having a good day?” he asked.
“Having the best day,” I assured him. I amended that. “Well, not the best day. There were moments. But all’s well that ends well. And it’s all ending pretty darn well.” I gave him an appreciative once-over.
“I like the sound of that,” he said. “So, what’s going on?”
I grabbed him by the wrist and led him to the desk I’d been working at all day. “Well, you know I’ve been dying to do some actual writing.”
“I do know that. But not literally dying.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You don’t need to correct a writer about the proper use of ‘literal’ and ‘figurative.’ ”
“You were using the word ‘literally’ figuratively,” he quipped, and he gave such a dopey grin that I laughed and kissed him. “Good Day Betty is fun,” he said, kissing me back.
“Fine, whatever. Anyway, randomly, today I found Rebecca going over some home décor samples, and after talking for a little bit, she offered me a chance to do a write-up about it.”
“Temporary wallpaper?” he guessed.
“Sort of. Also? You’re so LA that you would even know that.”
“I take that as a compliment. Anyway, show me the piece.”
“No! I mean, I will—I can, but the point is: Who even cares about a silly blurb about home trends? Because the thing is, after I wrote that up, she assigned me something bigger—an actual profile.”
“Wow! Who?”
I made a face. “Some random NYC socialite named Veronica Lodge. Honestly, I’d never even heard of her.”
His eyebrows raised. “Veronica Lodge? Isn’t she, like, best friends with Zendaya or something? Weren’t they scuba diving in Tulum together over spring break?”
I gave him a look. “Again: so LA. But I’ll admit, I’m glad the name means something to you. I mean, it’s just a fluff piece, gossip, but—”
“But it’s exactly the sort of fluffy gossip that people read,” he finished.
“Exactly!”
“So can I see it?”
“Yes. But you have to promise to be nice.”
“When am I ever not nice?” he pointed out.
“True.” I bit my lip. “I’m just nervous because, well … in addition to this being my first big piece, it’s been a hard one. She’s impossible to track down. So I basically had to piece it together from scraps.”
“I’m sure your scraps are amazing,” he said, pulling up a chair and settling in front of the monitor. “Now: less talk-y, more read-y.”
“Eek.” I shivered. “Okay.” I logged into the system and found my way into the database where the filed articles lived. Tap, tap, tap.
My stomach dropped. My heart sank. My throat went dry.
“Which one is it, Betty?” Brad asked, confused but perky.
Blood rushed in my ears like crashing waves.
“Betty?” Brad asked again, less certain now.
My voice was low and tight: pure, controlled rage. “It’s not there,” I said. I clenched my hands into fists, ignoring the pain of the broken skin of my palms.
Brad sat up straighter in his ch
air. “No, that’s nuts. Of course it’s there. Where would it have gone?”
I closed my eyes. “It was deleted.”
“What? Why? By who?” Brad leaned in so close his nose was practically touching the monitor, like he could make the file reappear through sheer force of will. “That’s … Betty, that’s super messed up. Are you sure it’s gone?”
In response, I hunched over the keyboard and expanded the database to show all files. I pounded a search for my article into the keyboard.
It came up blank, of course.
“Who would do that?” Brad asked, mystified.
I ignored him, the pounding in my chest growing more and more intense as I looked through my personal files, desperately searching for a backup of the article.
Obviously, it didn’t exist.
Obviously, I’d been so stupidly excited to file my first article, I tossed the original the second the file was saved. I’d never counted on my own freaking coworker sabotaging me.
A pent-up cry escaped me and I slammed my fists on the desk. Brad flinched, but I didn’t care. The rage, the darkness—it was valid, and what’s more, it was part of me. Maybe it was better that he see it now, sooner than later. If he ran, so be it. Everything else was falling apart, anyway.
How many minutes had passed since he’d walked in the door with those peonies? Since I’d thought this was one of my best days in LA yet? Not even twenty. Not even fifteen. Everything had flip-flopped.
Brad put a hand on my arm. Gentle, but in a way that made me feel like a skittish horse he was working carefully to calm. “It’s okay, Betty,” he said. “It sucks, whatever happened—”
“The article. Was. Deleted.”
“Whatever happened,” he repeated, “you’re a writer, you’re a pro. You can fix it. You can write it again. The words are still there—they came from your brain, after all.” He tapped at my forehead, trying to be affectionate, but I shrank away.
“Still there? I mean, maybe! But you have no idea how hard it was getting those words down in the first place! I’ve been chasing this girl all day! And whether or not you want to believe it, someone in the office screwed me over. So not only is the piece gone, but I’ve got a … what? An archnemesis? What is this, a comic book or a superhero story?”
