by Micol Ostow
She leaned in. “Come, now, Veronica—aren’t you even the least bit curious about what’s inside? When else can you have such a pure peek into our town’s history?”
“Because everything about Riverdale’s history is so wholesome and pure and worth revisiting.” Please. Our town was basically a Lynchian nightmare—with really good milk shakes. Mom knew it as well as anyone. I was here to call her bluff.
Except, apparently, it wasn’t a bluff, so there was nothing to call. She was not going to back down about this.
“In case you haven’t noticed, Veronica, our ‘wholesome, pure’ town is in a death spiral these days. And I’m the mayor—meaning, it’s my job to bring hope and faith back to the people. A fun celebration and a return to our roots will do just that.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but she held up a hand, cutting me off.
“And as for your so-called progressive friends, I’m sure even they will embrace the pageant. Your mother is not a dinosaur, mija. Rest assured, everyone on the town council and the planning committee has been meeting about this festival for weeks. The idea of making it gender-inclusive was supported unanimously.”
“Right. Equal-opportunity objectification,” I snarked instinctively. “How woke of you.” But some of the bite had drained from my voice. I had to admit, it was a good call. And it would make for an interesting event, if nothing else.
“I’m disappointed in you, Veronica. Here I thought you’d be so enthusiastic about how subversive our small town is being.”
“Even if you are taking a hallowed—albeit, forgotten—tradition into the current times,” I said, steeling my resolve all over again, “I can all but guarantee you: This festival will be nothing short of a catastrophe.”
KEVIN
“This pageant is going to be amazing.”
“I still can’t believe you’re so on board with this.” Veronica’s eyebrows knit together in an evil-queen glare.
“And I can’t believe you’re being such a downer. Veronica Lodge, missing a chance to primp and preen?”
It was late Monday afternoon, and we were in the student lounge for a study period, continuing the ongoing debate about the Royal Maple.
Rather, Veronica was continuing the debate about the pageant. Basically, everyone else in the whole school had made their peace with it, either planning to compete or participate in some way, or else just looking forward to the spectacle. (I mean, speaking from the small, anecdotal sample survey conducted by yours truly.)
But not Veronica. Her feelings hadn’t cooled with the passing of time. Frankly, it was a buzzkill. I had expected more from my resident fashionista.
“It’s sexist.” She folded her arms, delightfully pouty with her face framed by a lace Peter Pan collar. Sort of a Selena Gomez by way of Blair Waldorf. (But still, somehow, all her own. How did this girl not want to strut her stuff in a pageant? It was beyond me, and it was downright criminal.)
“Okay, okay, you did it. You’re on record as an objector and the leader of Riverdale’s own Mayday resistance. You shall henceforth be known as Elizabeth Cady Stanton Lodge. Done and done. You’re making me mix my girl-power metaphors, and it’s messy. So”—I smiled, rubbing my hands together—“can we please move on? I want to talk ensembles. Because there’s definitely going to be an evening-wear portion, and I know you have tips on how to wear a Marchesa.”
Veronica smiled. “Well, I’m not going to argue that. That team can drape—credit where credit is due. And the winter look book is exceptional.”
I gasped. “Tell me you got a sneak peek and you never mentioned it!” This was unacceptable. Insult to injury.
“Oh, V, he’s never going to let you off the hook now.” Betty settled herself on the couch next to Veronica, nursing a coffee in a to-go mug. Jughead hovered behind her, methodically breaking off squares from a chocolate bar and enjoying the show.
“You guys do realize you’re basically speaking a foreign language now, right?” Archie asked. He had settled himself over the back of the couch. Veronica reached up and rested a hand on his thigh. “Draping. Look books. I need a translator.”
Veronica laughed. “Sorry! I know you’re more denim than Dior, Archiekins. And sorry, Kevin! I should have mentioned the look book earlier, I know.”
“You should have invited me over to peruse it with you,” I grumbled, teasing.
“Okay, yes. But to be fair, it didn’t come up before we were talking about evening-wear portions.”
I shot her a look and she quickly rephrased.
“You’re right. What was I thinking? I should have brought it up myself, sans external impetus. There should have been an engraved invitation.”
“Yes, there should have. But you’re forgiven … if you agree to get on board so we can do this thing and have a blast, okay?”
She bit her lip. “It really doesn’t feel like my thing. And honestly, Kev—I don’t want to compete against you!”
I thought about it. “Okay, I hear that. And I guess if I were able to pick and choose, I wouldn’t necessarily want to compete against you, either. But I still want to do this with you! Veronica, who else is going to help me choose the right hair product for the different event segments? Wax versus serum? Tousled versus clean-cut?” I made puppy-dog eyes at her, pleading. I was only half kidding, too.
(Serum, though. Clean-cut. Always. Stick with the classics, that’s my thing.)
Maybe it was silly (okay, it was definitely silly)—but how many chances was I going to get to be in a pageant? At least here in Riverdale, in high school? I’ve been out and proud for a while now, and everyone has been incredibly cool about it (especially my dad; he’s the best).
But Riverdale is not the most forward-thinking environment in the world. I mean, it was just last year that we all learned how the Sisters of Quiet Mercy were running an underground conversion therapy program out of their institution. So a gender-inclusive pageant felt like a step in the right direction—and an opportunity for fun not to be missed.
And Veronica Lodge was the obvious partner in crime for such an event. She had to understand that.
“Elizabeth Cooper,” I prodded, “talk some sense into your girl.”
“Kev, I feel you,” Betty said, “but V is her own woman. I think that’s kind of the root of this whole thing in the first place.”
“But you guys are going to do it,” I asked. “Right?”
“Actually …” She trailed off, glancing at Jughead. His interest level in his chocolate bar rocketed to a level that could only be described as preternatural.
He caught her staring and swallowed, taking a second to lick his fingers before balling up the wrapper and tossing it in the trash.
“Oh, Kevin, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” he protested, smiling. “You know full well that if Archie is more denim than Dior, then I’m more Hercule Poirot than Hugo Boss. And Weatherbee already tapped Betty and me to cover the Revels for the Blue and Gold. So I don’t think we’d have time to do the pageant, even if we were so inclined. Which—and I really can’t say this enough—I’m definitely not.”
“Sorry, Kev,” Betty said, looking genuinely regretful.
“We will happily—if at least semi-sardonically—cheer you on from the wings,” Jughead put in. “Well, speaking for myself. You can probably count on Betty for at least ten percent less cynicism.”
“Thirty, minimum,” she confirmed.
“Aim for forty. Kevin will need his squad in his corner, full-on, if he truly intends to beat my Antoinette.”
We all looked up to see Cheryl Blossom standing, hands on hips, Wonder Woman–style, a challenging arch to her eyebrow.
“What about you, Cheryl?” I asked. “You’re not worried about going head-to-head with your girlfriend?”
“Oh, I won’t be competing myself,” Cheryl said with a wave of her hand. The chiffon sleeves of her blouse flowed dramatically as she gesticulated. “After careful consideration, I realized that I’ve had mo
re than my share of moments in the sun, ever since first being crowned Miss Junior Sweetwater as a young child at the River Run country club.” She sighed, deep in her own reverie. “My halcyon salad days.”
Jughead smirked. “Those must have been good times.”
She scrunched her perfect features in a flash of a scowl. “You wouldn’t know, cretin.” Then she beamed again. “In any event, if you do participate, please be aware that I will be your mistress of ceremonies for the evening.”
“You’re going to be emcee?” Betty asked.
I got it: On the one hand, running the show as resident HBIC was very on-brand for Cheryl. On the other, willfully giving up the chance to be crowned victor was … not.
“In point of fact,” she said, crisp, “my primary duties will involve acting as Toni’s coach and confidante. Being emcee in the actual pageant is the least I can do to show solidarity with my fellow students. Almost everyone has signed up. You folk are—as ever—well behind the curve. Reggie got the whole football team doing it.”
“Not me,” Archie said. “My dad’s gonna be crazy busy building sets and stuff for the Revels, which means I’ll be helping him.”
“Yeah, and I’m pretty sure Josie said she was bowing out, too, since she’s focusing on performing at the Thursday-night event. Motorcade and Music or something?” I put in.
“That’s right, Kevin—Motorcade and Music.”
It was Evelyn, popping up and penetrating our little bubble even more stealthily than Cheryl had. She was joined by Ethel, both of them clutching overflowing manila file folders. She gave a bright smile that was maybe only two shades away from being manic. It was … unnerving.
“Evelyn, hi,” I said, trying to be welcoming. I knew Betty had plenty to hold against the girl—Evelyn’s father, Edgar Evernever, was the leader of the Farm, which Betty’s mom and sister, Polly, were totally obsessed with—but Evelyn had never been anything but friendly to me.
“Hey, Ethel,” Betty said, waving at her. Ethel gave a wave to the group of us. She was much more low-key than Evelyn, but then, that was just her general demeanor overall. “What do you have?”
“These are all the registrants,” Evelyn said. “I’m taking them to Weatherbee’s office now to be logged. It’s a lot,” she said, looking meaningfully at Veronica. “So many of your fellow students have signed on.”
“What she means is, anyone worthy enough to compete has signed on. Anyone who’s anyone,” Cheryl said. “And, of course, an assortment of rando wannabees. But that can’t be avoided.”
“Just think of it as an act of charity,” Jughead suggested, arching an eyebrow.
“It’s … nice that you’re so into helping out with the Revels, Evelyn,” Betty said. Her voice was low and unreadable.
Evelyn straightened, the movement slightly inscrutable. “Of course. The Farm is just so pleased to have made a home for ourselves here in Riverdale. Why shouldn’t we want to celebrate this town and all it has to offer?”
Betty rolled her eyes, but still, even knowing how skeptical she was, how corny she thought the whole thing was—I felt a little charge in my stomach just thinking about it. Celebrate Riverdale? Eh, it depended on the day. But celebrate, in general? Yes, please.
“You should know that spots are filling up,” Evelyn said. “If you’re serious about participating, this might be your last chance.”
I held my hands out to Veronica in a namaste. “Pretty please with a promise to binge-watch your fave Shondaland guilty pleasure at our next sleepover, without judgment?”
(It was one of her darker secrets, but Veronica had a deep and unironic love of complete works of Shonda Rhimes, despite how unabashedly OTT we know them to be. Fun fact: She’s never missed an episode of Grey’s Anatomy.)
Veronica narrowed her eyes. “Kevin! That was a to-the-grave secret.” She laughed. “The first rule of Shondaland is we don’t talk about Shondaland.” She sighed. “All right, you’ve sold me. If you can’t beat them, join them.”
My heart jumped in my chest. “Does that mean you’ll do it?”
“Not quite,” she said, holding up a hand. “But it means I’ll be your coach, if you’ll have me.”
Coach. That was maybe even better than Veronica being in the pageant herself. I’d get the benefit of her unassailable expertise and the fun of hanging out with her. (And also, maybe a peep at that Marchesa look book sooner rather than later.)
“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. I declare myself to be the willing Kendall to your Kris,” I said, solemn. “Mold me in your image.”
“Oooh, I sense a rom-com makeover montage in the making,” Jughead said, raising an eyebrow. “The only question is, do we set it to ‘Pretty Woman,’ or ‘Sharp Dressed Man’?”
“Wrong.” I stood from the sofa and reached for Ethel’s file folder. “The only question is, where is that registration form?”
Ethel handed me a sheet and pointed to the line where I needed to scribble my name. She passed me a pen. “Excellent choice, Kevin,” she said.
“She’s right.” Evelyn’s eyes shone. “It’s going to be a real blast. You’ll see.”
From: Evernever, Evelyn
To: ALL-FARM LIST: YOUTH
Re: The Royal Maple Pageant
To all high school members of our Farm family:
My father and the rest of our family at the Farm would like to encourage you to participate in the Riverdale Revels, and especially the Royal Maple pageant. Please see me if you’d like to talk further. And sign up for the pageant soon—slots are filling up quickly!
*The final day to sign up is tomorrow, but the sooner you commit, the sooner you can start to prepare! Remember that when you appear onstage, you’ll be representing all of your Farm brothers and sisters!
Reggie:
Yo, Bulldogs! Evelyn’s finalizing the pageant contestants TOMORROW. Anyone sitting it out, be prepared to swim the Fox Forest channel at midnight, naked, every night next month. The Bulldogs are coming out for this one, bros. It’s gonna be epic.
Moose:
UGH FINE
Chuck:
Already signed up, bro.
Archie:
No can do. Gotta help my dad. But I’ll definitely be there for the show.
Reggie:
Dude, you’re the ONLY one with a good excuse! You need to help me kick the other guys’ butts, get ’em in line.
Archie:
I’ll see what I can do …
Jughead:
Serpents, a few of you have asked if you’re supposed to be going to the pageant. Given that my dad’s the sheriff, I’m gonna ask you as your king to consider participating. But for myself, I’m gonna tell you, when it comes to the pageant—just follow your heart.
Fangs:
Jug, man—I’m gonna do it.
Sweet Pea:
Me and Toni are in, too. Should be kind of a kick.
Jughead:
Better you than me, Fangs.
Fangs:
Take it you’re out?
Jughead:
Ah, believe it or not, I’ve just been assigned a Revels duty of my own.
Fangs:
?
Jughead:
Oh, no. It’ll have to be a surprise. Don’t worry, it’s a good one.
BETTY
Dear Diary:
Okay, I’ll admit—even if it does feel sort of old-fashioned—I definitely think the Riverdale Revels are going to be fun.
I think.
Is it, I don’t know … suspicious that Mayor Lodge is trotting out some long-forgotten tradition now, when our town’s been plagued with countless scandals and heartaches? I mean … yeah, maybe a little. But—I don’t know … even if she’s reviving the Revels for weird or not-great reasons …
Maybe she’s right? Maybe we could use a little celebration, a little fun.
At least, that’s what I told V while we walked home from school. She was stopping by the speakeasy, and I was going to swing by Pop’s.
Juggie wanted a snack, no surprise, but he had some stuff to take care of with the Serpents first.
“It’ll be good for us,” I said. “Revelry! It’s right there in the name of the event. Come on.”
It was late fall and we were well into the school year but still waiting on the first real snap in the air. Sweater weather, which I love, and the first few orange-tinged leaves crunching under our feet, but the promise of icy winter nights still far off in the distance. In short, it was my favorite time of year.
“You’re too nice, B,” Veronica said, shaking her head. Her black cape draped behind her as we walked, giving everything she said an extra layer of drama and foreboding. “Where’s my Dark Betty when we need her?”
I gave her a look. “Oh, she’s still in there, I promise you. She’ll come out when it’s time, raring to go. But let’s keep her on ice until we’re ready for, you know, the big guns.” I was slowly but surely starting to get comfortable with my darkness. But boundaries were good, too. I didn’t like feeling like I could go off, lose control at any minute and without warning. Hence: ice and boundaries.
“Which clearly implies that you don’t think we are yet. Ready for the big guns, that is.” I could tell she didn’t totally agree.
I sighed. “No, not yet.” Our heels made satisfying scraping sounds against the sidewalk as we walked. “I mean, I hear what you’re saying—it’s been a hot minute since the last time we had a celebration or an event in this town that didn’t end with literal murder, so, you know: There’s definitely a track record. But also: With all the craziness going on literally all the time here, if your mom—the mayor—is telling us to take a second and enjoy, you know, a block party and a silly beauty pageant? Why the hell shouldn’t we?”
