by Micol Ostow
I grabbed her by the elbow. “Come on. You know prepping for the pageant with Kevin is going to be total fun. It’s an event tailor-made for the two of you.”
“Your powers of persuasion are not bad,” she said. “I must admit, Dark Betty may be useful for some of my more complex plotting and revenge scenarios, but classic Betty is wise beyond her years. Vive le classic Betty. Accept no imitations.” She linked her arm through mine.
“Thanks, V. I’m feeling original-flavor Veronica, myself. I guess we just make a perfect team.”
V waved me inside when we got to Pop’s—she had to take a quick phone call from a supplier for the speakeasy. “Puff pastries for the after-party were surprisingly difficult to get with mere hours’ notice,” she explained, rolling her eyes. I laughed and headed in without her.
When I entered the diner, Jughead was already waiting at the counter. He was hunched over a cheeseburger the size of his face. FP sat on the stool beside him, eating a burger of his own. It was like looking into a mirror of Jughead Future, and that made me smile. Behind the counter, Pop was wiping down glasses and watching Jug eat with a look of affectionate wonder.
(It’s a look I know well—I have a version of it of my own.)
“You beat us here?” I asked. I know nothing stands between Jug and a burger, but still—it was impressive.
“Dad gave me a lift on the bike.”
“Hey, Betty,” FP said, taking a sip of his soda.
“That eager for your after-school snack, huh?” I teased.
“Well, yeah—always. But actually”—he looked at me, and I saw a glint in his eye that was slightly concerning—“turns out, Dad had some news. Which couldn’t wait for sharing with you. So it all worked out, in a sense.”
“Hmm. ‘In a sense’? I’m guessing that depends what I think of the news.” I sidled up to the stool beside him and leaned in for a quick kiss. He smelled like boy shampoo and worn leather.
The door chimed again. “Puff pastries are a go,” Veronica said, looking at me. “Hello, Joneses, and hello, Pop. Slow day?” She glanced around the diner. It did seem quieter than usual, but I chalked it up to so many people being caught up in prepping for the Revels. Jughead took advantage of the interruption to tuck into his burger.
Veronica stepped behind the counter to fish the diner’s ledger out from its shelf to have a another look, I assumed, at the most recent margins. As the newly minted owner of Pop’s, she couldn’t afford to be optimistic about the business; she had to deal with actual dollars-and-cents reality.
Luckily, she didn’t have to worry quite as much about the speakeasy downstairs. La Bonne Nuit was impeccably designed and decorated, and the entertainment was sophisticated and aspirational. It was a place most of my friends from school hadn’t even realized was everything they’d never known they wanted. A place to hang that wasn’t “just” Pop’s, with an air of elegance and a chill, low-key New York City vibe … ? Veronica knew what Riverdale needed. And in buying the building back from her endlessly conniving dad, she not only landed herself the hot spot of her dreams—she basically saved Pop’s, our local touchstone, one of the beating hearts of our town itself.
But business was still growing, I knew. And now that Veronica had broken free of her father’s barbed purse strings, she worried a lot about her ability to be independent, financially and otherwise. She didn’t like to talk about it, but I knew. For instance, at that moment I could see it in the way her forehead wrinkled up as she ran her manicured finger across columns, surveying the data. If nothing else, my girl V is definitely resourceful, and ultimately, she’s got this—but even if the mayor’s office claimed to be covering the cost of the after-party, the speakeasy would end up taking at least a small hit.
An idea occurred to me. “Pop—the burger-eating contest on Saturday sounds like it’ll be fun!” I said. “V, maybe La Bonne Nuit could be on hand to provide custom mocktails? Something with ginger, to help with digestion?”
“Betty, that is straight genius,” Veronica said. “Normally I’d say the only appropriate accompaniment to a Pop’s burger is a milk shake, but in a burger-eating contest, that would probably be overkill. Now, a light, fruity ginger spritzer on the other hand? That could be the perfect palate cleanser. I’ll talk to Reggie about experimenting this week. That boy has really proven himself a sophisticated mixologist, I must say.”
“Even being partial to my own milk shakes, on this, I’d have to agree,” Pop chimed in. “This sounds like a great plan.”
“Then it’s settled,” I said. “Veronica will create a perfect drink for the contest and La Bonne Nuit stays on the tip of everyone’s tongues at the Revels. And we all agree I am a certified genius. And in the meantime, Jughead can fill us in on his big news.”
Jughead swiveled on his chair. His eyes were practically blazing. I couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing—but I had an idea. “You’ll never guess who’s in charge of opening the time capsule tonight.”
“What?” I stared at him, incredulous. “You? Why? I mean—” I faltered, realizing how that sounded. “It’s not like I don’t think you could do it. Clearly you could do a great job. You will do a great job! It just … doesn’t exactly sound like the kind of thing you’d normally be up for.”
I actually kind of loved the idea, already imagining Juggie up on that pagoda, sporting that unique mix of startled disaffection he wore so well.
“Well, yeah—it’s definitely not. I mean, it’s basically anathema to me. In my soul I’m sort of fundamentally opposed to everything the Revels represent in the first place. And to be, like, part of it? Yeah, super not my thing. You could say that. You know me well, Betty.”
“Boy, you’re too dramatic.” FP shook his head, rueful. “Betty, tell him he’s overreacting.”
“Jug, you might be overreacting,” I hedged. “I’ll reserve judgment for now. Far be it from me to interfere in family matters, anyway. So how did this all even happen?” I was dying of curiosity, and from the looks on Pop’s and Veronica’s faces, I wasn’t the only one.
“I still don’t totally get it. You’ll have to go directly to the source for the full story,” Jughead said, nodding toward his dad.
FP swiveled on his stool so he could talk more directly to all of us at once. “I know Jug likes to think of himself as a loner, but that’s not really true anymore, the way it once was.”
It was a fair point. Jughead had a girlfriend, a regular group of friends (no matter how small and inner circle the four of us were). He was the leader of the Serpents—the polar opposite of an island unto himself. Sure, he liked to hang on the periphery of most mainstream types of experiences, but FP was right … somewhere over these past few years, Jughead Jones had evolved into less of a recluse and more of a cult figure.
“And, while no one’s more surprised by this than yours truly, I am the sheriff of this town, and he’s the sheriff’s son. He’s a symbol of this town, of leadership,” FP said.
Jughead flashed a quick smirk. “Get this: I’m a symbol of the sunny promise of Riverdale’s youth.” He grinned again so that a dimple appeared on one cheek, actually looking the part of “sunny” for a fraction of a second, even though he was being totally ironic.
“Jughead Jones, brimming with sunshine and promise? Our very own J. D. Salinger? Interesting choice,” Veronica quipped, taking a momentary look up from the diner’s books. She wasn’t kidding, but there was still plenty of affection behind her words.
“Trust me—I agree,” Jughead replied. “What can I tell you? If you’ve got an issue with the decision, you’re gonna have to take it up with the mayor. I think you know how to find her.”
“What?” Veronica’s dark eyebrows flew up. “This was my mom’s idea?”
“One hundred percent. She’s the one who talked to my dad.”
“I tried to convince her Jughead wouldn’t be up for it, but she wasn’t taking no for an answer. Apparently, Lodge women are incredibly stubborn,
” FP said, raising his eyebrow.
“Yes, well … I can hardly argue that point,” Veronica conceded.
“You weren’t exaggerating, Jug,” I said. “This is amazing. Beyond.” I poked him in the rib and watched him smile and shrink back. “Honestly? I kind of can’t wait to see you up there onstage.”
“Alas,” he said, “that’s not going to happen.”
“But—you said Mayor Lodge wouldn’t take no for an answer …”
“Right, no. She wouldn’t. I’m doing it; there’s no way out. Trust me—I tried. What I meant was, you won’t be watching me onstage. Because”—he added slyly, throwing a quick glance his father’s way—“you’ll be up there next to me the whole time.”
“What?”
“You’re his only hope, Betty. Hear the boy out,” FP pleaded.
“Betts. You know me. Bad enough I got roped into this in the first place. There’s no way I’m going up there alone. So I pointed out that with WRIV sponsoring the Revels and covering it, it only made sense to have their number one anchor’s daughter up onstage with me.”
Sneaky. “And I’m not at all shocked that my mom went along with it,” I said. “Now that you bring it up, it’s kind of funny that she didn’t suggest it herself.” My own mom wasn’t one to miss an opportunity that landed in her lap. To put it kindly. Even if it was sort of an opportunity for me.
FP laughed. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I said. But I guess she’s been real caught up with that Farm of hers lately.”
My stomach clenched at the mention. My mother being busy with the Farm was, sadly, unsurprising. My mother too busy to enjoy a moment in the spotlight? More of a curveball.
More proof of how insidious the Farm’s grip on her was turning out to be.
“Pop, talk about a hashtag TBT,” Veronica said suddenly, breaking through the momentary silence. “What is this institutional treasure and where have you been hiding it all this time?” She waved what appeared to be a large black-and-white photo, her eyes shining with glee.
“That?” Pop suddenly seemed almost bashful. “Just a picture of my great-grandfather with Riverdale’s founding mayor. Where did you find it, anyway?” He reached to take it back, but Veronica shrunk away and passed it around.
“It was hiding underneath the ledger, and it’s a delightful blast from the past. I don’t know why this wouldn’t be on display for all to see.”
“You kids always have plenty of other stuff going on. Who cares about ancient history?”
I took a peek at the photo—there he was, Pop’s great-grandfather, looking every bit like a carbon copy of Pop himself but for the period clothes. Same uniform, with its iconic apron and paper hat, same wide-cheeked smile, same warm eyes.
“But aren’t the Revels all about history?” I said.
“That’s exactly what they’re all about,” FP put in. “That’s the whole point. And despite what Pop is implying, some people in this town are real eager to repeat history.”
Was it my imagination, or did Pop’s eyes darken for a fraction of a minute? It was a split-second moment, and then it was gone, before I could even decide if I’d seen what I thought I’d seen.
“Yes, well, be that as it may,” Pop said, gathering the photo back after it had finished making the rounds and tucking it away under the counter again, “don’t you all have a Revel to prepare for?”
Even me—no thanks to my mom, I thought. Hadn’t Evelyn been leading the charge on all things Revels? Meaning that being part of the Farm didn’t necessarily mean abstaining from town activities. “I guess we do,” I said, the wheels still turning in my restless brain.
“Miles to go! And time capsules to open!” Jughead said. “So, what do you say, Betty? Up for standing beside me, representing the hope and future of Riverdale? I mean, between the two of us, you are the sunny one. Not to mention, my Serpent Queen.” Jughead snapped me out of my reverie.
“I suppose that’s true,” I agreed. About being his queen, in any case, even if Dark Betty had cast a slight pall on my reputation for sunniness. “Juggie, you know I can’t say no to you. Anyway, it’s a time capsule. Opening it will be fun!”
I was trying to psych myself up. And if my own involvement somehow piqued my mother’s curiosity and moved her even an inch farther away from that cult that had abducted her soul? Well, that would just be a bonus.
“It’s so cute that you think that.” Jughead took my hands in his. “Betty, this is Riverdale. There is no way that opening up a time capsule means opening anything other than a can of worms. And that’s best-case scenario.”
“I second that theory,” Veronica said. “But hey—no matter what’s in there, we can bet it won’t be boring.”
“No,” I agreed. “Nothing around here ever is.”
Sweet Pea:
Hey! Psyched for Revels? You won’t believe what I just heard.
Josie:
?
Sweet Pea:
It’s Jug. The mayor got him roped into being the one to open the time capsule.
Josie:
Random. Seems like the least likely candidate.
Sweet Pea:
Totally. You’ll be there, right? Singing?
Josie:
Doubt Moms would let me skip it. But I’m not singing until Thurs. Thank god.
Sweet Pea:
Why thank god? You love performing??
Josie:
Sure. But Mom wants me to bring the Pussycats out …
Sweet Pea:
And they’re still freezing you out?
Josie:
Total cold war.
Sweet Pea:
What are u gonna do?
Josie:
What can I do? I mean, I guess I’ll ask them. Who cares about my pride, right? Worst they can do is say no. Which is what I fully expect to happen. Just for the record.
Josie:
Nope. Actually, worse they can do is ghost me completely. Also not out of the question.
Sweet Pea:
Sorry. That’s rough. You know I’m around if you want to vent.
Josie:
You’re sweet. But I’m super busy preparing. And anyway, that’s not what this is. You know that.
Sweet Pea:
It could be …
Josie:
Okay, just calm down, Romeo.
