by Micol Ostow
Was I still talking? Reel it in, Kevin. “It’s also definitely not why you came in here. Forget it. So, what’s going on?”
She sighed and settled herself at my desk, turning the chair so she was facing me. “Pussycat drama. Or, ex-Pussycat drama, to be more accurate. The girls are still not over my solo trip from last year. They are having absolutely none of me.”
“Oh,” I said, getting it. “You reached out and they shot you down?”
She gave a short, bitter laugh. “Uh, not quite. Shooting me down might have required some actual kindness or empathy. These ladies were out for blood. It was more like … well, like cats toying with a trapped mouse.” She shrugged. “I guess that’s appropriate.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That stinks.” It was an understatement; I knew how upset Josie was about the way things were with the Pussycats these days.
Our parents were only newly together, but since they’d gotten involved (involved again? Since I guess they’d been a “thing” in high school, which I so did not want to think about), Josie and I had been expected to quickly acclimate to life as a blended family. Was it awkward? Sure, at times. I don’t think either of us ever expected to have nightly slumber parties for basically the rest of our high school days. But there were worse Marcia Bradys I could imagine playing foil to my Greg. Overall, we got along—we both wanted to see our parents happy, at the end of the day.
And we cared about each other, even if we didn’t know each other that well yet. Now we were privy to each other’s lives in a way we hadn’t been—couldn’t have been, of course—before. Which meant that I knew all about her rift with the Pussycats. And I knew that as much as Josie tried to put on a strong, fierce front, she missed her girls. A lot.
Was she wrong to try to strike out on her own? Honestly, probably not. Everyone who’s ever heard her sing or watched her perform knows Josie is destined for something way bigger than life in Riverdale. Juilliard, maybe—she was auditioning for them this year—but I knew (we all did, really): even that would only be the beginning for Ms. Josephine McCoy.
She needed to evolve as an artist, to find her own two feet. But her friends weren’t wrong to feel the way they did, either—they were hurt, being left behind in the dust. They had futures, too. And they’d thought they had a friend who was also a loyal bandmate.
It was a lousy situation. I could see everyone’s side. But I understood why everyone was feeling so raw, too.
And I personally had a front-row seat to Josie’s inner pain.
“Why were you even contacting them? No offense,” I said. “But, I mean—you know they’re still upset. Don’t be a glutton for punishment. You know it won’t end well.”
She sighed. “Yeah. I know. Trust me, I know. But my mom …” She trailed off.
“Ah.” It all made sense now. “Let me guess. She went all Ex-Mayor Momzilla, Esq. on you?” Sierra only wanted what was best for Josie, anyone with eyes could see that, but she was also … beyond intense.
Josie’s eyes flashed. “She was the one who pushed me to go solo in the first place! She thought being in the ’Cats was holding me back, keeping me from ‘shining as brightly as I could.’ Those were actually her words!” Josie gestured while she talked, getting more frantic as she got more upset.
“And she has a point, even if it’s a small one—we all know my dream has always been to make it as a performer. So I did what she suggested. Even though it was hard as hell. Because when it comes to my career, I did not come to play.”
“Nor should you.” Sometimes being around Josie was like being around the living embodiment of an inspirational meme in the best possible way. I just wanted to stand up and sing some Beyoncé or Katy Perry anthems with her.
But I was getting distracted again. Now wasn’t the time.
Her hands moved faster as her voice rose. “And great, maybe my songwriting is developing. Maybe my sound is going in some new directions, with no outside influences to interfere with my flow. Sure. That’s all good. But—truth?”
“Always,” I said, even though I knew where she was going with this.
“I miss my friends.” She blinked, her eyes growing watery for a minute.
I took her hand. “Of course you do. And if it makes you feel any better, I’m sure they miss you, too. They wouldn’t be so angry if they didn’t, right? The opposite of love isn’t hate; it’s indifference. I think I read that on a yogurt smoothie bottle cap once.”
She pulled back, straightening her spine and trying to get her composure back. “Maybe,” she sniffed. “I don’t know. But Mom was the one who told me to ditch them, and then Mom was the one who insisted I convince them to perform with me. At the Revels.”
“Oh, yikes,” I said, feeling outraged on her behalf. “So much nope. Unacceptable. Doesn’t she know you have your pride?”
“Apparently not,” Josie said. “And anyway, I don’t have my pride. Not anymore. Mom wouldn’t let it go. You know how she can be.”
I nodded. “Who among us hasn’t been on the wrong side of a patented Sierra McCoy steely gaze?” And I lived with her now. So I knew firsthand.
“What else could I do? I texted the girls.”
“And they weren’t into it?”
“They were so not into it, they were practically living in a different zip code.” Her eyes welled up again. “They were all about how they’ve been picking up gigs in Greendale, without me, since we split.”
“Ouch,” I said, choosing not to remind her that she’d been taking gigs on her own, too. Which had kind of been the whole plan, all along.
Josie shifted in the chair, resigned. She wasn’t one for slumped shoulders, but that was the vibe she was giving off. “Needless to say,” she went on, “the Pussycats won’t be scheduling their reunion tour for the Riverdale Revels. Mom is just going to have to deal.”
“She will.” What choice did she have? “And besides—a Josie McCoy solo show is nobody’s consolation prize.” I smiled at her. “It’s going to be awesome.”
She gave a tiny grin to match mine. “Thanks, Kev. But the thing is, I was kind of hoping it wouldn’t be a solo show.”
“I’m sure Cheryl would perform with you,” I said. “When has that girl ever turned down a moment in the spotlight?”
Josie laughed. “Yeah, I’m sure she would. But I was actually sort of thinking … you’d do it?”
“What?” I was surprised, and then I overplayed that surprise just to tease her. I shot her a serious, questioning look. “Josie McCoy, are you proposing a duet?”
“Kevin Keller, that’s exactly what I’m proposing.” For a moment, she hesitated. “If you’re up for it. I mean, I’ve heard you sing in the school musicals; I know you’ve got the goods.”
“If you’re expecting me to feign a false modesty, that’s not going to happen,” I assured her. “I have too much respect for the both of us. It would be a waste of our valuable time.”
“Agreed,” she said, smiling full-on now.
I hated to burst her bubble. “Unfortunately, even though I would so love to do it, I won’t be able to.”
Josie’s face fell, and I hurried to clarify. “If you’d asked sooner, maybe—but the thing is, my dad is actually in the motorcade. He’ll be driving his original sheriff car, Mayor Lodge insisted, and I know he’s actually, really kind of weirdly excited about it.”
“And you told him you’d ride with him.” She nodded, understanding.
“Yep. I mean …” I felt my mouth twist with guilt. “He’s my dad. And he was so into it. And I wouldn’t be able to do both. We need to be behind the wheel before the music starts, and there’s all sorts of behind-the-scenes things happening beforehand, too.”
She stood up, her face stony with resolve. “I totally get it, Kevin. And I appreciate you saying that you would have been up for it.”
“It’s the truth.” I stood up, too. Impulsively, I gave her a hug.
“I gotta say, Kev,” she started, “I was not l
ooking for a stepbrother at this point in my life. But … you make a good one.”
“Thanks, Josie,” I said. “You, too. We’re in this together.”
“Good luck with the English,” she said, moving to the door. “I definitely think we’re still having that quiz.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
As far as almost-stepsisters went, I had a pretty smart one. It sucked that she was feeling so alone right now. I definitely knew that feeling.
I know I’m lucky. My parents love me—even if they can’t love me together, like as a couple—I have good friends, and when no one is actively trying to stalk and murder my friends or me, life in Riverdale is pretty good. Even my blended family is more Brady Bunch than Dynasty. I’m mostly happy.
But sometimes, I’m still … lonely. Even with all of that, with all of them.
Betty had Jughead. Veronica had Archie. Even Cheryl Blossom, reigning terror of Riverdale High, had found her love connection.
When would it be my turn?
Joaquin is out of the picture … and so is Moose, at least until he’s in a place where he feels comfortable being out, period, never mind being out with me. I’m trying to give him space, because I get it, it’s a personal choice, and it’s not my place to rush him. But that hurts, too.
I mean, is it me?
Once upon a time, I wouldn’t have let myself go there. But it’s getting harder to stay positive.
I know Veronica thinks the pageant is ridiculous (she hasn’t made much of a secret of that). I know she’s helping only because I completely begged her to. But I’ll take it. The pageant sounds fun, and I’m lonely. I’ll take any help I can get.
These days, I feel like I really need a win.
It wasn’t like my friends didn’t care. They understood how hard it was for me—dating, meeting eligible bachelors in a one-maple-tap town like Riverdale. I suspected the mailman was gay, but he was, like, five thousand years old and wore dad sneakers unironically. My options were pretty limited.
Internet dating was stressful. Veronica wanted to set up a profile for me, but I balked when she suggested using a shot of Archie’s abs in place of my own. “Sick burn, Ronnie,” I told her.
“Creative editing,” she said. “It’s the American way.” But I refused, and so plan B it was.
“We’re going to that gay club,” Betty told me. “Innuendo? On the edge of town?”
“We can’t get in. It’s over twenty-one,” I protested.
Veronica waved a hand. “Please.” She turned on her heel and started strutting down the hallway, leaving me and Betty scrambling to keep up in her wake.
We stopped when we found Reggie at his locker. He was totally amused by Veronica’s request. “What do you three squares want with fake IDs?”
Veronica tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Putting aside the fact that you seem to be overlooking my entirely well-earned reputation as an urban sophisticate—with all the requisite recreational debauchery that entails—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Reggie said mildly.
“—I’m going to need you to step outside your privileged heteronormative bubble for a millisecond.” She put her hands on her hips. “Do you even know how hard it is for Kevin to meet guys here in Riverdale?”
“We need to get him into a gay bar,” Betty put in. It made me sound not unlike a pathetic charity case, but whatever—it seemed to be working.
Reggie stroked his chin, doing his best impression of “pensive.” “Not being able to get action, like, ever?” he mused. “That must suck, bro.”
“Pretty much,” I said. Like I needed reminding?
He put a hand on my shoulder in what I assume was meant to be reassuring. “I’ll make you an ID, Keller. Foolproof. On the house.”
Relief flooded me. “Thank you, Reggie. Truly. I will totally get you back.”
He chuckled. “Dude—I don’t need any help from you.”
“Of course not.”
“Oh, Reggie,” Veronica sang, “while you’re at it—will you pretty please make one for Betty and me?”
Turns out, Reggie Mantle can never say no to Veronica Lodge. Lucky for us.
We made a plan, and I made a mental note to thank the powers that be again for delivering me such amazing friends. When I asked Betty and Veronica if they were sure—like, what would they even do at a gay bar while I was supposedly on the prowl?—Veronica had the perfect response right at her perfectly manicured fingertips.
“Are you kidding me? One: dance without getting drooled on by gross straight guys. Two: relive the best of the holy quartet.”
“The holy quartet?” Betty asked.
Veronica ticked them off on her fingers. “Gaga. Britney. Cher. And Madonna.”
“Royalty if not necessarily religion,” I agreed.
“I’m not finished,” Veronica said. “Three: glitter everywhere.”
“I do love glitter,” Betty said.
“Who doesn’t?” Veronica and I said, in unison.
It was settled. And there was a small part of me—very small, but still there, still real—that was kind of excited.
Scratch that. “I’m filled with dread,” I said.
Innuendo loomed before us, its marquis glaring and bright, seemingly bigger than the Hollywood sign, though I knew that wasn’t possible. A line of what was mostly guys snaked down the sidewalk, everyone doing their best to appear nonchalant, bored even, and not like they were secretly fearing being turned away at the door.
Or maybe they were nonchalant. Maybe I was the only one with this constant, gnawing insecurity turning backflips in my stomach like a contortionist.
I didn’t think so, though.
Of course, if there was one person who was totally impervious to insecurity and doubt, it was Veronica. She strode with purpose toward the front of the line, arms swinging along with the hem of her purple Versace minidress. Her shoes flashed a peek of that signature red sole with every click of her daggerlike stiletto heels.
From beside her, Betty stuffed her hands into her pockets. “I feel underdressed,” she said, though she didn’t really sound worried. She’d taken down her iconic ponytail for the occasion, but she wore dark skinny jeans and a lacy black top, which was about as “edgy” as Betty got—when she wasn’t cosplaying her darker self, that is. Not that it mattered—it worked for her.
As for me, I’d let Veronica dress me in a slimmer sweater and jeans than I’d normally wear. When I protested that I felt like a “metrosexual fraud,” she insisted that I was pulling it off. And there was a small part of me (okay, not that small) that wanted to believe her.
Instinctively, I started to hunch up the closer we got to the bouncer. But Ronnie was incredible—she only stood up straighter, throwing her shoulders back with the determination of someone who’s never known a moment of doubt or rejection. I knew it wasn’t true—there was that whole scandal with her father back in the city, after all, where she was basically a social pariah, however briefly. But lesson learned: Fake it till you make it. I tried to walk with the same confident gait.
“Good evening,” Veronica said, smiling at the bouncer. He eyed us in a manner that was not not welcoming. But Veronica forged ahead, undaunted. She leaned in and whispered something to him. I strained to hear—Betty did, too—but to no avail.
After a beat, the bouncer stepped back. I sighed, preparing to retreat with as much dignity as I could muster. Instead, something miraculous happened.
He unclipped the velvet rope and ushered us through. “Enjoy your night.”
Veronica led the way, tossing the bouncer a little wave over her shoulder as she did.
I grabbed Betty by the elbow as we followed. “How’d she do that?”
“We’ll never know,” she said simply.
We went inside.
Veronica wasn’t wrong. There was Gaga. There was Madonna. There was even some Kesha and Kylie Minogue that slipped onto the playlist, for a hot minute or two. We sang along at the to
p of our lungs, totally free and uncaring about being or looking cool or, frankly, being anyone other than who we were in that exact moment, at that exact time and place. The space was crowded, dark and humid and alive with the smell of total abandon—or at least, that’s how it felt to me.
Okay, fine, I was finally at a gay bar and, somehow, I was still attached at the hip to my friends, but it was thrilling, enervating nonetheless.
Until it wasn’t.
I had made it, into Innuendo, dressed to kill (as Veronica assured me), fake ID in hand, belting Cher at the top of my lungs. If there was a checklist for my first truly authentic gay outing, I’d ticked all the boxes. It was fun, sure, but it was also hot. And sweaty. And starting to feel a little claustrophobic.
Maybe it was too much fun for me? Maybe I’m just not … wired for it?
The thought was depressing—was I, like, destined to be lonely and single until my end of days?—and I slipped away, to the bar.
“Can I get a ginger ale?” I didn’t care what my ID said; I didn’t need to add drinking to this mix. It was already starting to feel like a slow-release train wreck. Alcohol wouldn’t make that better.
I was sipping my (totally G-rated) drink, watching a shiny red cherry bob up and down in the fizzy liquid, when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“What are you doing here, by yourself? We didn’t even see you slip away.” It was Betty. Veronica was on her heels, her forehead glistening. She fanned herself dramatically with one hand.
“Trying to hydrate,” I said, taking a deliberate sip.
“Hydrate later!” Veronica instructed. “There are at least fifty hot guys here just waiting to be flirted with.”
“Not with me they’re not,” I said, finally admitting it to myself and to my friends. Even in a gay bar, my fabulous gal pals attracted ten times more attention on the dance floor than I did. Maybe it was me.
I took another sip of my drink but then pushed it away, the cloying sweetness sticking at the back of my throat. “Sorry, girls. We tried. And I appreciate it. But … this isn’t my scene.”
