by Micol Ostow
“Really.” Betty looked suspicious. (It did sound remarkably mainstream for a group that seemed to vastly prefer social fringes and secrecy.)
“Of course.” Evelyn flashed a smug, quick grin. “Our family shares everything, you know. There are no secrets.”
“Of course,” Betty said, her voice thin and reedy. “I remember.”
I wrapped an arm around Betty’s waist. I could see her hands clenching, forming tight fists that were so intense her fingernails would dig bloody crescents into her palms. I needed to get her away, and fast.
Leave it to Evelyn to be just that weird, doing nothing more than carrying catering trays.
Randomly, in the middle of a school day.
We could deal with the Farm—and Betty’s mom and sister’s relationship to them—another day. Somehow, I was sure we’d have plenty more chances.
“See you around, Evelyn,” I said. “Good luck, you know, sous-ing.” I threw her a wave over my shoulder as I guided Betty away. Maybe there was time to try to calm down a little, before we got back to school.
Delusion: In Riverdale, we all practiced it, sooner or later.
Dr. Curdle Jr.:
Have you had a chance to review both of the documents I sent along, Madam Mayor?
Hermione Lodge:
Yes, and thank you for those. As you saw, I passed the information about the prank along in a Town Hall memo. I trust you received your cash donation?
Dr. Curdle Jr.:
Indeed. I saw. It was quite well worded.
Dr. Curdle Jr.:
And the donation arrived without trouble. Thank you.
Hermione Lodge:
It’s the least we can do. But I wanted to confirm: According to the second report, you’re saying there’s no possible way to identify the victim based on the bones?
Dr. Curdle Jr.:
Correct. They’re too old and too deteriorated, unfortunately. All I can tell is they were human.
Hermione Lodge:
I see. Well, thank you again. We appreciate your swift … compliance.
Dr. Curdle Jr.:
Of course, Madam Mayor. And I appreciate your charitable support.
Hermione Lodge:
Curdle has his marching orders. I think this is all sewn up.
Hiram Lodge:
Glad to hear it. Let me know if there’s anything else.
ARCHIE
Veronica had asked me to meet her after school, though she didn’t say exactly why. Betty and Jughead were off investigating the maple barrel case—they were going to do some research at the library, they said. Meanwhile, Veronica and I were supposed to be keeping up appearances, since our parents were demanding that everyone carry on, post body-in-the-time-capsule, as though it were just another day in Riverdale.
(Which, in some ways, it was. Just, you know, not the way they wanted it to be.)
Anyway, from what I could tell, there were about a million things going on, all important, a bunch seeming to contradict one another. The best I could think to do was just go where I was told and do what was asked of me, as best I could. So here I was, pulling the jalopy up in front of Kevin’s house, wondering when the last time was that I’d been here and coming up blank. Ronnie’d done a few sleepovers with him, and there was that cast party he threw last year before the school play … but other than that, as much as I liked Kevin, we didn’t tend to hang out one-on-one, without Ronnie or Betty around. Had it been that long? Maybe.
He looked happy to see me when he opened the door. His face was a little red and sweaty, and he was wearing a very fitted black T-shirt with black leggings.
“Hey, Arch! Veronica’s downstairs. Do you want something to drink?” He pulled me inside without any explanation of his outfit or what might be going on. I decided to just go with it.
“Sure, a soda’d be great, if you have one,” I said.
“Yep. Of course.”
We took a quick detour to the kitchen and grabbed some sodas from the fridge.
“And a Pellegrino for Veronica, I got those special, at her request, I guess it’s the RROTC Scout in me—very dependable,” Kevin said, then headed down into the basement, which I vaguely remembered from that party. Of course, it looked pretty different when it wasn’t stuffed to the brim with kids stumbling and waving blue and red Solo cups all over.
The soundtrack was different today, too.
“Is that … Cats you guys are playing?” I didn’t know much about show tunes, but I dimly recalled this one from an elementary school trip to a Riverdale Playhouse production, back around third or fourth grade. It made an impression, especially being one of the only musicals I’d ever seen.
(None of us knew that the cats were going to jump out into the audience, and Betty, who was sitting next to me like always, totally freaked when it happened. She shrieked and grabbed my arm so hard I had finger-shaped bruises where her hands had been for a week. I thought for sure we’d get kicked out, but I guess these places are used to big groups of little kids. No one even blinked, and eventually, Betty was able to chill out.)
I rounded the corner to see Veronica in a pair of black tights and a black leotard. She had dance shoes on, too. Between her and Kevin, the overall effect was pretty professional.
“Archiekins!” She ran up and kissed me. Her face was slick with a light sheen of sweat, and pinkish, too.
“You guys are … dancing. To Cats?” It was literally the last thing I’d expected to see, coming down these stairs. Even though, looking at the two of them in their quasi uniforms, it kind of fit.
“OMG, Kev, you’re a lifesaver,” she said, twisting the cap off the Pellegrino bottle he passed her. It gave a little hiss as the metal seal broke. “How did you know?”
“Call it gay husband’s intuition,” he said, popping the top to his own soda and then mine, which he passed to me.
“Everyone needs one of those,” Veronica proclaimed, then raised her bottle. “A toast. To friends.”
“To friends,” I said, clinking my can against their drinks. We took a sip.
Veronica swallowed, pressing the cool glass against her forehead. “Divine.” She fanned herself for a minute, then looked at me. “And to answer your question: Yes, Archiekins, that is Cats that you’re hearing.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “But … why?”
“Just a little something Kevin and I are cooking up for the talent portion of the Royal Maple pageant.”
“Veronica, you definitely live a charmed life,” Kevin said, grinning. “The perfectly doting gay husband and a sensitive yet hunky boyfriend who recognizes show tunes when he hears them?”
“Don’t forget the ride-or-die bestie who murders the Bechdel test and practices Vixens routines with me after school. It’s true. This is the postmillennial version of having it all, and I make no apologies.” She set down her drink and twisted her hair into a ponytail, grinning with satisfaction.
“Okay,” she said, “so here’s the twist: For Kevin’s talent, we’re actually going to perform a dance together.”
“Can you do that?” I asked. “Even if you’re not actually in the pageant?”
She nodded. “We spoke to Weatherbee, who gave us his blessing. The judges will know to evaluate Kevin based on his performance, not mine.” She shot him a sidelong glance. “Which is a shame for you, Kev, because Isadora Duncan had nothing on me.”
“I would happily take the point boost, but it’s not up to me,” Kevin said. “But I’m sure Archie is dying to know why we asked him to come by.”
“I am curious,” I admitted. “Not that I’m not happy to see you both.”
“Likewise, Archie,” Veronica said. “The thing is, we need an outside opinion, and we were hoping you could provide it. It’s about music, and of course, you’re a musician.”
“Who knows musical theater,” Kevin put in. “The question being, can you give objective feedback despite your relationship with Veronica?”
I laughed. “Sure. Hit me.�
�
“We’re having a bit of an artistic debate about our choice of song for our performance.”
“Not Cats, then?”
“Maybe Cats,” Kevin interjected. “That’s part of the artistic debate. Most of the debate, that is.”
“That’s the debate,” Veronica clarified.
“Creative differences?” I asked.
“Well, Archiekins, here’s the rub,” Veronica said, laying it down. “Given the sheer number of River Vixens and former Pussycats who’ve signed up for the Royal Maple pageant—”
“Still loving that gender-nonspecific title,” Kevin mused, interrupting.
“That’s the one thing they did right,” Veronica agreed. “But anyway, the vast preponderance of people we know who are participating in the pageant are singers or dancers. So we wanted to perform something that would set us apart. Show tunes seemed like a good fit and safe choice as far as being unique was concerned.”
“Okay, so what’s the debate part of this debate?” I asked.
“Veronica suggested something like a Janet Jackson–esque take on ‘My Shot,’ from Hamilton.” He waited a beat to see if I recognized the mention, but all I know about Hamilton is that it basically has a legion of superfans and the tickets cost a ton. Seeing my blank expression, Kevin went on. “Hip-hop with lots of pops and flourishes, maybe chairs for props.”
“That could be cool,” I said.
“It absolutely could be. And I cannot tell you how many times I’ve watched the show in twenty-minute increments on ViewTube.” His eyes narrowed. “That ticket lottery is such a tease. There are legit military torture tactics that are more humane.”
“You’ve been waiting on lottery tickets?” Veronica looked genuinely stunned. “Kev, I can’t believe you didn’t say anything! Daddy and Lin know each other from their benefit to raise money for Shakespeare in the Park. I’ll make a phone call. Fret no more, friend.”
Kevin’s eyes gleamed. “Veronica, so help me, if you are joking with me, this marriage is off.”
She waved a hand at him. “Remind me tonight.” She took a breath and returned to the issue at hand. “Anyway. Kevin agrees that it could be cool. But the thing is, it probably won’t stand out as much as it could. I mean, for every Toni, Ginger, and Tina at Riverdale High, there’s a Nicki, Beyoncé, or Ariana—with a top song in heaviest rotation and a signature dance to accompany it. And how would that really be different, stylistically, from what we would be planning to do?”
“Veronica!” Kevin gasped. “You know Queen Bey is always mentioned first when presenting a list of pop icons. It’s in the Chicago Manual of Style, right after the section on the serial comma.”
“Fair. With apologies to Her Highness. So”—she brushed back a stray lock of hair that had escaped from her ponytail and into her eyes—“Kevin’s countersuggestion was something slow, traditional—a ballroom dance we could do as a waltz. Hence, ‘Memory.’ ”
“Hence, ‘Memory,’ ” I agreed. “I see where you’re going, with the logic, I mean.”
“But Veronica’s not sure it’s the right choice.” Kevin sighed.
“It’s a little cheesy,” she said. “And technically, it’s not really a waltz-type song, either. So it’s not the most organic choice. That’s all I said. It wasn’t a definitive yea or nay vote.”
“It’s definitely a little cheesy,” Kevin agreed. “But can we at least acknowledge the elephant in the room? Let’s be real, guys: Musical theater is a little cheesy. That’s, like, its whole thing. Let there be no pretense. And Cats is a classic, and there’s a reason for that. I, for one, think we should just embrace it.”
“He makes a solid point,” I said. “Also very logical.”
“I know,” Veronica said, pouting. “That’s just it. I don’t generally disagree. I’m just not totally sold yet. It doesn’t … I don’t know, stir my soul, or whatever.”
“Stir your soul?” Kevin echoed, doubtful. “That’s a pretty tall order for the song selection in a local beauty pageant’s talent show portion,” he pointed out. “Your soul, specifically, has gone to the Parrot Cay wellness retreat in Turks and Caicos—multiple times, I might add—and done yoga alongside the likes of Demi Moore and Karlie Kloss. It is not easily stirred by lesser experiences. Plus you’re not even competing!”
“Mmm,” she said. “The Ayurvedic scalp massage was pretty life changing, too. Remind me to book us one of those after I score those Hamilton tickets. That would be mental note number two. But, yes, point taken.”
“When do you have to submit your music to the pageant people?” I asked, thinking about solutions.
“Not until Friday,” Veronica said. “And TBH, I’m sure they’d let us sneak something in Saturday morning. I mean, not to fall back on anything so mundanely unappealing as blatant nepotism, but I am the mayor’s daughter. They’ll probably float us a few extra hours if we need it.”
“But the choreography would be different, if we went with ‘My Shot,’ ” Kevin pointed out. “So we don’t actually have until Friday.”
“Right. So, flip to decide—ballad or hip-hop? And, you know, your choices aren’t only Cats or Hamilton. If ‘Memory’ isn’t right, there’s definitely another ballad, something better that will come to you.”
“Flip a coin,” Veronica mused. “Could it really be so simple?”
“I’m in,” Kevin said. “Otherwise, we’re just at an impasse.”
Veronica smiled. “That’s the unfortunate downside of a partnership between two strong-willed, confident individuals. Our crosses to bear.”
“True.”
There was a small, comfortable-looking couch in a well-worn plaid pushed against the wall, and I settled into it now, bringing my soda with me. “Show me what you’ve got,” I suggested. “I want to see it, before you flip. And then we can take it from there.”
“Fresh eyes! Perfect, Archiekins!” Veronica held Kevin’s phone out to him. “Maestro, cue it up.”
Sweet Pea:
You around?
Josie:
What’s up?
Sweet Pea:
Just wondering if you wanted to chill tonight.
Josie:
Aw, thanks, but I can’t. Motorcade and Music is on Thursday, I’ve gotta practice.
Sweet Pea:
All work and no play …
Josie:
Keeps this diva on top.
JOSIE
I’d been in my room with noise-canceling headphones on when Sweet Pea texted. True to his semi-ironic Serpent name, homeboy really was a sweetie, but he just didn’t seem to get that I really wanted to keep our thing—whatever it was, or had been—low-key and under wraps.
Did I like him? Totally. And kissing him was not remotely a chore. But I was emphatically not in the market for a boyfriend right now. Yeah, I was lonely. But Juilliard was right there, floating out on the not-at-all-distant horizon like some kind of glittery mirage plucked straight from my wildest fantasies. Juilliard was the best, the absolute number one place to be, if I was seriously going to do this pop star, music thing. Which I was. I already was, really. Because I’m the best, too.
And sometimes being the best? Means making sacrifices.
I knew that all too well.
Another thing I knew? Connections—friends, boyfriends, people you might open your heart to, that you’d want to trust? Those don’t come easy. I’ve been burned, and it hurt. No matter how good I was at hiding that. When it comes to connections, I’d basically stopped trying to make them.
So, yeah—Sweet Pea and I were texting, and it was fine. But I was too busy to make time for him. And more than that, I was in a funk, and talking to him just now only served to remind me that I was in a funk.
I put my headphones down. Forget practice, forget thinking about the stupid motorcade. I stood up, stretched my arms overhead, and headed down to the kitchen to grab something to drink.
“Josie!”
I almost shrieked, I was so surpris
ed. I jumped back and slammed the refrigerator door shut, spilling some of the soda I’d just poured onto my shirt. It was cold and sticky. “Perfect.” Add a load of laundry to this evening’s roster and it was looking lit AF.
I turned to see Archie Andrews standing in the doorway, looking amused and also a little guilty. But not that guilty.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. He grabbed a handful of paper towels from the counter and wet them at the sink, then clumsily went to dab where the soda was soaking through my clothes, pulling back when he realized, awkwardly, that he was basically making an inadvertent grab for my chest.
He was so close to me I could smell whatever shampoo he used—grassy and fresh. For a second, goose pimples broke out on my arms. And that startled me even more than his coming up behind me in the kitchen, the way the sudden nearness caused a tiny involuntary reaction in me. I pulled away, grabbed my own paper towel, and started scrubbing my shirt—a little too intensely, like in a Lady Macbeth kind of way.
“It’s fine, Archie. Nothing a little time in the gentle cycle can’t solve.” I sighed.
Lit. AF. “Much simpler than most of my other problems.”
I swear I wasn’t fishing for a reaction; if you’d asked me whether I thought opening up to Archie Andrews was a good idea, I would have said you were insane. As I think I’ve established, I didn’t really think opening up to anyone was a good idea. It just came out. Long day.
(Week.)
(Month.)
(High school career?)
