by Micol Ostow
She seemed to be waiting for me to say something. “It’s a little … loud?” We try not to put out any negative energy at Hello Giggles, so constructive criticism always has to be very thoughtfully parsed.
“Yes! Loud!” She seemed deeply relieved that I’d found the right wording. “Also, I just read on Design Sponge that woodwork is the new wallpaper and”—another heavy sigh—“I don’t know, I’m just not feeling this at all. It seems so uninspired.”
She really did look utterly bored and bereft. She probably never would have even been this open with me in the first place, if it weren’t for the holiday and the fact that I was basically the only one around. But who cared? Rebecca was finally talking to me! Asking my opinion!
She slumped down at the conference table and rifled through the bag of food, digging out her order. I stood awkwardly for a second, not sure what to do next.
“What did you get?” Rebecca asked. “Something, right? You have to eat. Or, I don’t know, maybe you’re an aspiring actress and you don’t eat. Stranger things happen in this town.”
“No, I definitely eat,” I assured her. Tentatively, I took out my own food. There aren’t many (read: any) sushi restaurants in Riverdale, and I learned very quickly that a spicy tuna roll and side of edamame are two of my favorite things about LA.
Rebecca hadn’t come out and asked me to sit with her, sure, but close enough. And I might never get another chance like this again. I decided to go for it, pulling out a chair for myself. LA Betty—flirtier and more daring than my usual, girl-next-door self—was having lunch with her boss.
Rebecca kept up a steady stream of sighing and drumming her fingers on the conference table in between bites. The space between us began to feel squishy and thick, like a thundercloud. It wasn’t a comfortable silence. Daring, LA Betty decided—why not, given the day she was having?—to jump in.
“So, woodwork is the new wallpaper, huh?” Brilliant, scintillating commentary, Cooper. I winced, wanting to hide under the table until it was time to go home. But this was LA Betty, who doesn’t hide. I pushed on.
“Is that like … beadboard? And … shiplap?” I wracked my brain thinking back to those home improvement shows Polly likes to watch on lazy Sundays. “But I heard that shiplap is overdone?” At least, that’s what the redhead with the perfect ringlets on Home Helpers said once. I think. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what shiplap was.
Rebecca perked right up. “It is overdone! Girl, we are on the same wavelength.”
Thank you, Home Helpers. And Polly’s mindless binge-TV habits.
“But research shows that our readers love things like temporary wallpaper because it’s such an easy way to transform their space without pissing off parents, RAs, or landlords. SO”—she waved an arm out—“ALL the florals.”
“Right, but …” More HGTV trivia seeped from some far-flung corner of my brain. “They have sticky paper that looks like woodwork. And exposed brick. Even concrete, if you’re into that industrial vibe.” I smiled. “There is shiplap-patterned wallpaper in this world.”
Rebecca shrieked. “Genius. Love. Great, this story’s yours.”
I nearly choked on an edamame bean. “What? I mean, great! Thanks! That’s awesome! I won’t let you down.” I was gushing, this was as embarrassing as being too shy, too tentative. Where was my “happy medium” button?
But Rebecca just laughed. “It’s two hundred words about wallpaper. I’m not worried.”
“Cool.” I took a deep breath. Chill, LA Betty. You’re in.
“But, actually, as long as you’re here, there is something else you could help out with. I’m really in a bind. As you can see, it’s dead here today. And I can’t get the ‘remote workers’ on the line. Obvi they’re all very busy getting a head start at ‘remote working’ on their holiday tans.”
I’ve never been more grateful for my pathological sun-protection habits.
“Of course, anything.”
“It’s for our lifestyle section. It just landed in our lap from fashion. Supposedly, the fashion editor got a lead that Grace Coddington has a hot young protégé intern at Vogue for the summer. Normally, I’d say, who cares? Socialites are a dime a dozen. But this girl’s the real deal, the next Olivia Palermo in terms of influence. Nobody below the age of twenty-one in New York City sneezes—or buys a new lip stain—without her approval.”
Um, terrifying. “So, a profile?”
“An interview, yeah. But it’s gotta be stat, for real—I want it up tonight, midnight latest. Her family does this Fourth of July thing that’s the ultimate scene. I mean, people come in from Montauk for this thing. You could go from New York to LA in less time!” She was practically speaking a foreign language, but I nodded my head knowingly.
“So I want a focus on that. Last year, BuzzFeed scooped us with photos of Kelly Klein’s American flag donut wall. This will be bigger.” Her eyes narrowed. “It needs to be.”
I had no idea the niche area of socialite lifestyle reporting was so cutthroat. (It made me glad I wasn’t here for that whole donut-wall debacle, whatever that was.) But I was on it. This wasn’t the big break into journalism I’d been hoping for, but an open door is an open door. And LA Betty, apparently, is all about jumping in with both feet.
(And mixing metaphors. Which I’d have to work on before I PUBLISHED MY FIRST PIECE ON HELLO GIGGLES!)
“Bigger. Of course. And I’ll file it by midnight, no problem.” An image of Rad Brad flashed in my brain, but I’d find a way to juggle both, whatever. I didn’t want to pass either up. “So who’s this new It Girl I need to track down?”
“Here.” Rebecca scribbled something on a Post-it and passed it to me. “That’s her private cell. If anyone asks, we got it from … Well, if anyone asks how we got the number, just play dumb.”
“Right.” I looked down at the Post-it. Bold letters screamed back at me: This is your big break, LA Betty. Get it done.
Even the name sounded imperious, official. Nobody in New York sneezes without her approval. And I had to get her to talk:
VERONICA LODGE.
JUGHEAD
If Riverdale never changes, then Pop’s Chock’Lit Shoppe is its most immutable icon. That glowing neon sign is practically a landmark unto itself. They should enter it in the historical register. I don’t even want to think how many hours I’ve spent with my butt glued to a vinyl diner booth. Or how many burgers Pop’s put on my running “tab.”
I’m gonna pay it, of course. As soon as I can. I just need to figure out how. Easier said than done. Archie works for his dad. My dad … well, in theory, my dad works for Archie’s dad, too. That’s the story, anyway. We’re on such different schedules these days, I never see him around. My Spidey-sense tells me that’s not a great thing.
Archie, my dad … is everyone fading away from me this summer?
Maybe I’m wrong about things never changing in Riverdale. It’s like that poem, “Nothing Gold Can Stay.”
Is it any wonder Pop’s has become my home away from home? It’s always open, and Pop is always behind the counter. One constant, at least.
Like I said, the lot was empty-ish but not abandoned that morning; as I got closer, I saw Jason Blossom leaning against the side of the building, hunched over a phone, texting furiously. His skin seemed extra pale, translucent, even, in the dawning sun. He was frowning.
“Hey,” I said as I drew closer. He glanced up, gave me a quick once-over. His expression was totally inscrutable.
Jason and I run in very different crowds. He’s the kind of guy who’s … never been especially happy to see me, and this morning was no exception. I didn’t take it personally. Honestly, standing there in the blinding sunlight, he reminded me of a ghost.
“Texting your adoring fans?” It was a weird thing to say. But then again, Jason was on varsity water polo—at least two-thirds of the female student body crushed on him at some point in their tenure at Riverdale High.
“Uh, sure.” He went back to his ph
one, tapping away. I couldn’t get a read on his energy—hyper, alert, eager, but also distracted, preoccupied, nervous. It was too many feelings for one body, if you ask me. I’m not sure he even realized I was still standing there. I took the hint.
The bell over the front door jangled as I walked into the diner. Pop was wiping down the counter, but he looked up and gave me a broad smile that made up for Jason’s total lack of interest. “Jughead Jones! I had a feeling you’d be stopping in.”
“Am I that predictable, Pop?”
“Predictability is good for business, boy.”
“I think that’s only true for customers who pay their tabs,” I replied, sheepish.
He waved me away. “I’m not worried. We’ll square up soon enough.” He filled a mug with coffee, black, and slid it toward me. “Now, is it too early in the day for a hamburger?”
I rolled my eyes. “Never.”
Double cheeseburger, medium rare, pink on the inside with the cheddar oozing sticky on the (untoasted, never toasted) bun. Pickles, tomatoes, maybe an onion, but no lettuce—it’s just water in crunchy form. That was my order, and of course, Pop knew it by heart. Never mind that the sun had barely risen, I ate like I didn’t know where my next meal might come from (even though we all knew it would probably be this exact same meal, at this exact same place). My clunky, trusty old laptop sat on the counter next to me, but I hadn’t opened it yet. I was mostly concentrating on the food.
“Are those fries crispy enough for you?” Pop asked, refilling my water. I liked them so overcooked they were basically burnt. I held a perfect specimen up to him in a “cheers” gesture and wolfed it down.
“A-plus as usual.” I shoveled another handful in.
“Careful. You don’t slow down and actually chew, you’re going to choke. And I don’t want to be responsible for something like that.”
“Don’t worry, Pop, I’m no amateur. It won’t come to that.”
I took a big swig of water and glanced at my phone. I still had plenty of time before I needed to get to the Twilight and start setting up for the movie. A leisurely morning with my computer would be nice, maybe … if it weren’t a reminder of how little I actually had to do. How little I actually had in the world.
Still, though … I was looking forward to road-tripping with Archie. I almost didn’t want to admit to myself how much I was looking forward to that. Especially since my phone was registering exactly zero missed calls or texts.
“Have you …” I tried to sound casual, but maybe Pop was right, and I really was biting off more than I could chew, because my throat caught for a second there. I pulled it together. “Have you seen Archie in here lately, Pop?”
Has it really been a week since we talked like nothing ever changed?
It had. Of course it had. And I knew it.
He stared off for a second, thinking it over. “Lately? I don’t know about that. Sometimes he does lunch runs for his father—he’s a good boy, that one.”
A good boy, that was Archie Andrews. A good friend, too—or, at least, he used to be.
“But, no,” Pop said, breaking into my momentary reverie. “I haven’t seen him in a few days at least. I don’t know what he’s been getting up to. Last time he sat down he was with you—the night of the storm. A week ago?”
“Right.” The night he told me about his music, when we made the Centerville plan.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you what he’s up to?” Pop went on. “You two being so inseparable?” He was playing casual, but I knew he was taking in every word, every micro-expression. Pop doesn’t miss a thing.
“Things change, I guess,” I said, finally admitting the unavoidable aloud. “Even in sleepy old Riverdale.”
The door chimed as if on cue, so perfectly timed, for a second I thought we’d somehow conjured Archie up with the sheer power of suggestion. But it was Dilton Doiley, fresh from whatever psycho-survivalist predawn scenario he’d been rehearsing with his Adventure Scouts.
“Now, there’s your ‘predictable.’ ” I arched an eyebrow. Dilton took the whole “be prepared” adage to the next level.
Dilton scowled at me and adjusted his red bandana (though, to be fair, his default expression is pretty intense and scowl-ish).
He pushed a hank of thick hair out of glasses-framed eyes. “It’s crucial to be ready for any and all possible contingencies in today’s fraught climate, Jughead. We don’t all have the luxury of burying ourselves in”—he waved a hand at my laptop—“make-believe stories.”
“Sure, okay,” I said, not wanting to get Dilton more riled up. “Fraught climate, whatever. Silly me, here I was, just calling Riverdale ‘sleepy.’ ” I shrugged. “No drama here.” Unless you count whatever’s going on with Archie. “I mean, except for that time you got called out by Weatherbee for having a … was it a knife at school?” That was May, just before finals.
More scowling. “A pocketknife, yes. Standard Scout-issue. The whole thing was ridiculous. But such is my burden.” He nodded, like he was reassuring himself of what he was saying. “You have no idea what it’s like, Jughead. Knowing something horrible is going to happen. Being certain. But not knowing what or when.”
“Dilton, did anyone ever tell you, you can be kind of a downer?” I smiled to show I was teasing. (I mean, people tell me that all the time. Takes one to know one, and all.)
“My dad always said, ‘The world is tough and unforgiving. The universe is out to get us. Everything doesn’t always work out for the best.’ ”
I thought of my mom, of Jellybean’s face peering back over her shoulder, out the window of the backseat of Mom’s car as they drove off. “Fair enough.”
“Just look around,” he went on, as if there were some clue to the mysteries of the unknown etched into the linoleum surface of Pop’s countertop. “Don’t you think it’s … significant that the holiday overlaps with a blood moon?”
“I … gotta be honest, I didn’t realize it did.” And I have no idea what a ‘blood moon’ is, I didn’t bother to add. “Dilt … didn’t Weatherbee tell you to maybe, uh, relax a little?” Between the laser beams burning from his eyes and the odd vibe Jason Blossom was throwing off in the parking lot, the air at Pop’s was seriously strange today.
He snorted. “What does he know? An ostrich, like the rest of them—keeps his head buried in the sand. The apocalypse is nigh. And my Scouts and I, we’re going to be ready.”
“If the apocalypse is so nigh, why are you dragging a bunch of Adventure Scouts into the woods to greet it with open arms?”
“You’re not following me, Jones. I’m the only one who’s prepared for it. My dad trained me. And the boys need me.”
“Okay, okay.” I should’ve known better than to try to reason with Dilton. “I’ll keep an eye out for this blood moon you speak of. It’ll probably be the most exciting thing to happen to Riverdale in a long time.”
“Be careful what you wish for, son,” Pop chimed in. “You may think this town is sleepy, but you’re young still. Dilton may be a touch wound-up, but I wouldn’t count him out.”
“Thank you.” Dilton sniffed.
“What are you talking about, Pop?” Talk about Spidey-sense; my skin was tingling the way it does when I’m on a good story thread, when the words are pouring out of my fingers on their own.
“We do have some history. Riverdale—and also the Chock’Lit Shoppe. Keep in mind, Pop’s has been here even longer than Riverdale itself. Of course, it was different in those days.”
My ears perked up and my fingers crept toward my laptop. Something told me this was going to be worth recording. I glanced at Pop, expectant. Dilton perched himself on the stool beside me, just as curious as I was.
“My father, Pop Senior, opened this place as a pharmacy and soda fountain. No food, just ice cream and soda pop.”
“No burgers?” My stomach grumbled just thinking about it. “That’s a travesty.”
“It didn’t seem to bother people,” Pop said. “I’ve s
erved all types. Even some celebrities.”
“Celebrities. In Riverdale?” Josie and her Pussycats were the closest thing we had to celebrities, these days. Thornton Wilder couldn’t have written Riverdale more picturesque.
“Sure. We’ve had the honor of serving some presidents, even, over the years. Some on the campaign trail. Others during … less happy times.” His eyes darkened for a moment, but he didn’t elaborate.
“Neil Armstrong stopped in for a tuna melt once! Guy tracked mud all over my floor,” he mused. “Not that I cared, mind you. Those were feet that had touched the moon. Oh, and one night, around two in the morning, that wacky singer … Madonna—she rolled in on a party bus with her dancers. She liked my chicken and waffles so much, she offered me tickets to her concert. But I gave ’em to my waitresses. I’m not much for loud events.”
“I guess that must’ve been before she went all macrobiotic,” I said. “Pop, those are some really big sightings.” It was crazy that he had all these stories just locked up inside himself. Maybe when the school year started, I’d think about publishing a profile in The Blue & Gold or something. Pop was a local hero, an oral historian.
Then again, publishing in the school newspaper meant joining the school newspaper, and as I think I’ve already established, I’m not much of a joiner. So maybe not …
“You’re darn right those are big sightings.” Pop was clearly proud, and rightly so. “Matter of fact, see that dollar bill over there on the wall?” He pointed to a small frame by the register that I’d somehow never noticed before. “That was a tip my father got from one of the most famous … or should I say, infamous guests we’ve ever had.
“My father had just opened the shop a couple of years prior. It was a Tuesday, during the middle of the afternoon rush. There was electricity in the air. You know how you can feel it?”
“Yes,” I said at the same time Dilton said, “Definitely.” Kinda feeling it now, Pop, to be honest.