The Day Before

by Micol Ostow

  “A strange couple came in.”

  Hmm. “Strange, how?”

  “My father said after, he could tell immediately they weren’t from around here. Their clothes, their Texas accents … obvious stuff, really. But it was more than that. Some people … they have the whiff of death about them.”

  “Yup.” Dilton sighed, but I waved a hand to shush him so I wouldn’t miss a word.

  “These two, they reeked of it,” Pop said. “It wafted in with them. They sat too close, laughed too loud—couldn’t keep their hands off each other.”

  “Sounds like typical Riverdale High students to me,” I joked.

  Pop looked at me sternly. “My father told me, that day, he saw something that chilled him to the marrow. He went to give that couple their tab and it was like … he had a vision, a glimpse of some future.” Pop shook his head. “Whatever he saw, those two would meet a bad end.”

  “Violence? Your father had a premonition?” Were we talking about ESP, here? That was maybe too much, even for a storyteller like me.

  “He didn’t go into too much detail, but yes. A shootout. And a bad end. My father wasn’t psychic or anything like that—this wasn’t some usual event for him. It hadn’t happened before, and as far as I know, it never happened again.” Pop swallowed. “The fella gave my father five dollars. Whole bill was only eighty cents. This was during the depression, mind you, and most folks were hard up. But not Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow.”

  “Hold up—you’re telling me your father waited on Bonnie and Clyde?” That electric charge zipped down my spine. I couldn’t type fast enough.

  “I’m telling you exactly that, son.”

  “I guess I was wrong,” I admitted. “Maybe there’s more to Riverdale than meets the eye. Maybe there always has been.” Here I’d been thinking milk shakes and manicured lawns. But gangsters and gun molls lurked, too.

  Dilton rolled his eyes. “No duh. And knowledge is power. You’re from the Southside, Jug. I don’t know why it’s so hard for you to believe Riverdale could have layers.”

  I bristled at the mention of class warfare. Sure, my father had a Serpent jacket hanging on a hook behind the trailer door. But he was a Serpent in name only. This wasn’t some West Side Story, Jets versus Sharks thing. “Maybe I should get myself one of those pocketknives.”

  “Joke all you want. If Pop and I can’t convince you, you’ll have to learn the hard way.” He spoke with no inflection. It almost sounded like a threat.

  “Dilton, you really need to chill by, like, at least ten percent. Next you’ll be telling me that Sweetie is real.” I couldn’t resist adding in a reference to Riverdale’s own version of the Loch Ness Monster, a mythical creature that haunts the banks of the Sweetwater River.

  “Jughead Jones, you hush,” Pop chided. “Maybe Sweetie is real, maybe not … but it’s no secret we’ve lost too many to that river. When I was growing up, nearly every summer we’d hear about another kid who got careless or distracted and drowned in the river. Some people accepted it as fact, but plenty others believed there was more to the story.”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Just a minute ago, Pop was telling us his father had presaged the deaths of Bonnie and Clyde, and it had seemed plausible enough. Now he was saying the river—our town, even—was innately cursed.

  “I, uh …” The conversation was veering on fantastical … but the air in the diner still had that electric feeling Pop spoke of. That sense that we were on the verge of something ineffable.

  Something we wouldn’t be able to control. And we wouldn’t be able to take back, either.

  Dilton smirked at me. I guess it’s always a treat when the resident wiseass runs out of comebacks.

  “Sure,” I said, snapping my laptop shut and standing. “More to the story.”

  “Blood moon, Jughead,” Dilton said, his tone singsongy and suggestive. “Let me know if you need … anything. The Scouts and I are watching.”

  “That’s … reassuring.” I nodded at Pop, our shorthand for We’ll deal with the bill later. (Speaking of mythical—was anything more mythical than this ongoing later we dealt in?) I started to say my good-byes, when I heard it:

  The spiky, stuttering roar of an engine.

  A motorcycle engine.

  There was only one bike around town that made that kind of a racket: my father’s.

  But what the hell would he be doing here now?

  I ran to the door just in time to see a bike tearing off in the distance—a cloud of exhaust trailing from the tailpipe that was as familiar a sight to me as Mom’s famous boxed mac and cheese.

  Dad. Definitely Dad.

  The bike was familiar, yeah. And so was the Serpent insignia on the back of his jacket as he drove away.

  VERONICA

  “You are a radiant goddess!” A willowy blonde shrieked at me with an intensity that was totally at odds with her cool, lithe, flawlessly fit presentation.

  Radiant goddesses don’t usually grunt and drip with sweat, but all bets are off during spin class, and I was in the zone. Besides, there was no one around to see me in all my red-faced, effortful, demigod glory, anyway: SoulCycle was so 2015, and switching to Flywheel when the owners parted ways felt like throwing down in a very East Coast/West Coast fashion. When it comes to taking sides, at the end of the day, I’m always going to be #TeamMe.

  So what’s a girl to do for her daily burn? Simple, obvi: If you build it, they will come. The it being a three-bike Peloton studio off my bedroom (we renovated the screening room after buying the apartment below us, converting the two, and creating a brand-new screening room with twice the seating. Win-win!). The they being Heather (and sometimes, Oceanna, when Heather is doing a pre-awards-show stint with her celeb clients in LA). Mom found her at the peak of Orangetheory madness on the Upper West Side; she poached her into private-client work, and Heather’s never looked back since.

  Heather reached for a set of hand weights stashed behind the seat of her bike and raised an eyebrow, indicating that I should do the same. I gave her my fiercest glare.

  “Almost there,” she urged. “And triceps are the new core.”

  I wished we could just fast-forward to whatever the new triceps would inevitably be, but I managed to squeeze out two sets of reps before the music slowed to some half-time, ballad-remix version of a popular club jam, Heather dimmed the lights, and she finally muttered those magic words: “Unclip.”

  “You are a radiant goddess,” I told her, happily dismounting the bike and stretching one leg across the handlebars to release my screaming hamstrings. “Sorry for the things I may have said during hill climbs.”

  “Great work today, Ronnie. As usual.” Heather smiled.

  “You know me. I’m an overachiever.” I freed my hair from its messy ponytail and shook it out, letting the tension in my neck and shoulders go.

  “No wonder you can be so intimidating.”

  I turned to see Old Faithful—aka Nick St. Clair—standing just beyond the propped-open doorway of the studio. Nick is the quintessential uptown boy—think Gatsby in high school, for better or for worse. And he was essentially wrapped around my perfectly manicured finger. But he still couldn’t resist an appreciative once-over of my form-fitting workout clothes. (And really, I couldn’t blame him. Lycra works for me.)

  “Don’t leer, it’s unbecoming of a man of your station,” I teased. “And don’t pretend you’re scared of me.”

  (He wasn’t pretending. Everyone is at least a little bit scared of me. How else would I ever get anything done?)

  “Smithers let me in. He sent me up with this.” Nick held out a small silver tray with two glasses of cucumber-infused water. I took one gratefully and passed the other to Heather.

  Heather took a sip, then leaned in to give me a sweaty air kiss on the cheek. She patted my shoulder. “Same time next week. Keep it tight, doll. You’ve got resistance bands if you want to stay on top of those triceps.”

  “If.” I laugh
ed and watched Nick watch Heather as she bounced out of the house in her own similarly tight spin clothes.

  I jostled him. “Leering again.”

  “Sorry.” He turned back to me and gave me his full attention. “Of course, I only have leer for you. I’ll stay on top of those triceps if you want me to.”

  “Ew. Be still my heart. Chivalry is not dead.” It wasn’t Casablanca—more like the first act of an Apatow movie—but believe it or not, for Nick St. Clair, that was actually a stab at romantic.

  We made our way back upstairs, where the dining room table had become command central: Mom was there, of course, alongside Rafe, in his signature uniform of black skinny jeans, gray V-neck, and leather Gucci high-tops. His Bluetooth earpiece winked from behind one ear, and he was fixated on an iPad with a level of concentration that verged on superhuman. Various other white-suited helpers flitted around the space, arranging artful sprays of lush, long-stemmed flowers, stringing elegant, dainty fairy lights, and clustering the furniture for optimal mingling capacity. They were the literal pros at this; my parents and I, we were old pros. I had to hand it to my mother, we had practically as many people in our house right now as we would have guests later, in various stages of event preparation, and she didn’t have a single raven-hued lock out of place. Her lipstick—NARS, Natalie—was impeccable. The woman was frazzle-proof.

  “Coming along nicely, Mom,” I said, eyeing a giant bowl filled with gold-plated sand dollars.

  “Sotheby’s,” Mom said, catching my gaze. “From Douglas Fairbanks’s Palm Beach estate.”

  “That’s a mega score,” I said, admiring the display. “And they’ll look amazing in the—”

  “Master bath vanity at Lodgehampton!” we finished together, laughing.

  Rafe glanced at us, holding up a finger to say we should keep it down. We giggled, but more quietly now, chastened. Finally finished with his call, he set the iPad down, back to the IRL world.

  “Ladies, you’re adorable, but you’re giving uptown dysfunctional families a bad name.”

  “Give it up, Rafe—the Lodges are actually a happy family. I know, it’s like finding a unicorn in your backyard. Very unexpected, and even more unbelievable.” Nick sounded wistful for a minute, even though his life was pretty charmed, too, I knew. But he was right—Mom and Dad were devoted to each other, and both were totally devoted to me. It may have made me easy to hate, among other, less fortunate peers, but what did I care? My life was damn near perfect.

  “You say that like you’re Oliver Twist and not Jay Gatsby,” I teased.

  “I feel like you’re missing the point of that book.”

  “I’m really not.” I smirked.

  “Play nice, m’hija,” Mom interrupted. She smiled at Nick. “And speaking of happy families, we’re looking forward to seeing your parents tonight.”

  “They can’t wait. Everyone knows the Fourth with the Lodges is the event of the summer.”

  “Is that why you’re here at the crack of”—I checked my Apple Watch (Daddy bought me my Cartier when I started high school, but sometimes, you want a statement piece that also sends texts)—“well, the crack of noon, I suppose, so a civilized hour. Barely.” Honestly, I’d been up since 7 a.m. with all the activity swirling around me, but weren’t teenage boys supposed to be nocturnal?

  “Aren’t you happy to see me?” Nick fake-pouted. It had been a while, actually; Nick and his family generally fled to the Italian Riviera in the weeks after school let out, some palazzo in Sardinia, while the rest of us fought to the death for a parking space at Nick and Toni’s in the East End like fools. He’d picked up a tan there, a slight flush to his chiseled cheekbones that actually went a long way toward forgiving an early and unannounced arrival.

  “Always happy to see you, mon cherie. But still surprised.”

  “She meant to say, she’s busy,” Mom put in. “Ronnie, we need your unassailable good taste while we get the house in order.”

  “By ‘unassailable good taste’ she means ‘extra set of hands,’ ” I assured Nick. “It’s her polite way of moving us along.”

  “Those are your words, not mine,” Mom protested, “but Rafe does have a checklist of action items just for you.”

  Rafe tapped the screen of his iPad meaningfully. “Some phone calls,” he explained.

  “I’m sorry, Nick, it’s total chaos. Maybe we can get some quality time at the party?” I made a face; we both knew it wasn’t likely I’d have more time with him when hostess duties kicked in for real.

  “Walk me to the door?” I would have done it anyway, but his eyebrows pinched together in a way that told me he’d come to discuss something specific.

  Once there, he turned to me, shifting his weight. Something was definitely up with my boy.

  “What is it, Nicky? What on earth has the unflappable Nick St. Clair sweating?”

  He flushed. “It’s just … Ah, I don’t really know how to say this, Ronnie.”

  “Say what?” I reached to brush his hair back from his forehead and he flinched slightly and pulled back from my hand.

  “Okay,” I said slowly. I ticked off the facts on my fingers as I spoke. “I haven’t seen you in weeks, you come by to say hi, I reach out to touch you, and you shrink away from me. What am I missing? Is this like some kind of riddle? Does it start with a block of ice and a locked room?” I reached those fingers out in a threatening tickle gesture, prompting a half-smile.

  “Ronnie, stop. Sorry, I’m being super weird,” Nick said, looking more and more sheepish. “I need to just come out with it.”

  “With this much buildup, I hope we’re looking at a Dynasty—the original—level of dramatic twist.”

  (Who doesn’t love some prime Joan Collins?)

  “The thing is, yeah, I’ve been gone a few weeks and, I mean … well, you know I have a reputation of, um, let’s say, dating around.”

  “You do have a well-established reputation as an unrepentant ladies’ man,” I agreed. “Hard-earned.”

  “But, well … while I was gone, I realized … Well, I realized I was thinking a lot. I was thinking a lot about you, Veronica.”

  Oh. My. God.

  “Nick St. Clair,” I said, shocked, but pleasantly so. “What’s happening here? Are you here to formally court me? Ask me on an honest-to-Gucci date-date? Because if so, that’s charming. Amazingly retro.” If Nick was having bona fide feels for me, I wasn’t sure what our next step was. But it wasn’t terrible news.

  “In a good way?”

  I laughed. “Yes, silly! But you know, you could have just come right out and told me.”

  “I tried! Like I said, you can sometimes be intimidating.” He pinched his fingers together in that “just a smidge” motion.

  “Moi? I don’t believe it.” I swatted his smidge away.

  “Believe it.” He gazed at me, steadily now, locking eyes with mine. “Anyway. It probably sounds kind of douchey to say, but you’ve known me forever, so I’ll just be straight: I honestly never expected there was a girl who’d stay on my mind for weeks at a time, even when we were apart.”

  “So this is some kind of romantic record for you?”

  Nick nodded. “So, I guess the only question mark here is you.”

  “Meaning, a date-date,” I said. “Even though we’ve never done more than flirt.”

  “A date-date. Exactly. Think full-on Julia Roberts movie.” Nick bit his lip.

  He suddenly seemed very young and very vulnerable, neither of which I was used to. It was a little bit thrilling, to be honest, being able to reduce Nick to such insecurity. But it wasn’t his most irresistible moment.

  What can I say? I’m attracted to power. It’s a Lodge thing.

  The dusting of freckles he’d acquired in Sardinia quivered high against his cheekbones. Poor boy; I had to give him some kind of response.

  “Nick,” I started, giving the hand that was still in mine a squeeze, “you know I adore you.”

  “But … maybe not in
a ‘that’ type of way?”

  “Honestly?” I swallowed. “I’m not sure. But, maybe that’s because I never thought about it before.”

  “Well, maybe … just think about it now. We can do a boat ride in Central Park. Or the Coney Island Cyclone. It will be a date worthy of an eighties rom-com montage.” He moved closer to me now, put his hands on my shoulders. I could feel his breath on my cheek, the warmth from his skin. The sensations conspired to confuse me even more; I was glad to have time to think about all of this.

  “I’ll think. I swear.” My skin felt prickly, like before a lightning storm, like I was seeing Nick St. Clair in a new light.

  “Take your time,” Nick said, his voice husky. “But not too much time.”

  “It’s a lot to think about,” I said, my voice soft.

  “It is,” Nick said, whispering as well. “I should probably go so you can get started.” He pulled me to him so his lips just brushed my cheek. “See you at the party?”

  “What?” For a second I was practically hypnotized. Me: Veronica Lodge, who had everyone in my life eating out of the palm of my hand. “Um, of course. The party.” Suddenly, I was looking forward to it even more. I hadn’t thought that was possible.

  Nick gave a wave and disappeared into the elevator. I shook my head to try to clear away the spontaneous burst of oxytocin. I had phone calls to make! And other action items to see about. I couldn’t afford to be in a fog all day. Not even one as unexpected and delicious as this.

  I turned to head back to the dining room and nearly collided with Smithers. He had a dauntingly tall stack of papers in his arms, Lodge Industries letterhead winking out from the top of the pile. He seemed startled when he realized he’d bumped into me.

  “Doing a little light filing, Smithers?” I joked. “How have you managed to escape party planning duties? I’d been given to believe it was an all-hands-on-deck situation.”

  Smithers smiled, but—and it may have been my imagination—the expression looked strained, especially around his eyes. “Yes, well. Not to worry, Miss Veronica, I’ll be joining you just as soon as I finish disposing of these.”