The Day Before

by Micol Ostow

  I sent my own thumbs-up back. (I’ve always been particularly proud of my own Bitmoji’s perfect high ponytail.) Normally, I’d never keep Polly waiting—we talk, like, ten times a day, minimum, anyway, but it felt like I was on a roll and I needed to keep rolling, no distractions.

  I scrolled through my messages again, then my recent calls, just to be sure. Nothing from Veronica Lodge. And, of course, no email, either. Frustrating.

  Then again, I’d managed to squeeze two hundred words out about wallpaper. Veronica Lodge was no match for me.

  All those years I spent holed up in my room reading Nancy Drew mysteries, Mom always nagged and tried to get me out of the house. Studying was one thing—Coopers keep their grades up, keep appearances up, keep their chins up, blah, blah, blah … but reading, ugh. Alice Cooper was not impressed.

  “Elizabeth, what have I taught you? Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses,” she’d say, hovering in my doorway.

  “Mom, what decade are you living in? No one cares if I read, and if they do, well, forget them! And besides—I don’t wear glasses, anyway.” I blinked at her like an eager Disney character to emphasize the statement.

  Mom rolled her eyes; we both knew that wasn’t the point. But she left me alone about the Nancy Drew, in the end. Finally.

  She tried, anyway, is the point—she wanted a good girl for a daughter, but not necessarily a brainiac. Joke’s on her, though, because I read all the time now—and I’m almost a professional writer with this summer internship.

  But back to Nancy Drew, my first and longest literary love. I loved reading about a teen girl—she could be me! (even though I was, like, ten at the time)—and how with her wits and her friends, she could crack any mystery. I wanted to be just like her.

  And now, Diary? I may finally have my chance.

  The thing is, nothing mysterious ever happened in Riverdale. (If Halloween candy went “missing” before the trick-or-treaters came, Jughead was usually the culprit.) But based on what just happened at work, I’m wondering if maybe, just maybe, someone’s out to get me.

  Paranoid? Sure. Crazy? Maybe. But these are the facts:

  There I was, flush from the high of filing my first story. A date tonight with a cute boy. An encyclopedic knowledge of temporary wallcoverings that would probably never ever come in handy again, but WHO CARED? I was tired, I was energized, I was exhilarated, my scalp ached from constantly tightening my ponytail out of my face, and I’d never felt better.

  Also, I was hungry, I realized.

  I left my phone on my desk and made my way to the Hello Giggles kitchen. Like everything else in the office, it was decorated in muted, cheery washes of pastel, with gleaming white shelving lining the walls. Taking a cue from trendy tech start-ups, the space was stocked with irresistible “healthy” snacks: coconut water, fresh fruit, dispensers of gourmet nuts and granola, an espresso machine that required a degree in engineering to work, but pumped out a nonfat soy latte better than anything you’d pay for at The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf.

  I grabbed a packet of seaweed chips (I could see Archie laughing, horrified that I was willingly eating things like seaweed and sushi now that I was an LA girl) and an apple, and bounced back to my desk.

  When I got there, Rebecca was waiting for me.

  I didn’t love the look on her face.

  “Hey,” I said, trying to keep my smile from wavering. She looked upset about something, but what could it possibly have to do with me?

  “Betty,” she began, dashing any hope I was clinging to that it didn’t have to do with me.

  “What’s up?” I felt dumb, standing there with my snacks, but she was at my desk, blocking it so that I couldn’t sit or put anything down, either, so I just had to stand there, awkwardly swinging an apple in one hand and a package of seaweed chips in another.

  She put a hand on her hip. “You know at Hello Giggles we strive to foster a place of respect.”

  “Of course.” I racked my brain: Had I accidentally disrespected someone? Again, something I thought only happened in old rap videos, but maybe I just didn’t know what I didn’t know.

  “Well.” She pursed her lips; I knew from last week’s beauty round-up that she was wearing “Up in the air” fly away gloss from the new ColourPop (sic) butterfly-inspired collection.

  I mean, if that didn’t prove I was Employee of the Freakin’ Month, what would?

  She hesitated, like she was debating how far to take whatever she was about to say or do. Then she took a deep breath and reached under my desk.

  “What are you …?” I trailed off, confused and annoyed, but also not wanting to sound quite as confused and annoyed as I was feeling. Why was she touching my stuff?

  She pulled up my backpack, a—you guessed it—floral-printed, quilted nylon number in a pink that had seemed so bright and happy when I saw it in the store, but felt garish and immature and desperately wrong right now. I wanted to cringe, seeing it hanging from Rebecca’s perfect, acid-yellow manicured fingers.

  Then she put the backpack down on my desk and started rifling through it.

  “Okay, what?” Now I stepped forward, outrage outweighing any sense of subservience. But she held a hand up, not physically holding me back—that was probably illegal and very un–Hello Giggles, besides—but sending a message loud and clear.

  Out it came: a Tarte eye palette in “In Bloom” neutrals. A bronzer and contouring kit. A set of false eyelashes dusted in gold glitter. And then—somehow, the most damning of all—a diaphanous, breezy, cheetah-print maxi dress that I recognized instantly from the Michael Kors resort collection.

  (I’m telling you: Employee of the Freakin’ Month.)

  “Betty.” My name coming from Rebecca’s mouth sounded like the worst kind of insult.

  “I don’t know what that is,” I started. “I mean, I know what it is, obviously, but I don’t know what it’s doing in my bag.”

  “Betty. Stop.” That hand again, raised flat to my face, like she couldn’t even bear to look me in the eye. “Look, we all know the beauty closet belongs to us all. In fact, it’s encouraged that employees play around in there, have fun, try things out. How else will we get our ideas for new stories and features?”

  “Right.” Although gold false eyelashes would definitely never be my thing, I could say that for sure right now. (Though they do photograph REALLY well. They really make everyone’s eyes pop.)

  “In fact, I’m pretty sure we’ve encouraged you to experiment more with the product samples we receive.”

  That was the truth. Another strike against me. I was kind of a one-and-done girl, even as my LA Betty alter ego: black curling mascara, some lip gloss, a rosy glow. But somehow, I didn’t think this was a lecture about my all-too-predictable makeup routine.

  “But I didn’t think you’d stoop to this.” Her voice dripped with contempt.

  “I didn’t. Stoop. But, I guess—” I was babbling, grasping for the right words to undo whatever was happening right now. “Honestly, I’m not even sure what this is. I did the sushi run, I’ve been trying to track down Veronica Lodge, I filed that story about wallpaper … that’s it. That’s literally all I’ve done today.”

  “Do you think lying makes this better?” she asked bitterly. “Look, I’m sorry you got caught, and you’re embarrassed, but there’s no other explanation: At some point, you raided the closet. And that wouldn’t be an issue, except that for whatever reason, you decided the top shelf was fair game.”

  The top shelf: where we put aside anything that’s been pulled for a particular feature or upcoming shoot. That was one of the commandments at this place: Thou Shalt Not Pilfer the Top Shelf of the Closet.

  I am not, as we know, a rule-breaker by nature.

  Of course, I didn’t take that stuff.

  Anger rose in me, hot and bubbly. I clenched my hands so tightly I could feel little half-moon scars forming where my nails dug into the skin.

  “Look, Rebecca,” I said, trying to
keep my voice from shaking, “I don’t know how that stuff got into my bag, but I can promise you, I didn’t take it.”

  She looked doubtful. I couldn’t totally blame her: There was the evidence, right in front of us, after all. Seeing is believing. But then that red-hot, live-wire rage bubbled up again: I busted my ass for this place. Every. Damn. Day. Didn’t I deserve the benefit of the doubt?

  “The question is why, Betty?” Rebecca shoved my backpack back under the desk and gathered all of the “stolen” things up.

  “There is no why,” I said, letting the anger creep into my voice. “I’m telling you, it wasn’t me. I know better than to take from the top shelf. And I don’t steal. Or lie.” I stared at Rebecca, daring her to break eye contact. “You know this internship’s been everything I’ve ever wanted as a writer. You know I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me since I got here. Why would I sabotage that? Especially just when you’re giving me a big break, a chance to do some writing? Simple: I wouldn’t.”

  She looked away, which I had to admit was a little bit satisfying. Then she looked back, cool and composed even if we still hadn’t gotten to the bottom of what was going on. “That stuff ended up in your bag somehow.”

  “Obviously.”

  “There’s no one else here today, either.”

  But that wasn’t true. The office was empty, but not completely empty.

  “There’s one person.” Cleo was still at the reception desk. She was pretending to idly file her nails, but I could tell from the way her shoulders were thrown back that she was listening to this exchange eagerly.

  Nothing like watching a hyena get ripped apart by a lion from your own safe and cozy hiding spot.

  “I hope you’re not accusing Cleo of somehow setting you up.”

  I shrugged. “Someone did. I don’t know if it was her. All I know is, she’s here. And honestly, I don’t see why me raising that point is any worse than whatever’s being done to me.”

  There was a long pause, during which I wondered if my time at Hello Giggles had just come to a very unceremonious close. And if so, how I’d break that to my friends and family back home in Riverdale, who were all rooting for me.

  I tried again, more softly, this time. “Rebecca. I’m not accusing anyone. But it looks like someone is setting me up, like you say. I don’t know who would do that, or why. Look, I know you don’t know me that well, I haven’t been here that long, but I didn’t take that stuff. I wouldn’t. Just give me a chance to prove it. And a chance to figure out what’s going on.”

  Rebecca stared at the false eyelashes box like it contained the secrets of the universe. There was another interminable pause, interrupted by little buzzes that had to be Cleo’s phone. Ugh, was she texting someone about this? I had no idea why she would be out to get me, but the idea that she was savoring it made it all even worse.

  Rebecca sighed. “I read your piece, Betty. It was good. You’re obviously a natural writer.”

  She wasn’t saying I was forgiven or that this whole thing was over, but it was a compliment. We were heading in the right direction, at least. “Thanks.”

  “And we believe in second chances at Hello Giggles.”

  (It was true. Rebecca in particular loved a good celebrity comeback story. Rehabilitation with a layer of contrition was her jam. I didn’t know what that said about her own backstory.)

  “So how about this? Everything goes back into the closet. Top shelf. Not to be disturbed again.”

  I clenched my fists, wanting to insist again that, of course, I hadn’t been the one to disturb it in the first place. But I forced myself to breathe. “Right away.”

  “Assuming nothing goes missing again—”

  Another clench of my fists, another deep breath—

  “We’ll just chalk this up to an innocent mistake.”

  But it wasn’t MY mistake, I wanted to scream. I knew, though, that it would be the wrong tactic to take.

  “Just get the piece on Lodge done and filed,” Rebecca said. “I think we’re all ready for the holiday to start.”

  “Done,” I said.

  And it would be. I’d write that piece on Veronica Lodge, mysterious cipher/heiress about town. And Rebecca would love it.

  But that wasn’t all. Before I left for the holiday, I’d take care of one other thing:

  I was going to Nancy Drew this whole scenario, Diary. I was going to figure out who was working against me.

  And then? I was going to shut them down. Hard.

  A note to our shareholders:

  We at Blossom Maple Farms have heard the recent concerns regarding our efforts to distance our business from its long ties with Lodge Industries, one of our earliest and most controversial partners. Rest assured, our team has conducted extensive research about how best to go about this process, and it will be handled with our signature finesse and fortitude. As you well know, we’ve worked long and hard to explore the legal ramifications of this decision and don’t take these steps lightly.

  We at Blossom are fully confident that once this dissolution is complete, our business will see unprecedented growth.

  Feel free to reach out to our offices if you have further questions or concerns.

  Best,

  Blossom Maple Syrup: “Have some syrup with that, Ma’am!”

  JUGHEAD

  Next to Pop’s, the Twilight might have been my favorite place in Riverdale, even if it weren’t the backdrop for the few Norman Rockwell moments I got to have in my freakshow of a life. Even though the Joneses have always been Southsiders—meaning we’ve never had much cash to spare—there was a time when I spent every Saturday night here, and I wasn’t getting paid to work the projector.

  These days, it was hard to recall, but there was a time when even a screwup, semi-alcoholic, semi-reformed gang member like my dad managed to scrape together enough money to pile the whole family into the car for weekly movie nights.

  (Okay, fine, Jellybean was hiding on the floor to save some cash. But it was still pretty decadent for us.)

  We’d pack our own snacks from home—off-brand chips, discounted cans of soda way past their expiration date—and once the movie was underway, Jellybean was safe to come out of hiding. (Truth be told, I’m pretty sure the ticket takers always knew she was there and looked the other way. Once in a blue moon, even a Southsider can catch a small break, I guess.) She and I would stretch out in the backseat, propped up on pillows against the doors, and Mom and Dad would hold hands in the front seat. Inside the bubble of that car, there was no fighting. It was some weird, magical alternate universe where somehow, we were granted two-hour increments of being our best selves to one another.

  I know, I know—I’m getting uncharacteristically sentimental. But movie nights were those rare occasions where we were all together and happy.

  Even before Mom left with Jellybean, it had been a while since Dad arranged one.

  So when Sal, the old ticket taker and manager of the Twilight, came to me two years ago and asked if I wanted to take over day-to-day (well, more like night-to-night, but you get it), there wasn’t any reason to say no. It wouldn’t be spoiling a happy family memory by turning a place of recreation into a place of employment, because by then, those happy memories had already started to fade.

  (There’s that trademark Jughead Jones cynicism for you.)

  Now, yeah, okay, it was work. But it was a relief to have a little bit of pocket change so I could occasionally make a dent in my tab at Pop’s. And even with my family having totally unraveled, demolishing any connection the drive-in might have to happy childhood memories, this place was still a haven. More so, because now, it was my escape.

  I knew the inside of the projection booth as well as I knew the flimsy aluminum walls of our trailer. I’d memorized all the initials carved and Sharpied into them, imagining life histories for those I didn’t recognize or personally know. The smell of the field—smoke and stale popcorn, with a hint of deep earth lying just beneath—was al
most Pavlovian to me; one whiff and I was relaxed, as close to my happy place as I’d ever be.

  My favorite time to be at work was after the movie—which I got to choose, for the most part, and was one of the better perks of the gig—when all the cars had filtered out and the concession stand workers were gone. Then it was just me and the lingering images from the screen, photo negatives replaying in my mind, that satisfied sense of completion hanging in the air.

  Setup was okay, too—I loved the metal-on-metal sound the film canisters made when you popped them open, and the whirring of the film being fed into the projector. And even I got a kick out of cheerful, hopeful people up for a fun night out, away from whatever cinematic drama was actually playing out in the movie of their own real lives, ready to be absorbed in someone else’s story.

  I was pretty absorbed myself, too. The movie was ready to go—a special director’s cut edition I’d scored with an alternate ending that would blow everyone’s minds—and I was just shoving some clutter out of the way of my seat in the projection booth, idly scanning those walls for my dad’s and mom’s initials, like I always did. Even knowing that they weren’t there, wouldn’t suddenly somehow appear from thin air. Knowing that Dad wasn’t the type for sentimental gestures of his own, really.

  I came outside to clear some trash from the field—the concession guy Ben’s job, really, but he wasn’t coming in until later, and weirdly, straightening was meditative in a way. As the door banged shut behind me, I saw two figures slouched by the screen. They flinched at the noise and looked up at me, and I realized I knew one of them.

  “Sal?” The owner was here. That almost never happened. And who was he talking to? Some guy in a Serpents jacket, greasy hair and torn jeans making him look like an extra from Central Casting for some West Side Story summer stock performance.

  “Hey, Jughead,” Sal called. He waved from across the lot. “Just came in for a meeting.” Like this was a law firm or bank and not a drive-in. Like that Outsiders greaser was carrying a briefcase and not (most likely) a switchblade in his pocket.