The Day Before

by Micol Ostow

  “Just let us know if you hear anything from Lodge,” the Serpent was saying in a contrived stage whisper that suggested that he knew I wasn’t really supposed to hear the conversation, but also really didn’t care.

  “I can … I can keep you informed.” Sal looked uncomfortable, which wasn’t how I was used to seeing him. The Twilight was basically his second home—his happy place way more than mine, even.

  They shook hands—stiffly—and Sal came over to me. “I see you’re on top of things here, Jughead.” He was speaking stiffly, too, all mechanical and awkward. “Not that I’d expect anything less.”

  “Sure. I mean, it’s my job.” What else did I have to do today, anyway? Interview Dilton Doiley for more details on his doomsday theories? That was a little too The Number 23 for my taste, thanks.

  (Though I had made a note to be sure to press Pop for more dirt on the sordid patronage of the Chock’Lit Shoppe.)

  “I’m just going to cash out the register for Ben, get it set for him for tonight,” he said. He hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. He smelled like drugstore aftershave and sweat. Like he was nervous. Whatever the Serpents were here for, he wasn’t happy about it.

  “Sounds good,” I said. I forced some pep into my voice, Riverdale-style, trying to pretend it was totally normal that he was here, that this wouldn’t be the first time we’d be side by side for setup since the week after I was hired. He seemed grateful for my efforts.

  I grabbed the trash bag I’d been filling and fished a new pair of gloves out of my pocket, eager to get back to the trash. But before I could, the Serpent was in my face. He smelled like sweat, too—but somehow in a menacing way. Sweat and leather and something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on—and didn’t want to. “Jughead Jones,” he said tauntingly. “Look at you, such a choirboy. Doing honest work, collecting garbage.” He spat the word out like a personal insult.

  “Sorry to offend you.” I shrugged. I’m not scared of the Serpents, even though plenty of people from Riverdale are.

  Yes, they’re a gang, and yes, they absolutely are petty thieves and sometime drug dealers. But for the most part, they do their thing and let the good citizens of Riverdale do their own.

  A little bit of history: The Serpents date as far back as the 1940s, during the founding of Riverdale. The snake itself and all the laws of the gang were based on Uktena tradition.

  The Uktena is a snake, or a water serpent. It’s also the name of the indigenous tribe that laid claim to this land before the founders conquered and slaughtered them. Fun fact: The raid was led by General Pickens, whose statue stands proudly in Riverdale’s own Pickens Park to this day.

  (In that context, it’s pretty messed up that the Serpents are the ones painted as the enemy in this Manifest Destiny BS scenario.)

  After the raid, the remaining Uktena formed the Serpents as a way of preserving unity among the few of them that were left.

  Another fun fact: There was a time when my dad was the Serpents’ leader.

  Less fun: That directly led to him being demoted at Andrews Construction. (It had been a partnership, but now dad just works there, so that was a thing that Archie and I tried not to talk about.) Which led to him drinking more. Which led to Mom leaving.

  Just after she left, he came to me and told me that he was now just a Serpent in name only, that he was breaking off from them in the hopes of cleaning up his act and getting our family back together.

  It wasn’t going especially well.

  It also explained why this guy was so hostile. But that didn’t mean I was going to take it without giving a little back, too.

  “Does your dad know this is how you earn a living? Does he care that you’re basically a janitor?”

  Yeah, we talk about it every night, just before he reads me a bedtime story and tucks me in. I mean, he knew I worked at the Twilight. But we weren’t having so many warm and fuzzy conversations these days. For that to be true, he’d have to be home.

  “It’s too bad, you know, you’re out here, sweeping up after the snots in Riverdale. You know your dad could hook you up with some real paying work.” He leered. “Want me to get him a message?”

  I threw down the trash bag and stepped forward. “What the hell are you talking about?” I said. I’d had enough. “Look, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m sorry that my dad defected and you can’t get over it or something. But I’m not interested.”

  He leaned back and laughed, loud and full, like it was the best joke he’d ever heard. “Is that what he told you, Junior?” He snorted. “You’re so gullible. Sorry to be the one to burst your bubble.”

  “What?” My stomach sank, but I tried to keep my expression steady. I wouldn’t give this guy the satisfaction. Even if what he was saying, confirmation of my worst, steadily growing fears, was sending chills down my spine.

  “You think your dad defected? That he’s on the straight and narrow now? Why? Because he said so? Your mom’s gone, right? What does he have left, except the Serpents? Of course he’d come back to the fold.”

  He has ME. His son. Was it that he didn’t see that?

  Or that he saw it—but it wasn’t enough?

  “Think about it, Jones. Where do you think he’s been spending his days? His nights? He’s not sleeping at home, right?”

  I looked away, silent.

  “He’s at the Whyte Wyrm, dumbass.” He smirked. “He actually is sleeping at home. You were just wrong about where that really is for your pop.”

  Home. The word had me reeling, disbelief and sorrow swirling through me.

  He shoved me, hard enough that I staggered back. I scrambled to come up with something, anything to say, but by the time I got my bearings again, he was already gone.

  The Whyte Wyrm. It was a bar on the Southside. I’d seen it, of course. Been inside, too—it wasn’t something we Joneses bragged about, but, yeah, I knew enough about Dad’s history with the Serpents. Knew that those times, back when I was little, I’d be stuck in the backseat of our beater in the Whyte Wyrm parking lot, nothing to do but make up stories in my head; it was because Dad was in there doing something that, even young, I understood he shouldn’t be doing. Something he was slightly ashamed of, but did anyway.

  (Remembering that, I realized maybe I have the Serpents to thank for my writing habit, storytelling. Huh. I’d have to be sure to send them a note. When Hell freezes over.)

  When I got a little older—middle school, early on—I guess Dad decided I was old enough to take a little more truth. That’s when he told me what his jacket really stood for. By then, I already had more than a clue. If Archie Andrews was too white-bread, either too innocent or too kind to spread rumors or pass hearsay along to me, then the Reggie Mantles of the world sure weren’t. Dad was a Serpent leader, and I was, incredibly, one of the last to know.

  Was I the last again now? Had Dad really gone back to it? He promised me.

  Then again, it would hardly be the first promise he broke.

  “Where do you think he spends his days? His nights?”

  Was he not working the construction site, then? I mean, Archie and I were old enough now that we were aware of our fathers’ conflicted history. But even if Dad and Mr. Andrews weren’t partners anymore, my father still had a job … didn’t he?

  I wanted it to be true. I so badly wanted it to be true. But then, there was every single thing I already knew about my father staring me in the face like exhibits A, B, C—hell, the whole freaking alphabet.

  I kicked at the trash bag by my feet, anger rising higher as garbage I’d just picked up spewed all over. Stupid. And who was going to have to clean it up again, anyway? Me.

  But not right now. Right now, I had something else to do.

  I needed to pay a visit to Andrews Construction, immediately.

  VERONICA

  I was still reeling from Nick St. Clair’s unexpected visit when I returned to my mom in the dining room, her perfectly painted fingers scrolling purp
osefully on an iPad. She looked up at me as I came in. “M’hija, you look flushed. More than you did when you came up from the gym, that is.” She gave me a glance that was one part curiosity, two parts mischief. “What on earth did that boy want?”

  I waved my hand. “Oh, what do all boys want, really?” Because the truth is: Though I enjoy male companionship—and I especially enjoy how much all the most sought-after males seek moi, of course—I’ve yet to find that one who truly makes me swoon. And I’m fine with that, for now. It’s 100 percent okay if my prospective suitors are the ones doing the majority of the swooning.

  “I don’t know, Ronnie,” Mom said, grinning. “Your words say one thing, but your hot pink cheeks say something else completely.”

  “We’ll see.” I rolled my eyes. “He’s coming tonight. For which, if I may offer a near-seamless segue, I am now fully available to help with arrangements.”

  “Take a shower first, m’hija. Maybe a cold one.”

  “Stop.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll stop. But do take a shower—water temperature of your choice—and then, can you order some cappuccinos and pastries from Lalo? You know which ones I like. I’m having a craving. All this party prep requires some fortification.”

  “Absolutely,” I said, my stomach grumbling at the thought of their Saint Honore tarts gleaming through the glass of their dessert case. “Or I can run out and get them myself, if that’s not too long a wait for you. Honestly, it’s a gorgeous day, and it’s not too punishingly hot out there yet. I wouldn’t mind some fresh air.” Lalo was about ten blocks uptown, farther than I’d usually venture just for a java fix, but now that Mom had mentioned it, I was having serious cravings, too. And I wanted to walk off some of those spin cramps.

  “Not too long a wait at all. Enjoy! On your way out, can you remind Andre that the dresses for tonight should be coming in from the tailor within the hour?”

  “Absolutely.”

  We wore white on the Fourth, of course, and we wore it impeccably fitted. Mine was crochet-lace Chloé, Mom would be in flawless Armani silk pleats.

  The Fourth of July was white dresses … and red lips. Light and airy, a summer evening dream …

  But not without a pop of pure, hot fire.

  That was signature Lodge, after all.

  When you live as we do, in a Dakota building penthouse duplex, one of the perks is a dedicated elevator down to the lobby level. Announced guests ride up directly into our apartment to be greeted by Smithers. (Another perk? Not having to answer one’s own front door.)

  As anyone who knows anything about NYC real estate knows, the building itself—an architectural icon—is structured around an ornate shared courtyard, and only accessible through the front gates. A building of its size—with residents of their stature—requires an elaborate staff to function. Though there is, of course, a hierarchy among the staff, each quadrant of the building has its own doorman to oversee it. It’s extremely intimate and exclusive. Which is, of course, the entire point.

  All of which is an elaborate way to point out that, while I had my elevator ride downstairs all to myself, the lobby was a different story: bustling with the low-key purpose of the privileged class. Even divided into four intimate clusters, it still got a bit congested down here during peak business hours. There was Ms. Leder in coordinated neon athleisure, signing for a Bloomingdale’s delivery. There was Hank Golby, wunderkind hedge fund manager, off to spend his requisite two hours in an actual office, Gucci loafers polished even as he no doubt yearned for the comfort of his Rick Owens leather high-tops. There, Tabitha Martindale, blue-haired biddy of the Norma Desmond variety: a former grande dame of the silver screen who now mostly sat around counting her “dolls” (that’s prescription pills, to those of you unfamiliar with your Jackie Susann references) and walking her ever-present Papillon, Mama Rose. Today Mama Rose was wearing a tulle skirt in addition to her rhinestone-studded collar; maybe they were coming back from the groomer.

  So it wasn’t until the lobby that I had any sort of interaction with my neighbors, and by the same token, it wasn’t until I interacted with them that I started to wonder if something might be … going on? Superficially, it seemed like any other morning. But on a semiconscious level …

  Call it paranoia, but Daddy says a Lodge can smell subtext. We know when trouble is brewing; it’s how we always manage to rise above said trouble. In any case, I waved to Tabitha, like I always do. (I admire her steadfast commitment to keeping Mama Rose on trend.)

  And … was it my imagination, or did she … look away?

  I shook my head. Obviously I was seeing things. Projecting for no reason. Very unlike me.

  Wait a minute … did Nick St. Clair throw me off my game?

  I debated it. Not possible. Never in a million years. I had low blood sugar from working out and needed more coffee.

  Except, as I made my way to the doorman’s desk, I saw the shopaholic hausfrau wrinkle her nose slightly as she stepped aside to let me get closer.

  Now, that wasn’t my imagination. Veronica Lodge knows side-eye.

  Veronica Lodge basically invented it.

  I tapped her on the shoulder, a little ashamed of myself that I was even trying to figure this out. You’re better than this, Ronnie.

  Except … she shrugged away from me, contracting her shoulder blade like she couldn’t bear the physical contact.

  I mean, she must have known about our party. Everyone knew about our party. It was covered in Page Six every year.

  So maybe this was nothing more than sour grapes? She was grumpy about not getting an invite? I wouldn’t blame her.

  I decided it wasn’t worth another thought and turned to Andre. I gave him my brightest smile, despite my lingering, underlying unease. “Hello.”

  “Ms. Veronica,” he said. His own mouth was less of a smile and more of a tight line. This from the same man who gave me drugstore peppermint star hard candies from a glass bowl when I was little.

  “Mom just wanted me to let you know that our dresses should be arriving within the hour.”

  “Of course,” he said, looking vaguely pained.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, pointed. I was hoping he’d take the out, come clean with some outside concern, some reason—any reason, other than some odd and recently cultivated vendetta—that people, including himself—were suddenly being a little distant.

  He cleared his throat, seemed to come back to the moment more confidently. “Of course, Ms. Veronica. Thank you for asking. Actually—” He leaned down, began rummaging in the drawers of his desk. Peppermint candies again, after so many years?

  But it was more surprising than that. “Actually, there have been a few messages for you.”

  I frowned. “Messages? Down here?” Who would call the main desk at the Dakota to try to reach me?

  “It’s a … Lettie Cooper? A young girl, from the sound of it. She said she was calling from a blog. The Giggle Girls?”

  Uh, never heard of it. Obviously it wouldn’t be the first time some wannabe online trend rag hunted me down for a sound bite about the latest in Chanel quilted crossbodies, or where to eat after hours now that Freemans is so overrun by normals. Thanks, but no thanks, I’m not your girl. I don’t need the publicity.

  No wonder whoever it was couldn’t get a direct line to me.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Did you let Smithers know?” Even if it was just some second-rate tabloid chasing me that he was deliberately stonewalling, he should have passed along the message. That was just part of his job.

  He nodded shortly. “I think Mr. Smithers must be excessively busy just now,” he said.

  “Because of the party?” I mean, I guessed he was right. But we do this party every year. Even though it’s a lot of legwork, we have the logistics down. The Lodge women are a well-oiled machine. And Smithers is old-school. Nothing flusters him. It’s why he’s basically part of the family by now.

  “Have a good day, Ms. Veronica,” Andre said.


  It felt not unlike a dismissal. That was weird, too, for an employee of a building as reputable as the Dakota.

  This, too, was starting to feel like something I’d spent too much time on. Obviously there was something in the air today, and I clearly wasn’t caffeinated enough.

  Whatever, then. To Lalo it was. I know, I know, to most of America, Café Lalo is, first and foremost, that touristy place in that old Meg Ryan movie. Before she made all those regrettable decisions regarding injectables, when she was still America’s Sweetheart. I should be above it, I should only get my coffee delivered, and then, only from some place with real credentials: Happy Bones in Little Italy or Brooklyn Diamond.

  (What? We have a driver; what are they for, if not a spontaneous coffee run into the outer boroughs now and then?)

  But Mom has a sweet tooth for Lalo’s desserts, and it’s been our family’s little guilty pleasure for as long as I can remember. And even on summer evenings, when the line wraps around the corner, Daddy ushers us right past the crowd and inside.

  Anyway, I don’t follow trends, I set them. Lalo may not be edgy or hip, but it’s home, and it’s mine.

  Or at least, I thought it was.

  You can imagine my shock when I walked in on the morning of July 3 to find Cam and Annie together, hunched over a honey-glazed brioche, tapping on their cell phones and giggling away. Katie was my bestie, but these girls were full-on extended squad, ever since they befriended Katie and me in sixth grade with tickets to an SNL taping and after-show invite. (Annie’s dad is a producer.) If it was strange that they were having coffee at Lalo, it was even stranger they hadn’t invited me along.

  Maybe they assumed party prep was keeping me busy. What else could it be? I placed my order (not that I had to; everyone there knows the Lodges; the barista had already starting steaming the milk for my latte when she saw me come in) and swept up to their table.

  “Girls! What a pleasant surprise! I thought I was the only Spence student ironic enough to slum it in this Time Out New York trap.” I leaned down to give them both kisses hello, Euro-style on both cheeks, tilting so they could do the same.