by Micol Ostow
Thinking quickly, I shoved my phone—and its creepy, incriminating photos—back in my pocket. “Sorry, I had a question for you about … Rebecca’s schedule, but I got a text while I was waiting for you.”
“Uh-huh.” She didn’t look convinced. “Well, she’ll probably be here until regular end-of-day hours tonight, even with the holiday. She’s not one for knocking off early. Sorry to disappoint.” She made a face that wasn’t all that believable.
“Right. Oh well.” I thought about it. Was there any way this could work to my advantage? “And you’ll be here, too?” Maybe I’d get another crack at her computer.
Was I willing to take a crack at her computer? Like, actually go through her files?
I thought I was. LA Betty was.
“If Rebecca’s here, I’m here,” she said. She set her mouth in a tight line.
I tried to look pleased by this news. “Of course. Um, me too.”
“Of course,” Cleo said. “Yay.”
Sarcasm. That was new.
Well, LA Betty? On to Plan B.
From: [email protected]
To: [list: All_Bulldog_Football]
Re: Pranks
To all varsity Bulldog football players:
Coach Clayton has informed me of the recent discovery of a prank that took place on our football field. By now you’ve all no doubt heard that the turf was discovered spiked with plastic forks. Whoever the culprit, it was indeed a very thorough job.
Though Custodian Svenson has offered to clean up, Coach Clayton and I have discussed the matter, and we agree that the Bulldogs should be responsible for cleaning the field together. Regardless of who committed the act, cleaning it together should prove to be an effective team-building exercise.
We realize, of course, that the vandals responsible for the prank may not be Riverdale students. In fact, it is entirely plausible that this is an act of defiance from one of our athletic rivals. Note that the school’s official policy on such “prank wars” is zero tolerance; we expect our students to comport themselves like the mature, dignified Riverdale High ambassadors that they are, and to refrain from any retaliation.
Thank you.
From: [email protected]
To: [list: My_Dawgs]
Re: Pranks
Yo—I know the Bee wants us to lay low, and I guess that’s Coach’s official position on the prank thing, too. But we’re not gonna take this lying down, are we?
Meet after the movie tonight at the Twilight and come with your best ideas for revenge. Don’t let me down, dawgs.
JUGHEAD
It took forever and it was hot as hell outside, but I walked from the Twilight to Andrews Construction’s latest site. I knew where it was, of course, even if I hadn’t seen Dad actually leave for work yet, and Archie and I weren’t spending much time together. With the place I was in mentally, if I’d been home I would have just said screw it, grabbed Dad’s bike, to hell with what he’d say. If what that Serpent told me about him was true, he wasn’t in any position to be giving me orders.
But fired up as I was, there was a not-so-small part of me that was still—against all rational thought—hoping it wasn’t true.
Even if I’d never actually seen him to go work. Not once since the summer started. And maybe going back further? Was I really that self-involved that I couldn’t even remember?
My stomach started jumping as the site came into view: the backhoe loader grinding along, chewing up the dry earth, and coughing big clouds of dust and debris. It dawned on me that Archie might be here now. Probably would be here. Somehow, I’d missed that. And then what? He was obviously avoiding me. If I randomly showed up at his work, he wasn’t going to be thrilled.
Who cares? I decided, amped up as ever. Why should I be the only one walking around feeling like crap all the time? Who cares if he’s uncomfortable when he’s the one who’s been dodging me! Let him answer, own up to his BS, just for once.
Each step I took churned up my righteous indignation, cranked it up another notch. I may be the dark, cynical weirdo of Riverdale High, fine. But this rage—black and hot like my chest was full of tar—was kind of next-level, even for me.
I flashed back to Pop telling Dilton and me about the people who’d come through the diner in his time. Bonnie and Clyde—it was insane. And how his father claimed to have had a premonition, or a … a something about them, at the time. I didn’t buy into that kind of New Age woo-woo stuff, but Pop sure seemed to mean what he was saying. And then there was Dilton, doing his full-on Cassandra, doomsday soothsayer. “A blood moon,” he’d said. And now my blood was bubbling inside me, a fury-fueled pact.
No, I didn’t buy into what Pop had been going on about. But there, stalking forward toward Mr. Andrew’s trailer in the blazing midday sun? That was the first time I felt, in my core, like there might be some truth to the idea that there is—there’s always been—an evil lurking at the heart of Riverdale.
That it might be getting ready to rise, to sink its claws into me. Into all of us.
That we might not escape unscathed.
Mr. Andrews looked genuinely surprised when I burst into his trailer. He actually jumped a little in his seat when the door banged shut. Behind me, I heard Lenny, the foreman, shouting, “Hey! You can’t just barge in there. Mr. Andrews is working.” But I could just barge in there and I would just barge in there and I was, so whatever, Lenny.
Even startled, Mr. Andrews was much more sanguine than Lenny had been. Whatever he was working on, he folded it neatly and packed it away in a desk drawer. “Jughead,” he said, like he was happy to see me. Maybe even expecting me. “You just missed Archie.”
“Yeah,” I grumbled, hooking a thumb into my back pocket. “Seems like that’s been happening a lot lately.” But was I missing Archie, or just, you know, missing Archie, in the technical sense? It was hard to tell. Probably some combination of the two.
“Really?” Mr. Andrews arched an eyebrow. “And here I always assumed you two were thick as thieves.”
I smiled despite myself. “Mr. Andrews,” I said, “I don’t have any grandparents left. But even if I did, I don’t think even they would use the expression ‘thick as thieves.’ ” I knew the mild teasing wouldn’t bother him.
Like I expected he would, he just shrugged good-naturedly. “Attached at the hip. Inseparable. Bosom buddies.” He winked. “How about that?”
I shook my head. “You’re killing me, man.”
“Don’t you mean, Old Man?”
Jeez, why did this guy have to be so damn charming, even when I was worked up? Of course, that was true about Archie, too. It’s why he gets away with anything and everything.
“Haven’t you heard? A million is the new billion. In terms of age, I mean.” I took the liberty of having a seat across from him.
Thinking about Archie, though, and our former inseparability—that was all I needed to bring me back to the original purpose of my meeting. Not to mention, bring me down a bit.
“Anyway, yeah. Arch and I are both, you know … busy,” I finished lamely. Lamely because, duh, it was summer, and how busy could a teenage boy possibly be? Yeah, Archie had his job, and, fine, I had my writing … but neither of those things were so completely all-consuming. And neither explained why we suddenly were the polar opposite of thick as thieves.
“I know, I know,” Fred said, which made me sad for a minute, because of how much he didn’t know. (Do any of us?) “I worry I’m working him too hard. And then he’s out all night. What are you guys up to, anyway? How many milk shakes can two boys drink, even strapping young men like yourselves?” A deep groove appeared between his eyes, the kind that said he really was worried about this, even though he was trying to be cool about it.
Out all night. And Mr. Andrews didn’t know where. He thought Archie and I were hanging out. At Pop’s, since we obviously weren’t at his house. Hmm.
Whatever the situation with Archie, I wasn’t going to give him up. I’m no nar
c. “A lot, Mr. Andrews. But then, you knew that about me. Eating is basically my superpower.”
“Always was, Jug. Very true.” He shuffled some papers out of the way and leaned his forearms on the desk. “I’ve gotta tell you, I was relieved when he said you two were going down to Centerville tomorrow like you used to. A little return to normalcy will be good for Archie.” He sighed. “He doesn’t talk about it much, but I think his mom leaving was harder on him than I expected.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s normal.” I couldn’t say I was taking my own mom’s leaving all that well, either.
But then, that wasn’t the headline here. The real news was that Archie had told his father about our plan to head to Centerville—even though he’d been blowing me off pretty aggressively ever since we made those plans in the first place. So, either he really did plan to see me tomorrow … or he was using me as his alibi.
I hated that the second option seemed so much more likely than the first.
I hated, too, that I still was no narc. I wouldn’t be the one to tell Fred Andrews Archie was otherwise engaged for the Fourth.
“Totally normal. He needs his space,” Mr. Andrews said, jolting me back into the moment. “I’m even going to be gracious about the fact that he’s sleeping at your place the night before the holiday. What can I say? I’m a martyr.”
“Sleeping over?” My voice went up. Archie never slept over, not even when things really were normal. There was just so much more space at his house.
I coughed and adjusted my tone. “Yeah, well. Good old days, blah, blah. It’ll be fun. Like we’re ten again. It’s just too bad we’re too small for the tree house these days.”
Mr. Andrews raised his eyebrows. “If you’re asking me to build another one, don’t bother. I’ve got my hands more than full here, if you can’t tell.”
“I can tell, I can tell.” I paused, took a deep breath. This was my moment. I just needed to come out and say it. “Speaking of … you’ve got a full crew out there. Is my dad around? I didn’t see him on my way in.”
“Your … dad?” Mr. Andrews’s face went through a series of expressions: confusion, surprise … and finally remorse.
My heart sank. There it was. The truth I’d been working so hard to avoid.
“Jug,” Mr. Andrews said, softly this time, in a way that made my throat tighten at just the suggestion of his pity. “Your dad’s not here.”
I was silent, waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop.
Mr. Andrews suddenly looked extremely uncomfortable. Good. That made two of us, anyway. “That’s, ah, one of the reasons I was glad Arch would be staying with you tonight. I was …” He looked like he was debating how to say what he was thinking, if he should say it.
Finally, he leveled me with an even look. “Jug, you know your father and I go way back. He’s like a brother to me.”
I said nothing, just steadily returned his gaze.
“But, you know, people change, they evolve, they grow apart … and, you know, it’s sad—god knows it’s practically tragic—but there’s not always anything to do about it.”
My dad and Mr. Andrews were like brothers? Yeah, they were. So were Arch and me, once. And Mr. Andrews was like a second father to me—one who was reliable, a TV dad who packed lunches and walked the dog. I never, ever expected I’d be sitting across from him now, everything—all our families’ connections, our friendships, our trust—having completely eroded.
The word hit me like a slap across the cheek. Alcoholic. We all knew it, of course. But we didn’t call it by its name.
His shoulders slumped. “You must have seen some of it. I don’t know, maybe he hid it at home. I know I would have tried to. But at a certain point, it’s impossible to hide. Not completely.” He reached across the desk to take my hand, but I pulled back. This wasn’t some health class promo film, it was my life. “Anyway, the details aren’t that important. It’s the same story that so many know so well. It’s a disease, you know.”
“I know,” I said through gritted teeth. Like I needed Fred Andrews making excuses for my father.
Like there were any excuses to be made.
“So like I said, that was why I was glad to hear Archie was going to stay with you tonight. I know … well, let’s just say, Riverdale’s a pretty small town. Word gets around. I know your father hasn’t been sleeping at home. So I thought you could use the company.”
There was a spot on the linoleum floor of the trailer, a black smear like the scuff of a sneaker tread. I focused on that spot like it contained the secrets of the universe.
“Where’s my dad, Mr. Andrews?” I asked, my voice low.
“Jughead.” Mr. Andrews scratched his head. He stood up, looked at me, then sat back down again. “Jug. I didn’t … honestly, I thought you knew. After your mom left, your dad’s drinking spiraled. You must have noticed. He hardly ever showed up for work. When he did, he was too drunk to function. I had to let him go, Jug.”
“When?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice from cracking.
“When …?”
“When did you fire him?” The word felt spiny and thick on my tongue.
“Back in March,” Mr. Andrews admitted.
March. So he’d been unemployed for months now. Lying to me. Not to my face, of course. Lying to my face would require face-to-face contact. But instead—
“So, where do you think he is?” I asked. “Too embarrassed to come home, to face his only son. Where does my dad go every day?”
“Jughead—” Mr. Andrews started, his voice breaking.
“Answer. The question.” I fixated on that mark on the floor, like I could set it on fire if I stared hard enough.
“Jug, you know where he goes. Even if you don’t want to admit it.”
Finally, finally, I looked up. Mr. Andrews’s face had crumpled, wrinkled up in sorrow and regret. I felt my own do the same, my forehead tight and my jaw tense.
“So it’s true, then? What that Serpent said today?”
“Serpent?” Mr. Andrews leaned in intently. “Did someone threaten you?”
I waved him away. “It’s fine. I’m fine. But tell me: what they said to me, about my dad. It’s true?” I swiped the back of my hand against my cheek. I refused to shed a single tear. “He’s a Serpent again?”
The color drained from Mr. Andrews’s face, telling me everything I needed to know. But he did answer.
“He’s a Serpent again,” he agreed softly. “But, not just a Serpent.
“Jughead”—again, he reached for me, and again, I pulled back—“Jug, he’s the Serpent.
“He’s their leader.”
VERONICA
Holly Golightly had a theory about retail therapy (though in her case, of course, it was really just window-shopping). She said the only cure for a bad mood was a visit to Tiffany’s. Calms those “mean reds” right down, right away. “Nothing bad could happen there,” that’s what Holly said about Tiffany’s. And I know just what she meant.
Except for me, it’s Barneys all the way.
I barely had time for the coffee I grabbed from Lalo before I had to grab a car to Barneys.
(I know. An Uber. Like I’m some kind of peasant. But Mom needed the car—and Andre—for herself, and I wasn’t about to argue, knowing how busy she was. Yes, it’s true; Veronica Lodge is a martyr at heart.)
Well, if Holly Golightly could “jump in a cab” and head to Tiffany’s, then I’d do the same with Barneys. In her case, it was therapy. In mine, it was more than that—it was my job.
But that didn’t mean it wasn’t also therapeutic.
“The quietness and the proud look of it.” That’s what Holly said she found so soothing about Tiffany’s. And yes, Barneys has that proud look—the iconic red awning, the Simon Doonan windows that raised the bar for retail display everywhere. Everything white marble beyond the symmetry of the black-framed doors, bright red club chairs punctuating perfectly spaced seating areas for the weary high-end consumer. I
t is a triumph of geometry, and a true haven of luxury. The fact that I get to come here and call it “work”? Icing on the Momofuku Milk Bar cake.
(Birthday cake, of course. Always birthday cake. And a cake truffle or two, if you’re trying to get on my good side.)
I opened the doors with a satisfying hiss, a promise that within this space, life beyond ceased. Those of us who’d pierced the majestic veil of the hallowed place had crossed a threshold, securing our places firmly among the haves. Even the smell of Barneys was true luxury: lush and expensive and fragrant. Polished wood and eau de parfum. Blank-faced mannequins posed like hipster outcast props from the set of A Clockwork Orange, swathed in chunky wools and creamy cashmeres despite the unrelenting heat of midsummer. In here, seasons ceased to exist, of course. In here, it was utopia, always.
The jewelry case beckoned—a new Jennifer Meyer line of tasseled pendants had “girls’ night at Cielo” written all over it—but this trip wasn’t about me.
(Oh, who are we kidding? I could—and I would—make it about me. But I’d take care of my errand first. That much responsibility, I could handle.)
Women’s couture was on the fourth floor, so I reluctantly forced myself past a drool-worthy display of killer embellished stilettos and toward the escalator. Elena, one of my favorite sales associates, was passing by at that exact moment with a rack of candy-colored silk dresses that fluttered like fairy wings with the movement.
“Hey, girl!” I said, waving. “Gorg. I’m running to grab some props for the magazine, but promise me you’ll set aside one of those for me. Purple, obviously.” (It is the color of royalty, after all.)
She stopped in her tracks—but reluctantly. “Oh, um, I’m taking these to be steamed …” she stammered, her face turning an alarming shade of pink. “The thing is, I don’t know when they’re going out to the floor.”
I frowned. I mean, I was 50 percent kidding when I asked her to put one on hold for me, after all. But even if I wasn’t, was she? Everyone knows how it works here: I ask for what I want, and then I get it.