by Micol Ostow
It’s really very simple.
Or at least, it should be.
I pretended not to read her tone. “Great!” I chirped. “Steam the purple one first. You can leave it for me at the counter.” I gave her my brightest smile, the one perfected by monthly laser-whitening treatments.
Her jaw tightened and her shoulders crept up to her ears. Even as she turned away from me, I could read her expression perfectly via body language alone. Something was most definitely up.
Well, forget her. I could care less about her body language.
My first mistake was in even asking, I thought, stepping onto the escalator in a slight huff. What did I care about her tight shoulders and her stupid blunt lob that was two seasons out of date?
Never ask. That’s what Daddy always said. Tell.
I’d tell her the purple dress was mine.
Lucinda—Grace’s personal connection at Barneys—was waiting for me at the top of the escalator next to an enormous garment bag. With the stairs rising up on their mechanized belt to meet her, it was like something out of a superhero movie. Her mass of auburn curls had been pinned into submission with a pair of black enameled chopsticks that I knew for a fact were not meant for eating at all, and, in fact, retailed for more than most people will spend on an upscale serving of Peking duck at Mr. Chow. She cut a striking figure in wide-leg white jeans and a mesh navy crop top over a sequined red bandeau bra—getting in theme for the holiday, I presumed. I recognized her plastic platform sandals from the Prada Spring lookbook and made a mental note to snag a pair of my own before going home this afternoon.
(In a different color. A little individuality goes a long way.)
“Perfect timing!” I exclaimed, stepping gracefully off the top escalator step. “That must be for Her Lady of Divine Grace,” aka our personal nickname for Grace around the office. (Never to her face, of course—though I didn’t think she would actually mind.)
“It is,” Lucinda said, stepping away from the rack for a minute to re-pin her hair so wobbly corkscrews twirled in every direction. “Be careful to hold it upright at all times; it’s a linen blend that’s murder to steam.” She looked more stern than the comment actually warranted, given that we were talking about the care and keeping of an article of clothing. A cripplingly expensive article of clothing, sure, but still.
A feeling came over me then. It was that sensation you have when you walk into a room and realize that the people in it were just talking about you—and for sure not saying nice things. Or the vibe of someone flashing you stank face from across a crowded auditorium. It was the feeling of being … observed … and not in a positive light. It made my skin tingle, like a light sunburn. When you added that to the awkward way that Cam and Annie had behaved at Lalo, and that vibe I’d had in the Dakota lobby this morning, the feeling went from light sunburn to radiation exposure.
It was definite: Something was going on.
I decided to test the waters, to gauge just exactly how paranoid I was being. “Can I take a peek?” I asked, reaching for the garment bag. Normally, this wouldn’t be an issue; not only does Veronica Lodge know how to handle fine clothing but, as discussed, Veronica Lodge also has an overwhelming tendency to get what she wants.
But not this time; Lucinda snatched the bag back so quickly you’d think I was radioactive. Her face contorted into an involuntary sneer. “Stop!”
I must have looked shocked, because she took a moment to compose herself, and tried again. “It’s just … I spent hours on it this morning. I’d really rather not risk it getting messy before it gets to Grace.”
I tsk-tsked her. “And here I thought our relationship was one built on trust!”
It was not the winning argument. Now she fully scowled at me, apparently having reached her breaking point. “A Lodge talking about trust,” she hissed. “That’s cute. But the answer is still no.”
The blood rushed to my cheeks. “Just what are you insinuating, Lucinda?”
She snorted. “Oh, I think you know. Unless you’re still playing the ‘plausible deniability’ game when it comes to your darling father?”
I took a step closer to her. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that my darling father is a VIP client at this establishment. Meaning that you would do well to watch your tone.”
“Hiding behind him isn’t going to do you any good anymore, Veronica,” Lucinda said. For a second, it looked like she almost pitied me. “The game is up, princess.”
I wanted to shove her, to get in her face and cause her actual, lasting physical violence. But among other things, Daddy always told me not to leave a trail of evidence. So instead, I took the deepest breath imaginable. Then I demanded to speak to her manager.
Lucinda shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She tapped a pager clipped to her hip pocket. “I’ve already contacted her. She’s on her way.”
Sure enough, seconds later, a manager arrived. It was someone I didn’t know, which was unusual enough—I thought I knew everyone on the Barneys payroll. Also unusual: the fact that she was looking me up and down like I was a creature at the zoo, something subhuman to be viewed from behind a glass wall or bars—if at all.
“Ms. Lodge,” the woman began. “I’m Tamsin Payne—”
“Please. As if I care,” I said, cutting her off. “More important than your name is that you talk to your employees about how they treat their most valued customers. Lucinda here was showing me just a little more attitude than I appreciate.”
“Hmm.” This Tamsin Payne—a made-up moniker by a backwater transplant if I’d ever heard of one—didn’t seem very impressed by the news. She swept a jet-black curtain of hair back off her shoulder. “To be honest, Ms. Lodge,” she said, “I’ve been observing you since you came into the store—”
At the mention of being under observation, I whirled around, searching for the hidden cameras that I knew were there, but also knew I’d never find.
“That’s illegal, you know,” I shot at her, not knowing if that was true, but suspecting it probably was not. Then again, maybe she didn’t know that. “Intimidation is 70 percent bluster,” Daddy always said. Carry yourself with authority, and people will buy whatever you’re (metaphorically) selling.
Except, it didn’t seem to be working very well right now. Tamsin held up a hand to cut me off. “I’ve been observing you since you came in, and frankly, it’s you who’s been rude and short-tempered with my staff. This is, of course, not appropriate for a Barneys customer, and not acceptable.”
“What are you talking about?” I exploded. “I’ve barely seen anyone since I walked in, much less interacted with them.” I thought for a moment. “Wait, is this because I asked Elena to put aside one of those silk dresses for me? I don’t see why that would be an issue. I often get first pick of new shipments. It’s never been a problem before.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” she replied.
“This is absurd,” I sputtered. “It’s harassment. Believe me, when my father hears about this, there will be consequences.”
“Believe it or not, Ms. Lodge, I’m not too terribly worried about your father and what he might have to say about this. I have a feeling he’s going to be … well, let’s just say, otherwise occupied, and soon.”
“What’s that, now? Slander?” I couldn’t help it, my voice rose. Shoppers had begun to form a small cluster around us, morbidly curious despite themselves. God, a snot-nosed little private school diva getting dressed down at an NYC retail icon? This was probably the highlight of these athleisure-clad trophy hausfraus’ days.
“Ms. Lodge, you’re causing a scene.”
“I’m causing a scene? I’m being treated like a … like a … well, certainly not like the valued customer I am! You haven’t even begun to see the type of scene I’m capable of, trust me. This is inexcusable.”
“I agree,” the manager said calmly. Her hair fell past her shoulders in a smooth, straight sheen. Her clothes were immaculate, and her makeup was barely
there but expertly applied. Everything about her screamed “upper hand” and “composure.”
Whereas I’d let myself unravel.
I had to get the situation back under control.
“This must all be a misunderstanding,” I offered, backtracking. I still wasn’t sure what had happened, or how, but I wanted more than anything to de-escalate the situation, and quickly.
“I’m sure it is,” the manager agreed. “You can explain it all to our security team. They’ll escort you to one of the back offices where you can speak in private.”
“Security team? What?” The room began to spin, and a ringing sounded in my ears. Suddenly, I realized I was taking very shallow breaths, like tiny sips of water. Was this anxiety? I guess the benefit of being a Lodge meant I’d never had to experience it before. The room began to blur. I noticed some of the looky-loos assembled were holding up their phones, making sure to capture every moment of this humiliation.
“I’ve already called them,” she said, and I saw that she had; there they were: two discreetly well-muscled men in black-on-black, headsets framing their sturdy jawlines. It was instantly clear that these men were not messing around.
“I don’t understand,” I said, my voice sounding very small and far away. “What …? How did this happen?” I’d come into Barneys today the way I came into Barneys every day; where was the wrong turn taken? My eyes filled with hot tears. How was I going to explain this to my parents? Being questioned by security like a common criminal?
How was I going to get out of it, at all?
Because one thing was suddenly crystal clear:
Whatever power I’d thought I wielded here, whatever clout I perceived myself to have—it was gone. Long gone. And looking at the linebacker types forming a wall in front of me, it didn’t look like I’d be getting it back anytime soon.
“I’ll … come with you,” I stammered, reluctant. “To talk. But I’ll need to contact my father. And his lawyer. Immediately.”
The smaller of the two guards stepped forward and placed a firm hand on my elbow. He wasn’t rough—but he definitely wasn’t gentle. “Watch it,” I said—but with way less venom than my usual.
“We’ll do our best to get in touch with your father and his lawyer, Ms. Lodge,” Tamsin said sweetly. “I have to warn you, though—they’re probably both otherwise occupied right now.”
“What would you know about my father’s lawyer?”
Seriously, what?
“Miss Lodge … well, I’m guessing you haven’t seen the Post yet today. Online. Page Six notification.”
Before I could respond, the guards guided me past the growing circle of camera phones and down a long hall, my vision tunneling to the double doors ahead as my thoughts raced.
All my life, there’d been something, some secret knowledge of what it meant to be a pampered, spoiled princess—the underlying sense that somewhere, there was another shoe. And that someday, somehow, the other shoe would drop. A moment of reckoning, even if I wasn’t sure for what.
Had that moment finally arrived?
“Most kings get their heads cut off.” That was from a Basquiat work I saw at a Whitney retrospective last spring. At the time, it seemed subversive, whimsical. But right now, with the possibility of Daddy being useless to assist me, it felt downright prophetic.
A princess could have her head cut off, too.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall. That was another saying, right? Some rap song I danced to at 1 Oak, freshman year?
The double doors opened with a pneumatic hiccup, and then my mind went blank for a bit.
ARCHIE
One surefire way to combat any ideas that your father’s playing favorites with you at your work site is to be everybody’s guy Friday, basically a glorified lackey. Not that I minded, since it meant a break from pouring concrete, and generally Dad let me use his truck for quick errands. Maybe it wasn’t technically 100 percent legal, but no one around here was gonna give Fred Andrews a hard time about that. Sheriff Keller and my Dad were drinking buddies, for Pete’s sake. And I was always super careful on the road. That was me to a T: Archie Andrews, Solid Citizen. I wondered sometimes if that would be the epigraph they’d etch on my gravestone.
No wonder I’d been looking for a little excitement, a little something new, when Geraldine came along and tapped into this whole creative side of myself I’d never even guessed was there.
Of all things, we were running short on rolls of fiberglass insulation—so unlike my Dad to run short, it just proved my theory that he had as much on his mind as I did, if not more. Lenny gave me a sheet with the exact specs we’d need and off I went. “Don’t loiter,” he warned, like hanging around the hardware store on Main was my idea of a party.
“I’ll be quick,” I promised. Meaning it.
The ride into town reminded me of that first time, with Geraldine—well, she was still Ms. Grundy to me, then. The first time she was a woman and I was a guy rather than student and teacher, I mean. Me walking along the shoulder of the road, roasting through my tank top in the summer sun. Her pulling over in that cute little Bug that said so much more about her personality than I might have guessed based on music class alone. Those heart-shaped sunglasses that made her seem less like a teacher and more like someone I … well, more like someone who was right for me.
Which was true, and also not completely true.
It had only been a few weeks since that fateful day, but everything—everything!—felt different.
Most of the differences were good.
No—most of them were great.
As Lenny predicted, it didn’t take long to find the insulation I needed at the hardware store. I picked up double what Dad was asking for just to be safe. I was glad to be an easy customer; Dilton Doiley was in there in his full Adventure Scout getup, pushing the clerk to sell him bullets for his pellet gun. The clerk wasn’t having it, not even when Dilton whipped out a signed note from his father like we were in grade school or something. Except the only guns I played with in grade school were squirt guns, and those never required any special permission.
“It’s standard issue for the Scouts,” Dilton was saying, his jaw clenched so tight I thought his head was gonna explode.
“Then come back with an actual Scout Leader. One who’s over eighteen,” the clerk said over Dilton’s attempts to protest.
“The clearing by Striker’s Cove is plenty safe,” the clerk went on. “Your worst danger down there is of drowning. But then, you’d know that—being a true Scout and all.”
Dilton glared but didn’t say anything.
“You shouldn’t need weapons. The bears will stay away as long as you know your food storage.”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, good, then. You’ve got nothing to worry about,” the clerk said. “You bring a gun down there with you, you’re more likely to hurt yourself or one of your own. I shouldn’t have to tell you that, son.”
“Thanks for the lecture,” Dilton grumbled. He stuffed a wallet into his back pocket. “Remind me not to bother with this place again. I can figure out a way to get what I need elsewhere.” He stormed off.
“I sure hope you don’t!” the clerk said cheerfully. To me he said, “That boy’s wound too tight. One more reason he shouldn’t be needing a gun.”
“Yeah,” I said noncommittally, not really wanting to get into it. Dilton Doiley and his Scouts weren’t my concern—except for the fact that they’d be camping by Striker’s Cove tonight, apparently.
Which meant that Geraldine and I would have to find a clearing far enough away from them that there’d be no chance of our being spotted.
It wasn’t an unsolvable problem, but it was a new wrinkle, and it was all I was thinking about as I left the store, giving the clerk enough of a wave so as not to be rude.
I was caught up enough in my own thoughts that I managed to crash directly into Valerie Brown, one-third of Josie and the Pussycats. She was pretty preoccupie
d herself, hunched over her phone and squinting intently.
“Whoa,” I said, stepping back as quickly as I could. “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to trample you.”
“What? No, it was my bad,” she said, her voice soft. Her eyes were a hazel that changed color as the sunlight played off her face. “Texting and walking—bad call. I’m not coordinated enough for that.”
“What’s going on? You looked pretty … serious, there,” I said. “I mean, not to pry.” I didn’t know Val that well, but I had mad respect for her musical skills, even more so now that I was getting into playing music of my own. Or, you know, trying to.
She shrugged. “So stupid. Band drama. Or maybe not even, I don’t know. We’re just getting our set list together, and making plans for tonight—”
“Wait, you don’t all go home early and drink, like, tea with lemon the night before a big gig so you can be fresh and rested?”
Val burst out laughing. “That is definitely not the Pussycats’ way. We like to roar—you know, go ‘claws out.’ It’s the best way I know of to settle any preshow jitters.”
“Better than that old thing about, you know, picturing the audience in their underwear?”
She gave me a look. “Archie, I don’t think anyone really does that.” And she was probably right, but then there was an uncomfortable beat where I’m pretty sure we were each thinking about the other one’s underwear, even though we really didn’t want to.
“Hang on,” she started, and I almost burst into an apology for having an involuntary thought, but before I could, she pointed, clarifying what it was that had caught her attention. “That’s weird.”
It took me a second to figure out just what she was pointing out, because it was two figures a block away, partially hidden by a large oak tree.
“Isn’t that … like, Jughead’s dad? He’s a Serpent, right?” Val asked.
“FP’s not a Serpent,” I corrected her. “I mean, okay, technically. But in name only. He went through a rough patch, but he cleaned up his act. He’s working for my dad now, you know.”