Archie Andrews stood in front of the vending machine.
I stumbled, my black cage booties practically folding under me as my ankles buckled.
Catching my breath, I took a second look, and it wasn’t him. Of course it wasn’t him—there was absolutely no reason for Archie to be at a Comfort Motel in Toledo. I rested a hand against the taupe-colored wall, steadying myself. Taking a better look at the stranger, he really didn’t look that much like Archie at all. For one thing, his hair wasn’t red. It was a light, burnished brown, shining a little golden even under the fluorescent lights. But there was something about the way he was standing and the set of his broad shoulders that made me think about Archie. Maybe it was because he was wearing a Henley.
Or maybe it was because of the acoustic guitar strapped to his back.
Suddenly, I was back in the Riverdale High music room again, sitting on a wooden bench in front of that janky old keyboard, telling Archie I was leaving. I could still feel the gentle kiss he’d pressed on my forehead. In a town that was anything but sweet and uncomplicated, somehow Archie still managed to be both of those things. We may not have been endgame, but there was no doubt that Archie Andrews was one of the good ones.
And now, here I was. Somewhere out there, just like I told Archie I would be. No wonder I’d been rocked back on my heels by this stranger with the guitar. It felt like I’d seen a ghost. Like if I tried to touch him, my hand would pass right through.
The stranger reached up, tall enough that he could drum his fingers on top of the vending machine. He leaned against it as his fingers continued to drum, staring into the depths of the machine like he was searching for answers.
“What to pick,” he murmured, so low I could barely make out the words. Or, at least, I think that’s what he said. “What. To. Pick.”
I coughed, once, just in case he hadn’t heard me come up behind him.
“Hmmm,” he hummed, still drumming his fingers.
I coughed again. Still, he didn’t move.
Okay, I understood the importance of choosing the right snack, but this was getting ridiculous. Plus that drumming was working my last nerve. I tapped my foot, but the sound was completely muffled by the carpet.
“Easy there, darlin’,” he said without turning around. His voice was low, and the vowels long and smooth. He certainly didn’t sound like the boys back home in Riverdale. “Don’t wanna wear a hole in the carpet with those pretty shoes.”
“Ooh, honey, I think you’ve miscalculated,” I said tartly. “You don’t have a ‘darlin’’ in this hallway.”
“Is that right.” I could hear the smile in his voice before he turned around, and when he hit me with the full force of it, it was killer. It was the kind of white, even smile that could have beamed out of a thousand middle school girls’ lockers. He wasn’t famous—at least, I didn’t think he was—but he looked like he could be, someday. He rubbed his stubbled jaw with one large hand, then looked me up and down. Suddenly I felt conscious of the short length of my black bandage dress. My fingers itched to tug the hem downward, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I’d noticed him looking at my legs. “You look too good not to be somebody’s darlin’.”
“Does that sexism come standard issue with the tight jeans in whatever pickle barrel of a small Southern town you crawled out of, country boy?”
He burst out laughing.
“I’m not from a pickle barrel, Josie McCoy. I’m from Nashville. Music City.”
“How do you know my name?” My eyes narrowed as I tried to judge whether or not he was dangerous, and if I’d be able to outrun him into the lobby to call for help. Even hotties could be stalkers.
“Caught the show tonight. You’ve got quite a voice. I’m Boone Wyant.” He stuck out his hand. Reluctantly, I shook it, still trying to figure out if he was a normal fan, or if he’d followed me back here. “I’m playing the Stranahan tomorrow night.”
He was playing our venue. Was he a … country singer? He must have been. It was hard to imagine Boone Wyant, with his cowboy boots and guitar, singing anything else. Even his name sounded country.
“So you’re not stalking me?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Not yet.” He grinned. “I mean, no, ma’am, I’m not stalking you. Shouldn’t joke about that. Sorry.”
“I like ma’am even less than I like darlin’.”
“Boy, I’m striking out on all counts tonight, aren’t I?” He rubbed his hand over his jaw again. Some guys were built for stubble, and Boone Wyant was one of them. “Let me start over. Please. Hey there. I’m Boone Wyant.” He smiled at me, and I found myself smiling back at him, almost in spite of myself. “I loved the show tonight. I’ve been a big fan of your daddy’s for some time, and I’ve never heard a voice quite like yours. You’ve really got something.”
“Josie McCoy. Nice to meet you,” I said. “You’re really a Myles McCoy fan?”
“Even country boys can like jazz.” We stood there for a moment in the hallway, smiling at each other. I wasn’t totally convinced he wasn’t a sexist dingbat, but I had to admit, the boy had charisma. “I gotta say, I’m not feeling anything in this vending machine. You wanna go get some real food, Josie McCoy?”
There wasn’t a clock in this corner of the hallway, but I knew it had to be pushing midnight. I didn’t technically have a curfew, or check-in, or anything like that, but I had a feeling that was just because Dad assumed I’d be tucked up in bed as soon as we checked in, resting my voice before the next night.
“You know what?” My eyes lingered on his shoulders, and the way they filled out that Henley like it had been custom-made for him. “I do, Boone Wyant. I really, really do.”
THE FIRST TIME JORGE AND I snuck into Molly’s Crisis, we literally snuck in. We were only fourteen, and in an attempt to look older, we were both wearing so much makeup it looked like we had tried to smuggle an entire Sephora’s worth of testers out of the store on our faces. (Which, to be fair, wasn’t that far off from the truth. In high school, we’d become the world’s fastest makeup artists, giving each other fully executed looks before the sales clerks could come over to investigate why we’d tried every product in the store but never bought anything.) I think, if I’m remembering correctly, Jorge had even spirit-gummed a full beard onto his face? Which was a totally different color from his eyebrows. But his eye makeup had been so gorgeous, I’m sure no one would have noticed his beard. If anyone had been looking at us. Which, luckily, they weren’t.
Molly’s Crisis is a dive bar that features a constantly rotating carousel of drag performers. And the very first time Jorge and I had snuck in, it had been Dolly Parton night. The place had been packed to bursting with busty blonde queens, and no one had noticed two overly made-up teenagers slipping in among the rhinestones and fringe. We’d huddled in the back of the bar, too afraid of getting kicked out to even order a soda, transported by what we’d seen. Before the first queen had even finished the first verse of “Jolene,” Jorge and I were in love. The costumes, the makeup, the music … everything about it was wonderful. I’d never been in a room full of so many people just having fun.
We kept coming back, and by the time someone noticed that we were definitely too young to be there, the softhearted manager figured that as long as we didn’t try to order any alcohol, we weren’t bothering anybody. We grew up alongside Judy and Barbra and Liza, and our makeup had definitely improved because of it.
True, the floors were sticky, the soda was usually flat, and the queens could sometimes be a little pitchy, but Molly’s Crisis was home. It was our escape from reality, into a world of glitter and laughter and fun, and after the last couple of years, Jorge and I had certainly needed to escape a time or two.
“More Cherry Coke, Katy Keene?” Darius asked, holding up the soda gun like Charlie’s lost Angel. With his blond feathered wig, he could certainly give Farrah Fawcett a run for her money.
“Yes, please.” I pushed my glass across the
bar toward him. “I need all the caffeine and sugar I can get.”
Before things really got hopping, Molly’s Crisis was a surprisingly good place to work. The light was a little dim, but not so much that I couldn’t see, and they used nice warm lightbulbs. Plus the soundtrack of ’80s and ’90s hits made me feel like I was working with Mom, who never met a pop song she didn’t love to sew to. Right now, it was just me and my sketchbook at the bar. A couple performers in half drag sat at one of the tables, quietly going over notes before tonight’s show. I hoped I’d get enough work done so that I could stay and see their number before heading to the Starlite to meet KO for a late dinner. I’d heard something about Beyoncé, and a little inspiration from Queen Bey sounded like exactly what I needed.
“Easy on the caffeine. You’ll stunt your growth, Lil Bit.” Despite his warning, Darius filled my glass up to the brim with soda, and tossed in a few extra maraschino cherries, since he knew how much I loved them.
“I’m eighteen. I think that ship has sailed. I have made my peace with being five foot two and the proud owner of several pairs of heels, thank you very much.”
“Ooh, several, huh? Then let’s see ’em, fancy lady.” Darius crooked a finger and waggled it at me until I swung around on the barstool and plopped my left foot up on the bar. Luckily, I was wearing a cute pair tonight, one of my favorites. They had bright red stacked heels, sturdy enough to stand up to even the cobblestones in the Village, with navy sides and a rounded toe. I’d found the shoes in a vintage store on the Lower East Side, then cut up an old red leather purse to create heart details I super-glued on the toes, giving the shoes a bit more Katy personality. I could never resist adding a good heart detail, especially one in my favorite color.
“Did they start the floor show early?” I smiled at the sound of my best friend’s voice, a burst of cool air following him in as the door shut behind him. “I didn’t know you were performing tonight, Katy.” Jorge walked into the bar, the rhinestones on his cropped, teal, off-the-shoulder sweatshirt catching the light. I loved that sweatshirt. Jorge had found it at a thrift store, and then we’d cut it and bedazzled it together while singing along to Fame until my next-door neighbor pounded on the wall to get us to shut up.
“Yes, please stay for my show, ‘Girl Sits Alone at Bar with Sketchbook,’ ” I deadpanned. “Critics have called it ‘very boring.’ ”
“Can’t wait.” Jorge winked.
“Well. If it isn’t the coldest boy in cold town,” Darius said flatly. “Should I get him a glass of pure ice?”
“Excuse me. What did I do to deserve this shade?” Jorge deposited a quick kiss on top of my head, then slid onto the barstool next to me.
“ ‘What did I do?’ ” Darius repeated with disbelief. “ ‘What did I do?’ he asks. ‘What did I do?!’ ”
“Wait a minute.” Jorge smacked his forehead. “Darius, you are unreal. Is this still about Whitney?”
“ ‘Is this still about Whitney?’ he asks,” Darius muttered, before he did, in fact, place a glass of ice in front of Jorge, a pink cocktail umbrella resting jauntily on the rim. “ ‘Is this still about Whitney?!’ ”
“Can you stop repeating everything I say with a different emphasis?” Jorge asked, sticking the umbrella behind his ear. “And can I get some ginger ale in this glass, chillona, or are you too busy being petty?”
“Who’s Whitney?” I asked.
“ ‘Who’s Whitney?’ ” Darius repeated. “ ‘Who’s Whitney?!’ The youth today! They don’t know the culture!”
“Katy knows who Whitney Houston is,” Jorge scoffed.
“Oh, yeah, of course.” I nodded. “I just thought you guys were talking about, like, a friend named Whitney.”
“I don’t have any friends named Whitney.” Brandishing the soda gun with a flourish, Darius filled Jorge’s glass with ginger ale.
“He’s mad about Whitney Houston,” Jorge explained. “I stopped by for Whitney Wednesday and apparently I disappointed him.”
“When this bar plays ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody,’ you do not disrespect Whitney by not dancing,” Darius said seriously. “Especially since I asked you to dance, and I had been bragging about you to my friends—”
“Friends who are not named Whitney,” I interjected.
“And I expected you to bring it!”
“I was dancing!” Jorge protested.
“You were dancing like a white boy at his cousin’s wedding.” Darius snorted.
“How many white boy weddings have you been to?” Jorge arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow.
“You were dancing like a white boy at his cousin’s wedding in Connecticut.” Darius smacked the bar for emphasis.
“Ooh, now you’ve taken it too far, bish.” Jorge mimed taking off pretend earrings. “I’m gonna have to fight you.”
“What’s wrong with Connecticut?” I asked.
“Girl, I’m not the kind of magical as-seen-on-TV drag queen who educates little straight girls for fun. Figure it out. And as for you.” Darius turned to Jorge with a look. “I wanted to see the real stuff,” he complained. “Jumps, leaps, twirls, turns, death drops, all that business.”
“I’m not doing any of that on this sticky cement floor.” Jorge shook his head. “It’s like you want me to bust my knees up.”
“Jorge. I’ve seen you leap off this bar and drop into a split onto that exact sticky cement floor.” He tapped the bar for emphasis. “Is that a move that only Robyn gets, or …”
“I’m trying to be a responsible, adult-type person!” Jorge threw up his hands in exasperation. “I have the biggest audition of my life tomorrow, and I’m not going to mess that up for Whitney Wednesday!”
“Is that why you wanted to meet to talk about clothes?” I interrupted, flipping my sketchbook closed and pushing it to the side excitedly. I knew how disappointed Jorge had been about not getting cast in anything this summer, and I’d hated seeing him all aimless, like a pale copy of my normally vibrant friend. “You got an audition?”
“Yes!” Jorge grabbed my hands in his. I loved seeing how fired up he was. I knew being home with his parents had been taking a toll on him, and I was so happy to see him looking more like his usual self. “And it’s not just any audition. It’s the audition. It’s an open call, for an Ethan Fox–directed Broadway production of Hello, Dolly!, and there’s a part that is perfect for me.”
“Hello, Dolly!?” Darius snorted. “ ‘Beneath your parasol the world is all a smile,’ Hello, Dolly!? You couldn’t get me into a pair of those high-button shoes for love or money. That show is cheesier than Velveeta.”
“It won’t be cheesy if Ethan Fox is directing it,” Jorge shot back. “And don’t you have inventory to go over before it gets busy tonight?”
“Stop trying to do my job!” Darius threw up his hands.
“Actually … maybe I should do your job,” Jorge mused. “Now that I’m eighteen, I can legally bartend. Darius, can I work here? Will you train me?”
“Girl, I don’t have time to teach babies how to mix martinis—”
“Has anyone here ever ordered a martini?” I asked. Molly’s Crisis had more of a tequila shot vibe.
“I have inventory to do!” Darius turned toward the storeroom. “Katy, don’t leave without my jumpsuit,” he called behind him. “There’s a little tear near the shoulders I need you to fix. And some missing rhinestones.”
“On it!” I shouted. He waved in response before turning his attention to the shelves of bottles. “An audition, Jorge? This is so exciting!” I squeezed my best friend’s hands. “I’m so happy for you. I know you’re going to crush this. You’re so talented, and this Ethan Fish person will be begging to cast you.”
“Fox,” Jorge corrected.
“Right, yes, Fox, sorry,” I apologized. “So … the outfit?”
“Yes. Okay. So, for the open call, it’s just sixteen bars of a classic musical theatre song,” Jorge said. “No sides, no monologue,
and no dance call, so I don’t need to worry about movement. The dance call will be at callbacks, if I make it.”
“When you make it,” I corrected him.
“When,” he agreed, smiling. “And I’ll obviously wear my lucky green shorts for the dance call.”
“Obviously,” I agreed.
“You know I was wearing those shorts when I made out with—”
“Chase Peterman-Yang right after he played Prince Eric at theatre camp,” we finished together. It was not the first time I’d heard the story of Chase Peterman-Yang and the in-costume Prince Eric make-out.
If only Jorge hadn’t been dressed as Flounder, it would have been a romantic moment for the ages.
“It was a perfect summer,” Jorge said wistfully. “Except I should have been Ariel. That girl did not have the range. And, hello, this body was made for a tail.” Jorge encircled his petite waist with his hands and posed like Ariel singing on the rock.
“But Hello, Dolly!?” I prompted him.
“Right. So I want to look sort of period-suggestive, but not costume-y, you know? Like, I’m serving you Yonkers. I’m serving you the late nineteenth century. But I’m not serving you tuberculosis, you feel me?”
“Got it. Although, not quite totally sure what about a look screams ‘Yonkers,’ ” I mused, flipping open my sketchbook.
“Get out the Brilliantine and dime cigars!” Darius sang from the back.
“Can you get out?” Jorge shouted back. “No Brilliantine necessary!”
Laughing, I flipped past the dress I was working on to a clean sheet of paper.
“Hey, wait a minute.” Jorge grabbed my hand and flipped back to the dress. “What are you doodling, Katy Keene? This is gorgeous. Is this for your Parsons application?”
“Oh no.” I brushed his hand off and turned the page, smoothing the fresh sheet. “You know that’s on pause. Indefinitely. Maybe forever.”
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