Chapter Text
Jughead Jones has his back to the crowd. If anyone asks, he’ll say, “I have to show off the snake patch. The customers need to know I’m the one with the product, after all.” But the truth is, he’d rather not witness these sordid teenage rituals.
Behind him, Reggie Mantle is slurring, “You really think she’s a 7, bro? I’d say 5.” When a girl shrieks, “Woo hoo! Yeah! Woooooo hoooooo!” Jughead stands with a sigh.
He wishes he was at Pop’s, eating a burger and working on his novel. He wishes he was home, under the covers, with his tattered copy of Farewell, My Lovely. He wishes he had headphones, so he could block out the din with some Velvet Underground. He wishes he had an intact phone screen, so he could read the Errol Morris essay that he bookmarked this morning.
Sometimes, Jughead wishes he’d never put on a Southside Serpent jacket. But he ran the gauntlet, he reached into the snake tank, and he let Toni Topaz ink the S on his arm. Now, his Saturday nights belong to these hedonistic high schoolers.
Reggie rushes Moose Mason, exuberantly re-enacting their last football game, and Jughead quickly steps out of range, because Moose is staggering drunk and bound to fall. Enough is enough, Jughead decides, taking off his hat and running his hands through his black hair. He stalks toward an empty stretch of the riverbank.
Then he spots a trio in the distance, sitting around a campfire. He recognizes them by their coloring: the redhead is Archie Andrews, Jughead’s oldest friend, the brunette is Archie’s girlfriend, Veronica Lodge, and the blonde is Betty Cooper, Jughead’s favorite—though his affection for her is his best-kept secret. Twigs snap under Jughead’s boots, announcing his approach, and Betty looks up, smiling brightly in his direction. Is she looking at me? Jughead wonders, checking to see if there’s anyone behind him. But there is no one there.
When he turns back, Betty ducks her head, twirling a lock of her hair, which is in loose waves tonight instead of her usual ponytail. He pulls on his beanie.
“We’ve got s’mores, Jug! Come on over!” Archie shouts in a garbled voice—his mouth is full of marshmallows—while Veronica sighs, disapproving.
Jughead met Archie as an infant—their fathers were best friends, once, who rolled them to the park in the same pram—and grew to love him like a brother; although they have less in common every passing year, they’ve stayed close. But Jughead’s never gotten along with Veronica, despite their shared affection for Archie, classic films, and highbrow literature: he thinks she’s arrogant, entitled, and annoyingly oblivious to her good fortune. Her father, a prominent industrialist, was jailed for embezzlement and fraud, but his business rebounded after his release. Now, he showers his daughter with so many jewels, she considers pearls casual wear. Jughead’s father, the leader of their biker gang, did a longer bid for drug trafficking, and since he got out, all he’s given his son is grief.
And Betty, well. Until recently, Jughead did his best to avoid her. In middle school, he was certain Betty and Archie would end up together, and he couldn’t bear third wheeling. He dreaded their wedding, imagining himself as the tragic best man, hiding his pining behind sardonic wit.
After Veronica blew into town, and that fantasy was smithereens, Jughead wondered, Is this my moment? He told himself, Be bold. When he bumped into Betty, he made a point of asking her about her work at the school newspaper. He complimented her baking, careful not to talk while chewing. He brought up what he was reading to see if she’d read it, too.
But Jughead never asked her out. When he came close, something happened to convince him she was out of his league. Town sweetheart Trev Brown shared a milkshake with her at Pop’s Diner. Her mother published a screed against the Serpents in The Riverdale Register. Jughead’s gray Chuck Taylors were stained with dirt and ink—Toni drew snakes on them in study hall—and looked absurd next to Betty's pristine floral Keds. He shuffled his feet and thought, The grubby Serpent Prince wasn’t meant for the golden Northside Princess.
Now, everything’s different: Betty’s family has become even more notorious than his own. When Hal Cooper’s killing spree made the national news, linking Riverdale with death in the public imagination, vandals spray-painted “Murder House” on their front door. Every time Fred Andrews repaired it, they defaced it again, adding crude drawings of guns, knives, and stick figures with x’s for eyes. Eventually, Alice Cooper gave up trying to stop them from taunting her with her husband’s crimes. “I’ll allow those miscreants their pathetic little victory,” she said, “as long as it keeps them the hell off my property.”
Betty’s popularity plummeted after her father’s arrest, and since then, she’s been sticking close to home. Jughead wanted to check on her but never worked up the nerve. What would I even say to her? he thought, glancing up at her bedroom window from the Andrews’ backyard. ‘Sorry your dad gave you a bloodbath for Christmas’?
So when he reaches the trio, Jughead makes sure to stand between Betty and the crowd, a belated gesture of protection. Archie bumps his shoulder in approval.
“Hi, Jughead,” Betty says, handing him a stick and a bag of marshmallows, and when he spears one with gusto, she grins. This close, he can see that her eyes are bloodshot, and her under-eye circles are nearly as dark as his own. But there are cheerful daisies painted on her nails.
It’s quieter here, the popping of the firewood a distraction from the shrieks of laughter and the bass drop in the distance. It smells of wood smoke and sugar and forest earth. He takes a deep breath and shrugs off his leather jacket.
“Clocking out?” Veronica asks.
“Want the last bag?” Jughead offers.
In answer, Veronica pulls a few bills from a sparkling money clip, displaying her burgundy manicure; her nails are adorned with roses. She’s never had to work a day in her life, Jughead thinks sourly, but that outfit probably costs more than my motorcycle.
Archie shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with the reminder that Jughead's side job is less-than-legal, even though he’s no stranger to party drugs himself: this wholesome campfire routine is clearly for Betty’s benefit.
“Don’t worry, Arch,” Betty says. “No one can see us, and even if they could, they wouldn’t tell. We’re the soberest people at this party.”
The redhead ruffles her hair, observing, “You’re not so sober, Betty," as she bats his hand away like a disgruntled kitten. Then she turns to Jughead, smiling encouragingly.
“So what brought you to the hinterlands? Tired of the Bulldogs?”
“Isn’t it verboten for a cheerleader to disparage her football team in public?”
“High school’s over,” Veronica says, “and so are high school obligations. Neither of us was ever fond of football players, anyway.”
“Hey!” Archie interjects, pointing at his "RHS Football" t shirt.
“Besides you, of course, Archiekins."
"Trev was always nice to me," Betty notes, and Jughead suppresses a pang of jealousy. “Moose is...Moose is alright.” Her voice trails off, and she looks down, clenching her fist.
Oh. Moose Mason was Midge Klump’s on-again, off-again boyfriend. Although Jughead sold Midge Jingle Jangle a time or two, he can’t remember what she looked like before Hal Cooper stabbed her on the high school stage. He only recalls the photo of her corpse and her yearbook headshot, the one they showed on the news.
Veronica unfolds Betty’s fist, then links their fingers. “The other boys are cretins.” Her tone is aggressively normal.
Taking a gulp of hard seltzer, Betty nods. “Reggie Mantle, Chuck Clayton, and Jason Blossom made this playbook-”
Veronica huffs.
“-where they listed all the girls they slept with. They scored them—nine points for the fat girl, thirteen for the new girl, that sort of thing—and the player with the top score was top dog.” Then she smirks. “But my sister dating the quarterback turned out to be good for something: I got proof and took it public. Half the team got suspended.”
Jughead laughs, shaking his head incredulously.
“Chuck tried to go after me,” Veronica adds. “But we got our revenge at Ethel Mugs’ birthday party.”
“You remember Ethel, don’t you, Jug?” Archie teases.
Jughead groans. If only I could forget. Ethel tried to kiss him at Pop’s Diner, in full view of Betty, Archie, and every Serpent under eighteen. Jughead jerked back, arms windmilling, and fell into the booth. For most of eighth grade, his friend Sweet Pea called him “Heartbreaker.”
“We lured Chuck into the hot tub with our womanly wiles, Ethel turned the temperature up to Agonizing, and we dunked him,” Veronica recounts with relish. “Betty said, ‘Next time, we’ll tie you up and boil you.’ He was slurring apologies all the way to the door.”
It’s hard for Jughead to imagine Betty threatening anyone. In her denim skirt and eyelet blouse, she looks impossibly pure, and her ballet flats are adorned with tiny bumblebee charms.
“Sometimes rough justice is all we have,” Jughead shrugs. He thinks of the Serpents: his father, smashing a traitor’s bike, promising to do worse if she double-crossed him again; Sweet Pea, beating up Ghoulies when the rival gang jumped him; Toni, elbowing the mean girls in the halls of their high school. He likes the image of Betty Cooper: Ruthless Avenger.
“I don’t feel bad for Chuck,” Archie states.
“So do you have any thrilling summer plans?" Veronica asks, watching with distaste as Jughead devours a chocolate bar. "A rumble, perhaps?"
“He’s not an extra from The Outsiders,” Betty scolds.
“If the leather jacket fits...”
“Working at the Twilight drive-in. Writing my novel. Riding my bike. Sorry if that doesn’t live up to your greaser fantasies.”
“If you need a tune-up, Betty can do it," Archie offers, explaining, "She got a job at Fairlane’s this summer" as Betty nods.
A gearhead, he marvels, his heart beating double-time. She really is the perfect girl. ”I didn’t know you were into cars! I’ve got a couple friends who work at the garage. You should tell them we’re...that we know each other.” Jughead clears his throat, fiddling with the cuff of his shirt.
“I’ll be in New York, of course,” Veronica declares imperiously, and Jughead rolls his eyes. “Drinking cappuccino at Sant’Ambreous, drinking in art at the MoMA. Yacht parties in the Hamptons. Then I’m flying to Chicago to see Archie.”
Jughead is relieved to hear that Archie is going to Illinois, where his doting mother lives, because he could use some comfort: he's still grieving the murder of his music teacher—despite the fact that she was a sexual predator living under an assumed name. Jughead’s seen him idling Fred’s truck outside her old house, though he's never mentioned it. Maybe he can relax, once Riverdale’s in his rearview mirror.
“I’ve heard good things about deep-dish pizza,” he says. “And what was it that Nelsen Algren wrote? ‘An October sort of city even in the spring?’ Sounds like my kind of city.”
“You should play The Man with the Golden Arm at the Twilight,” Betty suggests. “A series of film adaptations of American novels, starting with Algren!”
Veronica leans her head on Betty’s shoulder. “You and Kevin must schedule a movie night after I leave. I’ll be spending every spare moment with you until then, of course.”
“I’ll be fine,” Betty says firmly. “I’ll keep busy. I just ordered the new Maggie Nelson memoir.”
“Have you read her poems about her aunt’s death?” Jughead asks. “Jane: A Murder?” Archie sucks in a loud breath at the word, and Jughead wants to bite off his tongue, but Betty doesn’t flinch.
“Yes! Last year! I thought it was gorgeous. I cried.”
They’re interrupted by Jughead’s buzzing phone. “Duty calls,” he sighs, scowling at Toni’s name on the screen. “Thanks for the food.”
“I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon, Torombolo.” Veronica says, and Betty adds, “I hope so!” She looks reluctant to see him go. Wishful thinking, he tells himself.
He is still a bit dizzy from her attention by the time he’s reached the red Alfa Romeo Spider. The top is down, and the radio is blasting some autotuned pop song he doesn’t want to know the name of. Slightly removed from the rest of the debauchery, a half dozen younger Serpents are rough housing and laughing, and Jughead salutes them as he walks by.
Toni is straddling the invisible line between the Southside Serpents and the kids from the Northside of town. Her girlfriend, Cheryl Blossom, leans against the car beside her, striking a pose she must have practiced in front of the mirror. She's wearing a white crop top and a miniskirt the same flashy shade as her convertible. The black velvet ribbon tied around her pale neck is pinned in place by a red and gold enamel spider.
“Hobo,” Cheryl greets him. “it took you long enough to answer our summons.”
“I’m not your dog.” He turns to Toni. “When you untie that bow, does her head fall off? And if it does, can we pull it now?”
“Children,” Toni says, “Don’t fight. I love you both equally.” Then, brisker, ignoring her girlfriend’s scowl, “How’s business?”
“Handled.” Jughead picks up her Serpent jacket from the backseat and transfers the money from his pocket to hers.
“Was that Betty Cooper I saw you sitting with? I always thought she was wound too tight for reefer madness.”
“I sold to Veronica Lodge. We were just hanging out.” Jughead tugs at his beanie in discomfort.
He’s been hiding his crush from Toni since they were freshmen, when she strong-armed him into attending the Southside-RHS basketball games, insisting, “No reputable school newspaper can ignore the athletics department.” Now he knows it was her excuse to ogle Cheryl Blossom; she forgot he existed as soon as the redhead started shaking her pom poms. At the time, though, Jughead was terrified she would notice him ogling Betty Cooper, who beamed at the bottom of the pyramid. He’d rather avoid Toni’s teasing—or Cheryl’s twisted take on his love life.
Toni arches an eyebrow. “Planning to defect?”
“You should want me to. It’d be easier for you to grab the crown. I’ve told you a thousand times, by the way: you’re welcome to it. Look, I’ve been friends with Archie since the sandbox. If I haven’t turned preppy yet, it’s not going to happen.” He motions to Cheryl. “And you don’t hear me questioning your commitment to the Serpents, even though you’re dating a Northsider.”
“Oh, please,” Cheryl scoffs. “I’m no mere Northsider. I’m the Northsider. Archie Andrews, on the other hand, has the IQ and temperament of a golden retriever, Veronica Lodge is a Blair Waldorf knockoff with delusions of grandeur, and Betty Cooper, well. Nightmare Smurfette has too many flaws to list.”
“Isn’t she your cousin? And isn’t her sister married to your brother?” His mouth twists. “Gross, by the way.”
“Distant cousins, tatterdemalion. Her sister can be insufferable, too, though I've no doubt that she’ll improve under my JJ’s tutelage, now that she’s away from those noxious Coopers. Mediocrity must be carried in the gene for blonde hair.”
“Or murder,” Toni laughs. “Didn’t your mother have a cameo on the news saying that the Black Hood used Betty as bait?”
Jughead rolls his eyes. “He didn’t need bait. Cooper wasn’t some shady drifter. Everyone knew him and thought he was harmless.”
“Well, you’d know, Murder Board,” Toni says. She turns to Cheryl. “I'm not kidding. He had an actual murder board in the Red & Black office, before Cooper took out our advisor and the paper closed. Photos of victims and suspects, newspaper clippings. Real red thread stuff. Of course, we didn’t catch the guy.”
“We might have, if I had a little help,” Jughead responds, peevish. “But you never took it seriously.”
“Me and my grandfather had to do the books for the bar, because your dad was god-knows-where doing god-knows-what. I didn’t have time to play detective.”
“My TT is a true business woman, pauper prince,” Cheryl says proudly, running a red talon along the waistband of her girlfriend’s skirt. Toni's violet top is sheer enough to display her rib tattoo, but Cheryl traces the S from memory. “We’ll have an empire, between the maples and the drugs. She’s too busy to tag along on your morbid little adventures.”
He opens his mouth to defend himself because Toni will not: she ignores the maple syrup heiress’s jabs at him. She even shrugs off the classist ones, which should offend her, too, because Toni grew up in the trailer park, then couch surfed for a year after her uncle went to prison. But she claims they don't matter, since she'll be rich soon enough, and calls Cheryl’s poisonous wit “exciting.”
Before he can speak, though, Toni asks, “Are you trying to get the inside scoop on the Black Hood murders from his daughter?”
“No!” Then he clarifies, "I mean, yeah, I’m interested in the story. But I went over there for some s’mores, that’s all.”
Toni grins fondly. “Ride out to Coney Island this summer for the hot dog eating contest. I bet you’d win. Maybe even get an endorsement deal.” She nudges his shoulder, ignoring Cheryl’s angry sniff. “College fund.”
“Yeah, yeah. We done? You know I hate parties.” And Blossoms.
“You’re free, misfit,” Toni laughs. Nodding curtly at Cheryl, he pulls his friend into a quick hug, then strolls to the clearing where the Serpents parked their bikes, stopping long enough to exchange back slaps and fist bumps with the boys. He doubts they’ll remember any of this tomorrow.
Jughead puts on his helmet, which is etched with a crown, and looks up at the sky. It's crowded with stars, and something inside him says: This is the beginning.