I held up my phone so Betty could see it. “I think my dad’s been spending too much time with JB. His texts have devolved into tweenspeak.” I showed her the screen, a note about JB running late followed by the namaste-hands emoji and a winking emoji.
Betty laughed. “I’ll be worried when it’s you and the emojis are cat faces. This? This is cute.”
“Who’s cute?”
We looked up to see JB walking toward us, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she shoved her phone deep in her pocket. “You’re late,” I called reflexively.
Betty gave me a look of reproach and drove an elbow into my rib.
“Just chill, Jug,” she said, sotto voce.
“I’m like ten minutes late. Dad was supposed to tell you. Relax.” JB was utterly unperturbed by my low-key reprimand.
“And”—I turned and pointed at the doorway of the library—“you’re not coming from the library, which was where we agreed to meet. Change of plans?” I tried to keep my voice light, but I wasn’t fooling anyone.
JB rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I was with Ricky.”
“Ricky DeSantos?” I said, realizing. “The one who introduced you to Gryphons and Gargoyles?”
“The one who helped you defeat the Gargoyle King, in the end,” she countered. “Remember?”
It was true enough. But it wasn’t the whole story. “Fair. But also—the one who stabbed Archie, right?”
She flushed. “Look, he’s sorry about that. You know he had to. Or, he thought he did, at the time. And I think he’s totally proven himself since then.”
“And I’m sure Archie’s forgiven him for that,” Betty said, stepping in smoothly. She gave me another meaningful look as she put a hand on JB’s shoulder. “Which means we should, too. Right, Jug?”
“Right,” I said, with only slightly less enthusiasm than Betty had managed to muster.
Betty went on. “I know Jughead is totally fine with you meeting up with your friends after school. I mean, that’s a normal, healthy thing to do. He just … worries, you know.”
JB sighed. “Great. Well, can you please remind my brother that we’re not, like, living in ye olden days? I mean, he can look out for me without, like, totally stalking me twenty-four hours of the day. Right?”
“I can definitely remind him,” Betty agreed, “though I’m pretty sure he just got the message loud and clear.”
“He did,” I chimed in. “And he’s also not super into talking about himself in the third person.”
JB rolled her eyes at me. “I’m talking to you directly now: Jug, I’m basically a Serpent. You don’t need to be so obsessed with watching out for me. I can handle myself.”
I held up a hand. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I said. “If anything, you’re a Serpent-in-Training.”
Betty stepped forward, jumping in to smooth the conversation over. “Why argue semantics?” she said, looking back and forth between the two of us. “How about instead, we all just agree that the next time JB’s plans change, she’ll send you a text directly rather than letting you hear about it from FP?”
“A perfectly reasonable proposition,” I agreed. “I won’t give you a hard time—well, probably not, anyway,” I amended quickly. “But I do want to be kept in the loop.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Control freak.”
I gave her a playful shove. “I prefer to think of it as brotherly love.”
Control. Power. It’s what everyone wants. The lust to be the alpha, to dominate, to be the one who controls the reins? It’s a seductive notion. Epic. The stuff of legends.
The stuff of this legend, to be precise.
Or, if you prefer, it’s like a fairy tale. Any fairy tale; strip them down and they’re all the same at their fractured, beating cores. They begin with “Once upon a time.” They unfold in the woods outside a rich kingdom, one filled with an interchangeable cast of characters: fair maidens striving to impress; a princess supreme, unassailable and sublime; and a beast, ignored until it’s too late.
These fairy tales are full of petty jealousies, rivalries, and frayed loyalties. Passions are pushed to the breaking point—boiling over, erupting like a broken promise or a violent, divine-sent storm. Deadly games. A victim’s disregarded plea. An infernal baptism.
And the finale: consequences, deep and indelible as a road map of scarred skin.
This particular fairy tale is about a poor peasant girl, not of noble birth. She was a misfit, posturing amid the royal court.
The ladies-in-waiting weren’t charmed; they weren’t willing to accept an outsider into their ranks. A peasant could never be more than a scullery maid. To suggest as much was laughable at best.
At worst, it was treasonous.
They toyed with her, playing collective cat to her mouse. They dangled promises before her—just enough to secure her loyalty. Just enough to ensure she’d never go to the elders and speak of the things they did to her.
And, oh, the things they did to her.
It wasn’t enough that she should be subdued, you see. For their purposes, for their own sordid sense of security, for them to remain fully in power …
For that she needed to be silenced, eternally.
Once upon a time … You’ve heard the story. I promise, you know this.
Soon you’ll know me, too.
Jughead:
Hey, Arch—when the girls are away, the guys’ll … I don’t know, bro-out in some random, excessively gendered form of male bonding?
Archie:
Sounds fun, Jug—I think? But I’m still hauling ass trying to keep on top of the community center and stuff. Rain check?
Jughead:
Archie! This is a unique opportunity. I’m home from Stonewall AND the girls are away. Who knows when we’ll have a chance like this again?
Archie:
True. OK. I get what you’re saying.
Jughead:
Great, so … ideas? Of the two of us, you’re definitely the bro-ier one.
Archie:
OK, man. I’ll take that as a compliment. How about … I don’t know, poker? We can invite Reggie, Sweet Pea, Munroe, maybe Kevin … make it a thing.
Jughead:
That does sound perfectly masculine. And I’m all for opening the invitation up, especially in the interests of a solid poker game. But let’s not make the game TOO big, yeah? You know I’m not exactly a social butterfly.
Archie:
Trust me: I know, man. We’ll put together a boys night to make you proud.
Jughead:
Side note: Let’s definitely not call it a boys night.
Archie:
Dude, you read my mind.
ARCHIE
As soon as I’d hit “send” on my last text to Jughead, I had headed over to Veronica’s. I was sitting in her desk chair turned toward her bed, watching her pack for the Vixens retreat. She was leaving early tomorrow morning, and I was bummed to miss her for the weekend. Even if Jughead and I now had guy plans straight out of a Judd Apatow movie.