The Day Before Read online

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Part I: Morning

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part II: Afternoon

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Part III: Evening

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Teaser

  About the Author

  Copyright

  JUGHEAD

  Riverdale is known as “the town with pep!” But stick around here long enough, and you start to realize just how many of those pasted-on smiles are really only covering up a Narnia-sized closet full of skeletons. Sure, every small town has its secrets. But even those of us who’ve grown up here, who’ve lived our whole lives in Riverdale, are shocked at what’s being pulled from Pandora’s box.

  Trust me, I should know. Lately, I’ve realized that everyone I care about is tangled up in one Lynch-esque melodrama after another.

  Riverdale’s also a town of Rockwellian traditions: the midnight pancake banquet in late winter, frost lacing the Town Hall windows and vapor curling from our mouths when—if—we dare to step outside. Or the Riverdale High School Homecoming weekend, a network-TV-ready worship of the apex of Americana: football, dancing, and small-town pride.

  But my personal favorite—really, the only one that’s ever meant anything to me—has to be the annual July 4th Summerfest Carnival. Typically, Betty, Archie, and I would hit up the carnival together, stuffing our faces with hot dogs and cotton candy and testing our skills at the dunk tank (Betty always did have the best arm). By evening, Archie and I would hit the road to check out the Centerville fireworks, Betty hanging back to catch Riverdale’s display with her sister, Polly (she never minded being the third wheel with Polly and—more recently—Polly’s attached-at-the-hip boyfriend, Jason). The Summerfest is just what we do. What we’ve always done. Archie and I started going before we were even walking, thanks to our parents. Betty started tagging along around first grade. And it’s been a thing ever since.

  Or, I should say: It was a thing.

  Because this summer, everything’s different. Betty’s off in LA, honing her writing skills with an internship at Hello Giggles. (Not to mention, Polly and Jason had an epic, scorched-earth breakup on par with The War of the Roses.) Archie’s been busy working construction for his dad …

  Honestly, I haven’t seen much of him lately. I don’t know. Don’t ask me about it.

  As for me? So far, so summer-usual. I’m working nights at the Twilight Drive-In, trying to earn some cash, stay out of the house, and stay out of my dad’s way, too …

  Staying out of the way is what I do best, taking things in from a distance, and writing them down.

  Meanwhile, while none of us knew it at the time, off in New York City, a young socialite named Veronica Lodge was carelessly living out her own personal episode of Gossip Girl, courtesy of her daddy, one Hiram Lodge’s bottomless bank account. Veronica’s parents had history with Riverdale, but, hey—that had nothing to do with us.

  Well, that’s what we thought, anyway.

  The butterfly effect suggests that small causes can have unpredictable—and catastrophic—effects. One action. A cascade of ripples. An outcome no one can predict.

  That was us that summer. Archie, Betty, Veronica, and me. It was July 3. The holiday stretched out in front of us like a broken promise. We were separate but intertwined in ways we’d never see coming. Small, stupid butterflies, blindly flapping our wings.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [list: All_Scout_Mailing]

  Re: Overnight supplies list

  To all Riverdale Adventure Scouts:

  Hopefully, you’re all prepared for tonight’s campout. (You wouldn’t be my Scouts if you didn’t know to prepare for any and all eventualities!) Please see below for a comprehensive list of supplies:

  *external frame backpack

  *tent

  (Don’t forget stakes, guylines, and your tent footprint! The ground in Sweetwater Woods can get very muddy.

  *sleeping bag (with optional liner)

  *multitool—no pocketknives per Scoutmaster’s regulations

  *flashlights (and extra batteries)

  *swimsuit

  *waterproof sandals

  *long underwear, pajamas, and socks for sleeping

  *water bottle

  *energy bars or other small snacks

  *sunscreen

  *lip balm

  *toilet paper

  *insect repellent

  *toothbrush/toiletry kit as needed

  I’ll bring the first aid kit. You may also want to bring a camera, your binoculars, and the attached field guide to Sweetwater Woods (though you should all be familiar with its topography by now).

  You should also be prepared for two vigorous hikes: first, to camp this evening, and tomorrow morning at sunrise. Badges will be distributed to those who can correctly identify select species of flora and fauna on either or both hikes.

  I look forward to spending the holiday with such capable Scouts-in-Training as yourselves! Let me know if you have any questions.

  Sincerely,

  Scoutmaster Dilton

  BETTY

  Dear Diary:

  I can’t believe it’s the Fourth of July already! It’s super weird to be celebrating it here in LA, away from Polly and Archie and Jughead. I can’t remember the last time we missed the Riverdale Summerfest. I guess it must have been that one summer, when Archie broke his arm building a tree house with Jughead, and we stayed indoors all day reading comics and eating red-white-and-blue ice pops. Everyone’s tongues turned bright purple, and Juggie ate three ice pops for every one of Archie’s and mine. But that was years ago.

  I miss Riverdale, of course, and my friends. But LA is AMAZING. Aunt Gertrude’s house may smell a little funny (whatever it is, I seriously think the odor’s been absorbed into the walls. It’s like a weird mix of garlic and old-lady soap), but she lives right on the edge of Runyon Canyon. So every day I get to hike Runyon Canyon before work. The view is insane. It’s exhilarating. There’s nothing like it in Riverdale.

  The weather’s amazing, the barista at Blackwood Coffee knows my order by now (pour over, milk, and two sugars) … Oh, and one other thing …

  Yeah, I miss Polly. But being away from Mom for the first time?

  Um, it’s not bad.

  Obviously, I love her and I know she loves me, but she’s so controlling. For once, I feel like I have some independence. And it doesn’t suck.

  I love working at Hello Giggles, too. Even if I have yet to win over my boss, aka the features editor, Rebecca Santos. I don’t know if she thinks I’m some small-town hick or what, but she is just not impressed by me.

  I know I’m the new girl, and I’m from out of town, and I’m probably the one on staff with the least experience, but so far, Rebecca just has me running errands, fetching coffee, coordinating meetings, mailing packages—girl Friday kind of stuff.

  I mean, I still totally love it. But the closest I’ve come to actual writing is labeling files. Rebecca makes me write the labels in pencil first, and then go over the pencil with Sharpie. She may have some OCD issues. In any case, it’s not exactly Pulitzer-track material.

  Rebecca keeps me busy, though. Which is good. Fo
r a lot of reasons. If nothing else, it means I won’t be able to dwell on the one real bummer about spending my summer here in LA—being away from my friends on the Fourth of July.

  Ugh, who am I kidding, diary? The bummer is being away from Archie.

  “Rad Brad.” That’s how he introduced himself. It was so deliberately cheesy that I had to laugh, which I’m guessing was the point.

  I met him my second week out here. I was finally starting to get used to the energy in LA—the insane traffic, having to sit on the freeway for hours of the day, every day, how the weather is always the same (seriously, no one here knows what to do on the rare chance that it rains. They would FREAK if they had to live through a winter in Riverdale, even if we do have enough maple syrup to keep the whole city on an infinite Master Cleanse) … The fact that even the regular people kind of look like celebrities, and maybe they are just celebrities-in-waiting, after all. I still felt like the small-town girl in the big city, because how could I not? Literally all my clothes had some kind of flowery pink print on them. It was like wearing a sign on my forehead that said TOURIST … or ALIEN. But I was starting to adjust to the city’s rhythms, and even though I felt foreign, I also felt comfortable.

  Polly kept texting, asking about the guys in LA, and I kept telling her: Guys don’t usually notice me. I’m the “sweet” one. The girl next door. And the one guy I’ve wanted to notice me for ages definitely loves me … but probably not in the way that I want. For him, I am the girl next door.

  (I don’t know for sure how he feels. I’ve always been too afraid to ask.)

  So it was a summer Friday, and Rebecca had me picking up sushi for the office (rock shrimp tempura rolls, brown rice, extra-spicy mayo on the side, and a hijiki salad—I knew Rebecca’s order by heart, already). But even though I’d called in advance, the host told me it would be a while, so I grabbed my book (The Bluest Eye, favorite reread, of course) and settled on the grass at Maguire Gardens, which always has great people-watching.

  It was one of those days that even smells like summer: everything green and in bloom, the sky the kind of blue you only ever see in professional photographs. But this was actual, real life. Hashtag no filter.

  Suddenly, there was a shadow over the page. “Doing some light reading, huh?”

  I looked up. It was a guy who looked about my age, casual in a T-shirt and cargo pants, with sandy blond surfer hair. He was smiling a toothpaste-commercial smile at me.

  I flushed. “I guess it’s not exactly summer escapist reading, but she’s my favorite,” I said. Understatement of the century. Toni Morrison is my IDOL. Hello Giggles is setting up a signing for her this summer and I’m dying to be a part of it. I’ve been dropping “subtle” hints—like carrying one of her books on me at all times—since I found out.

  “If that’s your summer escapist reading, you’re going to need another escape,” he said. When he smiled, his eyes crinkled up at the corners.

  “What do you suggest?” I asked. Was I flirting? Maybe LA Betty could flirt. Maybe Riverdale Betty could learn a thing or two from her.

  His eyes crinkled again. “I was hoping you’d ask that. My number-one suggestion is this: You let me take over as your recreational director.” I must have looked surprised, because he added, “Or, you know, just a dinner. Low-key. I swear I’m not a psycho killer weirdo. Promise.”

  “Hmm.” I pretended to think about it. “I mean, as long as you’re not a psycho killer weirdo. I do like low-key.”

  “See? We’re soul mates.”

  Soul mates. I had a flash of Archie’s mop of red hair, his freckles, and those deep green eyes. But even though Archie and I eat at Pop’s together on the regular, those meals could never be mistaken for dates.

  “Here’s my phone. Can I get your number?” He passed it to me. Then he frowned. “Oh. Also, your name would be nice. I guess I got a little ahead of myself.”

  I laughed. “It’s Betty. Betty Cooper.” I took the phone from him, then gasped as I realized the time. Rebecca’s rock shrimp tempura would be cold by now. Crap. I punched in my phone number as quickly as I could, grabbed my stuff, and turned to leave. “I’m sorry to rush away, but I have—my internship …”

  “No problem. You can tell me all about it. At dinner.”

  I smiled, wondering if my own eyes were crinkling up at the corners, too. “At dinner.”

  “Oh! And by the way, I’m Brad. Or—since I’m guessing you’re new to that SoCal lifestyle—you can call me Rad Brad.”

  I looked at him. “Okay, but can I also not call you that?” Flirty, LA Betty again! Shocking. And kinda fun.

  “Betty Cooper, you can call me anything you want. But you should probably get back to work before your boss catches you picking up surfer dudes on your lunch break.”

  From: [email protected]

  To: [list: Bad_Kitties]

  Re: Set list for tomorrow

  My most exalted goddesses/sisters/singers:

  Thank you, both, for crushing it at yesterday’s rehearsal. We rule, clearly.

  Don’t forget, we’re meeting at the school today at 2:00 sharp for another sesh before tomorrow night’s big show in Town Hall Square. I’ve attached the set list. Take a look, mark it up, and come prepared to defend any notes or changes you suggest.

  Tomorrow we’ll meet at the Square at 4:00 for a sound check. Punctuality, ladies. We may not care about making it to the annual Twilight screening of Independence Day (does Jughead Jones think he’s being ironic or something?), but in typical Pussycat tradition, we need some time to get our preperformance party on.

  Last but not least, if either of you see Reggie Mantle around, I suggest you dodge. He’s been offering to “manage” the Pussycats. Don’t let him corner you unless you’re looking for a headache today. And we can’t afford headaches!

  Hugs and hisses,

  J

  JUGHEAD

  The trailer is always at its most repulsive (or should I say, “squalor chic”?) early in the morning; it’s too bad I’m an early riser by nature. The small bit of rising light that struggles to creep in through the dollhouse windows of this place only ends up casting shadows across the sagging, thrift store furniture and lighting up every last corner dust ball. It’s practically an artistic homage to neglect.

  Already, this morning was no different than any other. Stale cigarette smoke and the smell of cheap beer thickened the air. I peeled myself up to a sitting position on the couch—getting in before Dad last night meant I got to take the couch for myself, literally the absolute least I could do, leaving the bedroom for him—and looked around.

  The place was empty. It felt empty, too, in that echoey, negative space way that you can’t quite articulate, but you understand intrinsically. Some spaces, you can just feel the emptiness in your bones.

  Getting in before Dad also meant Dad was out late. And that meant …

  Well, nothing good.

  My parents’ constant fighting was awful, and it used to make my stomach cramp to watch them scream and shout in front of Jellybean, in particular, who you could tell was really upset by it. But at least when Mom was yelling at Dad, even if it was awful for Jellybean and me, it meant they were both in the same place, together.

  “It’s just for a little while,” was what she said to me, just before she loaded a beat-up suitcase into the trunk of an even more beat-up used car, strapped Jellybean into the backseat, even though my sister kept insisting she was big enough to ride shotgun, and pulled out. “Just until your father gets himself together.” As if “together” was something easy, some socially dictated checklist of actions my father would be able to tackle point by point until he somehow, miraculously, became whole again.

  As if my father had ever been whole in the first place.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t want to believe in him. Or in them. But at sixteen, I couldn’t remember a time when my dad had ever been “together.” It didn’t bode well for my mother’s plans.

  A
nd the fact that she hadn’t asked me to come? I tried not to think about what that meant. Someone had to stay here with Dad, anyway, and keep an eye on his decidedly-not-together existence. So here I was, the opposite-of-prodigal son, left behind, in Riverdale, to keep an eye out.

  It would have been easier to keep tabs on Dad if he were ever around. But I guess that’s the whole point.

  Most kids count down the days until summer vacation. To be honest, though, I missed the structure of the school year, having a rhythm to the days (even if that rhythm sometimes involved pop quizzes and term papers and stuff). Or maybe it was just that this summer felt particularly formless, with Mom and Jellybean moving out, and Betty away … and Archie all tied up in … who even knows, he’s never around, and it couldn’t possibly be because he’s working so hard doing construction for his dad. I’m not buying that.

  Once, Archie and I were practically brothers. Our fathers were partners, and we grew up together. But Archie’s different lately. And when I went to find him three weeks ago, to let him know what was going on with my mom—that she had left and taken Jellybean with her? Well, he just wasn’t around. Literally. And he didn’t respond to any texts. My best friend just … ghosted me.

  How long is “a little while,” anyway?

  I showered off some of the scuzz from the humid night and got dressed quickly, stashing my crappy phone with the cracked screen in one pocket (no messages), and my woefully empty wallet in the other. I was working that night, so it wouldn’t be empty for too long, at least. But before I hit the Twilight to get everything ready for our totally-not-ironic July 3 screening of Independence Day, I wanted to hear Archie say to my face that we weren’t heading to Centerville for the cheesy fireworks and male bonding. (I know, I know—but it’s tradition.)

  And that meant finding my dad and Archie.

  Why did I have the feeling that neither of them were going to make that especially easy for me?

  I walked from the trailer to Pop’s; not ideal, but I didn’t think boosting Dad’s truck to find my dad and ask him if I could borrow his truck for a road trip would go over so well. (Of course, small-town Riverdale never seems quite as small as it is when you’re hoofing it.) When I left, the truck was sitting in front of our house, which meant that Dad had taken his bike (which, side note, was not really all that much better a choice than the truck, if he’d been drinking, but that was a whole other thing that I’d think about later, if ever). Anyway, I left the truck where it was and kept on walking.