A Touch of Trouble

One: Teacher (tag 1x02)

Jughead wasn't spying. Honest.

He was merely walking down the hall, minding his own business, consumed by the dark, dreary cloud that was the chaos of his waking life – brooding, some would call it; emo, others (like Reggie Mantle) might claim, but it was simply the consequence of having a mind that was too loud, too jumbled, and too perceptive, and a voice that was too often discounted, scorned, ridiculed, and silenced. He had noticed through the slim rectangular window of one of the classrooms – a classroom, he knew, that should have been empty – movement, the unmistakable blue and gold of a letterman jacket. And above that, a streak of auburn. Drawn by his insatiable curiosity, and temporarily distracted from his own pensive and baleful musings, Jughead approached and peered in. He had seen, with enormous shock and repulsion, the redhead of his old friend Archie Andrews inclined forward to meet that of Miss Grundy, the hot young music teacher. Miss Grundy who was in her early thirties.

They were drawn together – seriously and passionately – her hands holding his, he staring at her as if she were the only woman who had ever graced the planet, like hormonal high-schoolers who had sneaked off during study period to test the limits of their sexual inexperience and lust. The category of hormonal high-schoolers Archie definitely belonged to, and Miss Grundy most certainly did not. In that brief, uncomfortable glimpse, Jughead felt he had accidentally stumbled upon some kind of soft-core, school-fetish type porn. He was appalled, disgusted, and rather angry. How long had this been going on? Didn't they realize that what they were doing was wrong? Was illegal? At least Miss Grundy must know. Even if they didn't mention such a rule in teaching college – Thou Shalt Not Sleep With Thy Students – surely Miss Grundy shouldn't need to be told not to have sexual relations with her students. Students under the age of majority; students who were, in the eyes of the law, still considered children and unable to give liable consent. There was a certain two word term for it, of which she was surely familiar: statutory rape.

Jughead pried his eye from the sight and skulked down the hall. Archie, the idiot. Didn't he realize what he was getting himself into? He could have his pick of any of the girls in Riverdale, and he chose Miss Grundy? Didn't he understand that, bigger picture, there could be no future for them, that whatever they hell they had now (passionate, fiery romance; great sex made all the more fun for its illicitness) was sure to sputter and die out? If they were lucky. End in a fiery train wreck of mass proportions, if they were not. They weren't even being subtle! Making out at school, right in a classroom, where anyone could walk in. That was the main purpose of those windows in the doors – to allow principals and education administrators to peek into classrooms during their rounds and make sure everything was safe and orderly. To prevent situations exactly like this one. If Archie and Miss Grundy weren't more careful, they were going to get caught. The truth would come out. And if that happened, it would be a lot worse for both of them, a lot worse for Archie. He needed to end the affair immediately.

Jughead couldn't keep what he had witnessed to himself. He needed to talk to Archie. They had hardly spoken more than two words to each other in months, could barely be called friends, avoiding eye contact in the halls, passing as two strangers, two ships in the night. A sudden, severing divide had opened between them, and Jughead was pretty sure Archie was to blame. He couldn't understand the source or cause of this separation, couldn't understand why Archie had suddenly left him behind, cast him aside like yesterday's newspaper; he was angry his supposed "best friend" could abandon him without explanation, without warning, choosing instead all the typical jock-cliches Jughead hated and despised, maintaining radio silence and building himself into the image of this high school god – an image of perfect American masculinity and conformity Jughead did not fit into. Yet, despite his anger and confusion and hurt, Jughead still cared about Archie, still felt the need to protect him. He didn't want to see his (ex) friend get hurt.

That was how, after months of absence, Jughead found himself at the Andrews residence that evening. Sitting on the front steps like he had a million times since he was about six years old. The dwelling was almost as familiar to him as his own home, and was indeed full of precious childhood memories and good-will, of intimate talks and homemade milkshakes, of Fred Andrews standing at the stove flipping pancakes like a benevolent and dearly loved uncle after another Friday night sleepover.

It was getting late; the sky was dark. Night was a cover Jughead could hide himself under. He had time: he could turn around now and disappear into obscurity, flee from confrontation and melt into the shadows.

Archie was walking up to the house, when he spotted Jughead: "Jug? What's up?"

Jughead wasted no time mincing words. He needed to get to the point, say what he had come to say – like ripping off a band-aid. "What's up is I saw you, Archie. In the music room. With Miss. Grundy."

Archie's initial reaction was not one of shame or surprise, or even denial. It was secrecy, self-preservation. The kind that spiralled and spiralled, lies upon lies, until you could no longer tell what the truth was, who you were, or how you had managed to stray so far off the path. "Keep your voice down, my dad's inside."

"I'm trying to help you, dude. I'm trying to be your friend here. Even though we're not anymore." Archie did not contradict him. "How long? You and Grundy?"

"Since the summer." Archie swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed with sincerity. His voice was soft. "I like her."

Jughead scoffed. The moron. What did trivial matters like feelings have to do with it? "So I'm guessing she's the reason you've been acting weird since summer?

"One of them."

"One of them? There's more?"

Jughead could never have guessed what emerged from Archie's mouth next:"We were at Sweetwater River on July 4th." Archie was uncertain about this next part, but it was clear that he needed to confess to somebody, anybody, the truth that had been weighing on his mind and conscience. "We heard a gunshot. The gunshot."

This was now officially a million times worse than Jughead could have anticipated. "Dude, you have to tell somebody-"

"I can't. Neither can you. If people find out about Grundy-"

"A kid is dead, Archie!" God, where was Archie's perspective? Jason Blossom, Archie's fellow jock and hot ginger – they had to break some sort of statistic between the two of them - had been murdered. That was certainly more important than protecting Grundy. "And you're worried about some, some cougar?"

"Don't call her that." What else was Jughead supposed to call her? She was a predator, stalking for fresh, young meat. He doubted Miss Grundy was dating Archie for his titillating conversation and astute mind. "Okay, she's not like that, she cares about me."

"Stab in the dark. I'm guessing she cares more about herself. She's the one who's telling you not to say anything, right? Look, I saw you guys. She's messing with you, man. And she's messing with your mind." Again the cougar adage: she was above Archie in the food-chain. She was the sly, artful predator, and he was an innocent, oblivious lamb. She had a hell of a lot more to lose than Archie did, and a hell of a lot more practice.

"What the hell do you know about it, Jughead?" Archie snapped. "Or about me, even?"

Jughead pursed his lips together. Archie's accusation that he didn't know him stung, though the sentiment really went both ways. There was so much Archie didn't know about him. So much he had wanted to tell him over these last few months, but hadn't been given the opportunity to do so. Archie was wrong: he did understand. He knew Archie better than the boy knew himself. And, as for the other thing…Archie was wrong about that too: Jughead knew about these kind of situations. Knew all too well.

Jughead searched Archie's face, and he knew that now was not the time to reveal his secret. Perhaps the time would never be right, and he would carry this suffocating weight inside of him, alone, forever. "Nothing," he finally said. Greatnow he was a liar, no better than Archie. "But I used to know this guy once. Archie Andrews. He wasn't perfect but…" Jughead sighed. "He always tried to do the right thing, at least."

It was time for him to leave, his last words ringing in Archie's ears. Even if they didn't mean anything to him now, Jughead hoped he would ponder on them, would consider them and see the light in what his friend was saying. "Jug." Archie stopped him, and for one foolish second, Jughead hoped. "If you tell anyone about this…"

Was that a threat? Was Archie Andrews actually threatening him? "What? What are you gonna do?"

Fred stepped onto the front porch, interrupting any reply Archie might have given. "Hey, Jug. Coming in? We got take-out from Pop's." Fred knew Jughead couldn't resist a good burger.

This time it was Archie who interrupted Jughead's reply. Though Jughead would have given the same answer, hearing the words from Archie's mouth was painful, infuriating, almost malicious if not cruel. An even greater rift had opened between them, and this time Jughead would not be the one to fix it. "He was just leaving."

He left, but he didn't go home. Jughead went to Pop's Diner – his usual hangout – and ordered a milkshake, burger, and fries for one. While he ate, he tried not to think about the Andrews, eating their Pop's take-out in their tiny kitchen, Fred completely oblivious to his son's activities, feeling disconnected from his boy even as they both reached out for the ketchup bottle, wondering perhaps why he never saw Jug anymore, and Archie, pensive and moody, burdened by his secrets.

He tried not to think about Jason Blossom, his bloated corpse as they dragged his body from the river, the gaping hole in his smooth forehead, where a bullet had pierced skin and shattered skull, lodging into his cranium. Oh the terrifying and grisly end someone so young, one of their very own, had met, perhaps at the hands of an acquaintance. He tried not to think that at right this moment, a murderer walked among the seemingly innocent populace of Riverdale.

He also tried not to think about Mrs. Kira Wilcox, memories of whom he had spent the entire summer trying to forget, jarred lose by his discovery of Archie and Miss Grundy.

It had started last year: months before Archie had started to shut him out. Even with Archie in his life, Jughead was the outcast, the misfit, the odd-man-out. He was mimicked and mocked, shoved up against lockers. His books were pushed from his hands when he walked down hallways, and obscenities were yelled from passing vehicles when he walked or biked home. When he was with Archie, these occurrences happened less frequently, but he could not be in Archie's presence indefinitely, and when he was alone, bullying reared its ugly head. So while he waited for Archie to finish practice and emerge from the locker room freshly showered, or from his final period or one of his other extracurricular activities, Jughead tried to lay low. Tried to keep a low profile. Hide himself in a corner somewhere with his laptop and lose himself in the rich inner world that was writing.

That was where she found him, sitting in a stairwell. Her heels clicked down the stairs, as she descended from the second floor to the first, where her office was located. He was huddled there, typing furiously on his keyboard. A cougar: that's exactly what she was. A predatory animal, able to detect the weak and sickly gazelle in the herd and pick him off almost soundlessly. Kira wasn't sexy in the overt way Miss Grundy was, but she was curvy and blonde, tidy and pretty in her skirt suits. She was the guidance counselor, and she lavished attention upon him. It was, he miserably admitted, the most attention a member of the female persuasion had ever showed him.

She chatted with him, seemed to take a real interest in him, and after their first few encounters, invited him to hang out in her office while he waited for whatever it was Archie was involved in to finish. She had a nice office, cozy, with real potted plants and a leather sofa and mahogany desk. There were paintings on her walls and posters with motivational sayings, like: "Dream it. Believe it. Achieve it" and "Do, or do not. There is no try." He would sit on that sofa, work on his stories, and she would sit at her desk, typing away on her dinosaur Windows PC. The room was filled with nothing but the sound of fingers clacking against keyboard keys, and the occasional comment or question, as they made small-talk or shared with each other the articles or memes they discovered on the Internet. Sometimes he showed her his work, though he never showed anyone, even Archie. She would sit next to him on the sofa and lean in close. He could smell her skin, feel her warmth, perceive every tiny imperfection and freckle on her flesh. "This is really good, JJ," she would encourage; she didn't like the name Jughead, and instead had taken to calling him by his initials. She patted his knee, and despite his best intentions, Jughead's body reacted to her touch in ways he really wished it wouldn't.

Jughead felt comfortable around her, but then, that was exactly what she wanted. It progressed slowly, linearly, imperceptive and naturally, so that when their relationship finally boiled over to a point Jughead hadn't expected or consciously decided, scalding and burning him, he realized this was exactly where their encounters had been leading all along. With Mrs. Wilcox at the helm steering him in the direction she chose. The extra hours in her office, the causal laying of her hand on his shoulder, his arm, his knee, his thigh. The coffee outings when they sat in Starbucks and discussed films and books, his college applications and plans for the future.

Then she had asked Jughead for his help on a project she was working on for her graduate studies. He had quite a bit of time on his hands – as unsocial and uninvolved as he was – and he had agreed. She cleared it, quite legitimately, with his parents. She drove Jughead home from school, sat in their living room drinking tea, and explained her project. His mother had been impressed and flattered, of course her Juggie was exactly the type of perceptive boy Mrs. Wilcox needed, and his father had been charmed by Mrs. Wilcox's pretty face and sculpted legs. They had given their permission readily, never pausing to question the educator's motives. She was, after all, a person in charge of molding young minds. If those kind of scandalous student-teacher affairs happened in real life, they happened in communities other than Riverdale.

So Jughead found himself on Saturday afternoons and the odd weekday evening, sitting at the polished Wilcox dining table, pouring over case studies with Mrs. Wilcox and answering her interview questions – about school, his life, his interests, Riverdale, himself. She scratched notes on a pad of paper with a blue ballpoint pen and smiled attentively. Her chair was pulled closed to his, and when she laughed, she touched his arm and tucked her hair behind her ear, "Oh, JJ, you're so funny."

Jughead noted with some surprise one afternoon that he had never met her husband. "He's away on business," she claimed, and in fact, Mr. Wilcox seemed to be away on business quite a lot. Nor did many photos of the happy couple decorate the home. Kira changed the subject, and opened a bottle of wine. She was wearing blue jeans and a halter top, which perfectly accentuated all the curves of her body. She offered him a glass, and though he was a minor, he accepted. The liquid was pungent and sour, burning his throat. He gagged slightly but tried to hide it. His cheeks flushed redder with each swallow. It made him feel very grown up, sipping red wine from stemmed glasses with a lovely older woman, and that was the very mark of just how young and childish he still was.

Eventually, they moved to the sofa, sitting side-by-side, their hips touching. Her lips found his, and despite his shock, he did not pull away. He would be lying if he claimed he hadn't dreamed of such a scene. But despite his body's physical attraction, the way it arched towards Mrs. Wilcox's experience, it felt wrong. He didn't want this, not really, but he had no idea how to stop it.

So he didn't. He followed Mrs. Wilcox's lead, and it wasn't until later he came to understand giving in isn't the same as giving consent. Jughead had suddenly found himself in a situation he didn't know how to stop. With each meeting, her desire increased, and with it Jughead maintained his virginity only by technicalities, and then...not at all. He didn't know how to tell her no, and thought perhaps she would sense his discomfort and want to stop. But his body did things his mind did not give it permission to do, and their affair continued. As he retreated into himself, skipping school and silencing himself, spending more time in his room, spiralling into a depression he could not explain, his oblivious, concerned parents suggested further meetings with Mrs. Wilcox, whose job it was to guide and counsel, and so he could not escape her, even by active avoidance.

Jughead's encounters with Kira ended with the school year. Not through any volition on their parts, but because her husband had been offered a job in California and he had accepted. She would find a position in a school out there. She would miss him, she claimed. Miss their time together. Jughead felt strangely divided: on the one hand, a part of him would miss her, this woman who had become a dear friend, who had read and edited his work, who had encouraged him. This woman in whom he had confided, had trusted, had given his virginity. This woman who had offered him a whole new world, who had made him believe he could do anything. This woman who had made him an adult. On the other hand, he was relieved. Glad to be rid of her and the situation without having to take action himself.

He kept his mouth shut about everything that had happened, but now he couldn't be sure why he had. Loyalty to her, he thought, protecting her from her possessive husband's wrath, or a police investigation, or a school disciplinary hearing. Protecting himself, perhaps, from prying eyes and questions. He was already the school outcast; he didn't need to stick a target on his back, give the bullies ammunition, whispers behind his back in the hallways. Or maybe it was shame that silenced him: shame that he was doing something he knew was wrong, shame that he wasn't enjoying what other boys wished for, shame because he felt dirty and disgusting.

Mrs. Wilcox's last day, as she packed her office belongings into a single cardboard box, Jughead went to say goodbye. He thought of all the words he had stored up, of everything he wanted to say to her, but none of that came out. He found himself asking her about how she had fared on her graduate project. She smiled knowingly, "Oh, JJ, you were my project." Then she left, walking out of his life as simply as she had walked in, tap, tap, tap, on to a new town, a new school, a new boy – because he hadn't had the courage to end it, to speak up.

That was when he finally realized: she had been grooming him for this from the very beginning. She had ensured her safety, his silence, while cultivating her desire. He had been manipulated.

Archie was wrong: he understood. He understood more than he wanted.

Jughead attended the first home game of the season, though he didn't entirely like football. It was what you did in a small town on a Friday night. He would sit and brood, and watch as guys in tight pants and jock cups pummelled each other on the field for possession of a ball. Archie was playing tonight, under his new number – 9, previously belonging to the late Jason Blossom. Maybe, on some subconscious level that even Jughead was not self-aware enough to find, he hoped this would afford him another chance to talk to Archie, to continue their discussion. He knew he was right; he just needed to convince Archie he was. He remembered the nasty bruise painting Archie's left eye, how he had sustained that shiner stepping in when Reggie was accusing Jughead of killing Jason Blossom, and those taunts had quickly escalated into physical violence. It was Archie's instinct to protect him. He would do the same – even if Archie hated him for it.

Before the game started, Jughead saw Archie talking with Miss Grundy. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could tell by the look on her face that Archie's words displeased her. Archie spotted him.

"Girl trouble?" Jughead sarcastically greeted. "You?"

"Grundy and me. We're telling Weatherbee. At least, I am." He had listened to Jughead and heard; maybe their friendship wasn't beyond salvaging, maybe Archie still valued his opinions. "And also, I didn't mean all that crap I said to you. I'm sorry."

"It's cool." Archie's eyes were dewy and warm. Jughead smiled. "We're not gonna hug in front of this whole town." Archie laughed. "So why don't we both just do that bro thing where we nod like douches and mutually suppress our emotions?"

"Yeah, but as friends, right?"

"To be discussed, over many burgers, and many days."

Maybe during one of those late-night burger talks, Jughead would finally be able to tell his friend his secret – but for now, the separation was still too fresh, and Archie's words still echoed, partially forgiven but never forgotten, in his head. But maybe, someday, the trust would be reestablished and Jughead would tell him everything.