Welcome to Riverdale, with a few twists.
A combination of a song that intrigued me for Bughead, coupled with a theory about Mr. Jones, led to this tale. Theory: Jughead is a critical lynch-pin for the core four, even more so for the core trio of long-term friends. So, what if he had gone to Toledo with Gladys and Jellybean? What if Riverdale's Truman Capote had not been around when Jason was found dead? How would it shift the dynamics between Betty, Archie and Veronica? How would it change the progress of the murder investigation?
The murder investigation-specifically, whodunnit-will remain true to canon. The rest? We'll see what happens.
This story is rated T primarily for swearing and a little PG-13 action. Eventual canon couples as established by end of season one. Story contains elements of domestic abuse. Please read with care.
Every chapter is named after a song, and for extra insight into the vibe of events, I recommend hunting those tracks down. I have a Spotify playlist for this story (my username over there is emptysthemepark)
Disclaimer: I own nothing - consider me disclaimed.
Song: This Cold Escape - Amos The Transparent
Prologue: This Cold Escape
"I don't feel that much these days
I've grown up tired and a little afraid...
I've gained nothing from this cold escape."
This Cold Escape - Amos The Transparent
You can't go home again, the cliché claims. There's a lot of so-called sage advice trotted out in turns of phrase, lessons learned by the men and women who came before us. Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it, they insist with a shake of a finger. That one amuses me, because we clearly haven't forgotten the Civil War, and yet, it rages on in the streets of Ferguson, St. Louis, Chicago. But that isn't the tired trope I'm currently embodying on a weathered Greyhound bus, fingers flying in the face of my laptop's 12% battery remaining. And while the twenty-mile warning sign for Riverdale calls bullshit on the notion, there is a bitter kernel of truth to be found.
The Riverdale I called home is dead.
Its death knell sounded through Southside and Riverdale proper with the murder of Jason Blossom, beloved son of Clifford and Penelope Blossom. You may know them as the name on your maple syrup on Sunday mornings, their elegant floral logo greeting you as you drizzle your pancakes. It had seemed a tragic accident at first—certainly enough to shake sleepy Riverdale to its core—but the tearful tale told by Jason's twin sister tattered and frayed once Jason's corpse washed up on the Sweetwater River shoreline. Bullets generally don't leap out of the water like salmon and shoot young boys as they drown.
It has been one year and three days precisely since the Sherriff's son stumbled onto his dead classmate. One year and three days of whispered accusations, dividing lines drawn in proverbial sand as neighbours blamed neighbours. And within his grand mausoleum, Jason waits for justice, the one thing not even Daddy's money can buy.
And what of Cheryl Blossom, the crimson-haired Queen Bee of Riverdale High? Some whisper that a piece of her died with Jason. Others draw their coats tighter in the chill of her presence, certain she pulled the trigger. Me? I only care about who crafted the lie that fell from her painted mouth that morning. Cheryl? Her parents? Jason himself? Was her later confession of Jason's secret plan just another pretty song from her gilded cage?
I remember Jason Blossom, from the years before Toledo twisters and twisted men with tempers and whiskey-soaked lies. He doted on Cheryl and greedily devoured the adoration of all. The Golden Boy, quintessential Riverdale. As American as apple pie.
That cliché, by the way, holds little weight. Apple pie is but one more European settler in this country. In that, you could say it really is a symbol of America. And while the people of Riverdale dabbed their breakfast delights in the pure maple of its trees and enjoyed Pop Tate's a la mode treats, darkness came to their small town. Or rather, it crept into the light, strutting proudly in the horrified faces of not in my town disbelievers.
The Southside has always known the shadows. But it, too, was taken aback by the murder of the football star. The dream of escaping the literal wrong side of the tracks came crashing down on Riverdale's less beloved, shattering the hungry, hand-to-mouth hopes that sustain them.
For one man, it was a wake-up call. Or so I've been told.
It's eight thirty-seven on a Saturday morning, and he is alert and smiling as this sardine can reeking of body odour and clogged septic tank pulls into the bus station. Forsythe Pendleton Jones II—"FP" to many, "Serpent trash" to many more—is leaning against a pick-up truck that's seen better days. The black leather jacket he wears is a symbol of power, but also pain. Dancing with the devil drove him to drink; the drink drove his fists through walls, and my mother, sister and I to Toledo.
The death of Jason Blossom—the loss of a son so close in age to his estranged blood—flipped a switch in ol' FP. It could have been you, or Jellybean, he whispered three weeks ago. You never know what time you've got.
This, I do believe. And it's why after fifteen months, I've come back to my home that isn't my home, to a father who insists he's a new man. Time is finite and stops for no one. These clichés fall easily from my fingertips. An editor will mar my pages someday, staining them red like Jason Blossom's water-logged clothing. A murder of another kind.
FP waves and I return it cautiously. I could have arrived at two in the afternoon, but I needed evidence, a reason not to get back on board and return to Toledo. The old FP never rose before noon, perpetually hungover and hateful. But he's here, waiting for me with a smile I haven't seen in years. It means something, I'm sure. I just don't know what.
7% battery remains. Lucky number seven? I'll take what I can get. That's the Southside way.
Welcome home, Jughead Jones.
