{it hits you}
Betty Cooper had wanted to become a journalist from the very first moment her grandfather showed her their most prized family heirloom, the old typewriter. Which, looking back on it, had been extremely cliché, that much she knew. She also knew from that very moment, somehow in the back of her mind, that she wanted to tell stories. Stories, but not necessarily fiction. The stories had to be real, had to be fleshed out, the people she would talk about had to exist. And what she wrote, it had to matter, it had to stand for something. Best-case scenario, her writing was meant to change the world.
Betty Cooper moved to New York to make her writing worthwhile. To change the world, as the romantics would put it. She ended up, bushy tailed and wide eyed, in a small apartment she had been paying far too much for. The girl gave it an honest try; she wrote, she explored the city, and worked various jobs, though the favourite must have been the one in the small library a block away from her apartment. It had been a perfect set up for a total of three months until the library, tiny and cute as it was, had to close down due to a lack of customers. She was, of course, saddened by the news, perhaps because she loved the books, quite possibly because the library had grown to be one of her favourite places, but mostly because it meant she would have to find a new job. It was good while it lasted, though. Betty would work the morning shift on most days, when little to no customers came in—if they did they would leave quickly, without asking for her help—and when the shift ended the blonde had plenty of time to work on her articles, all of which had been freelance work. Journalism required experience, and few were ready to offer it to an inexperienced writer just out of college. At night, before falling asleep, she would hope that one of the articles would end up being accepted and published. Sometimes, the work she had put in was worth it, and she could read her name under an article title; it happened rarely. Most times she would receive an email—or a call if the person in question decided to treat her with some extra decency—to let her know that the article would not make it in the next issue. Perhaps, the following number, next month, they always ended their conversation on the same note: 'not today, but maybe tomorrow'; 'you're an outstanding writer'; 'my supervisor just does not see how the story fits into this month's issue anymore'.
"Fuck your supervisor," Betty muttered at the bright screen of her laptop. The clock on the wall, a lovely vintage piece, showed 1 a.m. She had an early shift to wake up for the next morning, but the deadline for the last article she had been writing—and she had put in at least a week into this one—was the following morning at eight. Though she could promise herself that she would wake up earlier if she just went to bed right that moment, Betty knew that, once morning came, she would need at least half an hour to get back into the writing mood that she was in at that moment.
The last of the cold coffee in her favourite mug tasted more sweet than bitter as she drank it in one gulp in hopes it would keep her awake for as long as it took to finish the article.
"Come on, Cooper," the girl muttered, eyes fixed on the bright screen, "you can do this."
The silence of the small living room was broken by the sound of her fingers hitting the keyboard at an outstanding pace. At half past two Betty set her alarm, just in case; it would not bode well for her if she forgot to set it later. Forty minutes after she pressed send on the email, not bothering to check for any typos in the column she had sent in. They would send it back for her to proofread and polish if they decided they liked it well enough. Without taking her makeup off Betty collapsed on top of her bed and fell into a deep sleep that seemed to have lasted barely a couple of minutes.
The blonde woke up in the same position, as the alarm blared from her phone. Her hair had gotten messier, and the leftover mascara smudged around her eyes. The pink lipstick she had worn the day before had imprinted on the pale pillowcase, and transferred from her lips to her left cheek.
"Ugh," she hit snooze on the alarm before tying her hair in a messy bun. The sun was yet to come up.
Her bedroom was a mess, Betty noted that fact as she scoured the room. Drowsily she added another chore to the ever-growing list in her phone's notepad; she would have to do her laundry first, though, before cleaning the bedroom. The bathroom, to Betty's relief, was as clean as ever, same as always. Next to her beloved kitchen, it was the room she made sure to keep clean at all times. There was something cringe inducing in the thought of her bathroom being anything but spotless.
Oftentimes, the only thing Betty needed in the morning was a refreshing shower, though on the mentioned morning nothing seemed to help. Even washing her hair did not wake her up, nor did it drive away the sickening feeling of her empty stomach. The last meal she had was the takeout dinner nearly half a day ago. She brushed her teeth in the shower, disgusted at the taste in her mouth and not caring about spitting the toothpaste out on her foot. Alice Cooper, her lovely proper mother, may have been shocked at the idea that her perfect daughter would do such a thing, though Betty never understood why. The woman would have also been surprised at the way Betty stepped outside of the spacious shower and, wrapped in a towel though still wet, made her way back to the messy bedroom. Mrs Cooper would have also disapproved at the way Betty dried her skin before dropping the towel on the radiator, and sauntering off—completely naked, right in front of her window—towards her wardrobe where she proceeded to pick out an appropriate outfit for the day.
It made Betty smile sometimes, especially during crappy mornings, when she would think of just how many of her standard routines her mother would disapprove of. With a tired smirk on her face, her stomach grumbling, and the sound of her heartbeat drumming away in her ears, she walked back to the bathroom, now fully dressed.
"I'm a mess," the familiar face stared back at her from the wide mirror. The blonde rubbed away the mascara from her blood shoot eyes. "Mess, mess, mess," she chanted while swiping away at her tired skin, cleaning her face meticulously, first taking of the old makeup with a cotton swab and some micellar water, before moving on to an Aloe vera cleansing gel. When she looked at herself, after patting her face dry with a towel, Betty would have liked to think she looked much better. If nothing, at least she no longer looked as if she spent a night clubbing.
"And now," Betty reached for her makeup bag, "time to look alive."
As carefully as each morning, she applied makeup. First, her moisturizer, the one her mother had been buying her for years. Though the girl rarely liked to admit it, Alice Cooper could—on a rare occasion—be right about something. Such occasion was the mentioned moisturizer which transformed her skin from dry and tired, to acceptable and glowing on the worst of mornings. Having always avoided heavy foundation, she applied her trusty BB cream before nearly poking her eye out with the new mascara. As a finishing touch, she applied a bright fuscia pink lipstick to her lips, once again thinking of how her mother would have disapproved.
On her way out Betty grabbed a banana, it would have to suffice until her break. Her grumbling stomach disagreed as she stepped into the old lift, but there was not much that could be done about it, she thought, as she bit into the fruit.
Betty worked, ironically, in a small locally owned coffee shop just a five minute walk from her apartment. She had been working there for over two months. The pay check was good, the owner—a wonderfully charming middle aged woman who, apparently, had an array of handsome lovers—was perfectly wonderful, and the clientele were usually around her age and, for the most part, polite and kind. There was not a thing to complain about, save for perhaps the dark blue uniform which made Betty look deadly pale. This was something she could easily ignore once Rosalind—the owner—handed her the monthly salary – enough to pay for her overpriced apartment.
"Morning," the backroom had been decorated as nicely as was the coffee shop itself.
Rosalind was sitting in her armchair reading the newspaper, "Hello, Betty," she smiled. "Early as always."
"I thought I was going to be late, for sure," she left her bag in the locker, and turned her back to the woman while she changed into the coffee shop designated uniform, which was a navy blue button up.
"You're never late, Cooper," the woman smiled at her over the top of the newspaper, "it's Pauline I always worry about. Especially when I assign her the early shift." The paper rustling told Betty that Rosalind had flipped a page. She heard her let out a soft "tsk".
"What is it?"
Betty could never help but notice how beautiful, yet non-conventionally attractive, her boss was.
"Oh, little Betty," the woman chuckled, "merely the stock market. I will have to take care of it." She stood up and headed for her office, "If you're done here please set up at the front. We open in twenty minutes."
"Sure," but Rosalind did not wait for Betty's response before shutting the door to her office. The woman only ever used it for serious business. The blonde girl tightened the high ponytail and checked her teeth for any treacherous lipstick stains. Once satisfied, she headed to the front, where the place was in dire need of setting up for the early morning customers.
Pauline rushed into the coffee shop from the backroom five minutes before they were set to open, hurriedly tying her hair into a ponytail.
"I am so sorry," she muttered, taking up setting the menus on the tables.
"No problem," Betty had prepared most of the shop for the oncoming customers. The paper cup holder was full, the coffee ready, and the variety of cakes were sitting in the display.
At 7 o'clock sharp, Pauline unlocked the door before hurrying behind the counter.
"I am so sorry," the girl said again, her apologetic brown eyes holding Betty's gaze.
The blonde waved her off, with a genuine smile on her face. "Really, it's no big deal."
"Okay, okay. Thank you."
"No problem."
A minute later, the first customer walked in, followed by an array of their usual guests. Pauline always chatted with a blonde guy who worked at a graphic design studio down the street. Betty rarely chatted as much as her co-worker did, though from time to time a handsome man would come and try to flirt while ordering a latte with extra milk. She would smile politely while handing him the order and he would ask for her number. Sometimes Betty wondered if claiming she did not have a phone was a rude thing to do. More than often, she would come to a conclusion that chatting up a waitress as she worked on your order would have to be considered a much ruder action.
Rosalind usually joined the morning shift around 8:30—which turned out to be the case for the day—after she had one of her very own pot brownies, and proceeded to flirt with the customers, as long as they were responding to her flirtation appropriately.
"He was cute," she would then turn to Betty to gauge her reaction. She did so once the perfectly average business man left the shop.
Nearly always Betty smiled and replied, "Not really my type."
"Do you hear this, Pauline," Rosalind whispered to the other girl, "I can't seem to figure out little Betty's type."
Pauline always, without a fail, went along with Rosalind's loving teasing, "Maybe our goldilocks would prefer a pretty girl." She winked at Betty.
"No," the older woman smiled, observing the young blonde. From the distance, a jingle sounded as another customer stepped into the sunbathed coffee shop. And just like that, as Betty looked up to greet them, her blue eyes widened and her lips parted in shock, or awe, but most likely a mix of both.
"I think we've found little Betty's type," Rosalind nudged the brunette standing next to her, and the two of them took in the handsome boy—no, the handsome man—standing in front of awestruck Betty Cooper.
A/N: A bit of a coffee shop AU without it being totally AU. I've been super into writing about Betty and Archie lately.