"Hey," Archie said, squeezing through the door with his guitar case in his hand and school bag thrown over his shoulder. He immediately noticed his dad's stiff body language and somber expression. The boy knew, from the stern text message he had received and ignored earlier, that his father must have already talked to Sheriff Keller about where he'd really been on July 4th.

The text simply said, "We need to talk. Come home now." The redheaded teenager knew his dad was pissed. His father rarely got angry, but lying was pretty much at the top of Fred Andrews's List of No-No's.

"I texted," his dad said flatly. "Where were ya?"

"Football practice. Then I was writing." Archie bent down and petted Vegas, who greeted him at the door, tail wagging and a few happy barks.

"Songs? Your music?" His father stood, taking a few steps toward his son. Archie could hear the anger in his father's voice and found it difficult to look at him. The boy felt his own frustration growing. He tried to ignore his dad's tone and subtle disapproval of his interest in music.

"I thought you and Jughead were on a road trip on the 4th. Then I talked to Sheriff Keller. So, I guess that was a lie," Fred declared, standing over his son.

Archie rose slowly. He hoped if he chose his words carefully that he could defuse the situation.

"Dad, we were gonna go, but…"

"You should have come to me, Archie," his father interjected fiercely. "We could have gone to the sheriff together."

"I didn't want to drag you into it, Dad," the boy nearly yelled.

"That was an error in judgment."

"Sorry, Dad," Archie sneered. "Sorry I am not perfect." He darted up the stairs, but stopped midway to face his father again.

"You know, you are pretty far from perfect lately, Archie. That's why you're grounded," Fred stated.

"What?" the teenager asked indignantly. "Are you serious?"

His father continued, ignoring the attitude and interruption. "So, in this house, every night for two weeks, 7 o'clock. You want some alone time with your music. You got it."

"I'm not 10 years old, Dad," Archie yelled. "You can't just…"

But the boy did not have a chance to finish. His father marched up the steps, grabbed his son's right bicep, jerked him sideways, and smacked his backside eight times. Archie was stunned into silence, his mouth agape.

"You wanna go for three weeks?" his father asked sternly.

When his father released him, the boy quietly said, "No, sir."

After a few moments of awkward silence, Archie retreated to his room.


Archie crept into the darkened kitchen, careful not to bump anything with his guitar case. He prayed that Vegas would not bark in excitement and rouse his father. Quickly he knelt to greet the blonde lab.

Almost instantly, however, the kitchen light clicked on, illuminating the room and startling the boy.

His father stood framed in the door, arms crossed over his chest, looking murderous.

"Welcome home, Ferris," Fred said without a trace a humor in his voice. "Sneaking out. Breaking curfew. Getting into fights."

"Dad, don't freak out, okay. I was with Josie, helping the Pussycats with a song they're doing at that Taste of Riverdale thing," Archie said, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

Boldly the boy stepped forward, clasping his hands together, and said, "And I was hoping you would let me go."

"No, Archie," exclaimed his father, fuming. "You don't get to go wherever you want, whenever you want, and damn what anyone else says."

"Dad, this is first time that a song I worked on is going to be performed in front of people. On stage. Please, let me go to this, and then ground me for the next six months, a year," the teen begged.

Fred stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "We're not haggling over your punishment, end of story."

Archie shifted nervously from one foot to the other as his father advanced.

"In fact," his father said, "Grounding you seems to have had almost no effect on your behavior at all." He paused, watching his son's anxiousness increasing. "Bend over."

The redheaded teenager closed his eyes and prayed he'd heard wrong.

"Dad," he whispered. "Please. You can't be serious."

"Archie, there's been a murder and you are sneaking out at all hours. We talked before. You didn't listen." Fred unbuckled his belt. "Now, bend over the island."

All the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room. His heart thudded in his ears and he wanted to run, but his knees had turned to jelly. The belt fluttered through the loops of his father's jeans, and then his dad folded it and stood waiting. Archie could see from the determined look on Fred's face that he would not be dissuaded from this punishment.

"Here," his father indicated, tapping the butcher-block island with his finger.

The boy turned toward the island and slowly bent forward. Archie could not believe what was about to happen. He had not been spanked, aside from the day before, in several years and never with a belt. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes and he could feel himself starting to shake.

Fred moved behind the teen and steeled himself to the task at hand. He brought the belt over his shoulder and down across Archie's backside. The boy sucked his teeth and arched his back reflexively. The second blow caused him to whimper, while the third and fourth brought tears spilling down his cheeks. The final smack was the fiercest and Archie cried out, putting his head in the crook of his arm to compose himself.

Fred put the belt back on and waited silently for his son to calm down. Although his bottom stung and his face burned in embarrassment, Archie had to admit that his dad's anger made sense. The teen knew that he had made many poor choices. Even though the punishment was juvenile, the boy felt he had earned it. Unexpected relief washed over him.

"I'm sorry, Dad. I haven't been thinking clearly. I'll do better."

"I know you will, Archie. I forgive you. Come here." Fred pulled his son into a hug. When the redhead finally released his father, they both smiled and relaxed slightly.

"You know you're still grounded, though, right?"

"I figured," Archie nodded. "Well… I'm going to bed now. And I won't sneak out tonight." The boy smiled and turned to go.

"Not even to Jughead's treehouse. Got it?"

"Got it, Dad. I promise."