YOU MADE ME A BELIEVER
I was broken from a young age
Taking my sulking to the masses
Writing my poems for the few
That look to me, took to me, shook to me, feeling me
Singing from heartache from the pain
Taking my message from the veins
Speaking my lesson from the brain
Seeing the beauty through the pain
Solace.
Such a foreign, unattainable word. A word that he understood by definition, but not execution.
He often wondered what it was like to know true peace. He imagined it was reserved for the Leave It to Beaver families, with the humble housewives, hardworking husbands, and 2.5 children busy with college applications and school-sponsored sporting events.
Or maybe a beautiful heiress who had nothing better to do than throw her money at whatever her shallow heart desired.
A successful musician who made his living off laying all of his deepest thoughts bare for the world to see, celebrated for his candor.
None of these scenarios applied to Jughead Jones. He had never seen a white picket fence anywhere but a television screen, hardly had two pennies to rub together, and was, for all intents and purposes, tone-deaf.
Solace had never been kind enough to grace him with her presence.
But it was possible to glimpse the faint shadow of her, however distant, when he was on his bike. The wind whipping at his face, no matter the temperature or season. The sensation of his body being launched at 60 miles an hour down quiet, abandoned back roads. The deep rumble of the motor deafening him to the invasive thoughts that haunted his brain on a regular basis.
Yes. This ten-minute trek to South Side High was one of the only things that provided him with any feeling resembling peace. He could not even find it in slumber, for his racing thoughts took up root in his self-conscious, manifesting as dreams nobody should have to endure. Instead, he spent his nights writing, occasionally dozing off at his computer when he couldn't mitigate the heaviness of his eyelids any longer. He would usually awaken an hour or two later, and resume tinkering on his laptop, the clicking of the keys the only true relaxation he needed. It meant he was exhausted more often than not. He couldn't remember the last time, if ever, that he had a full night's sleep. But at least this way, he was rarely out long enough to allow the nightmares to seep in full-form. And his morning ride was usually enough to energize him for the day and wipe his memory of the sleepless night.
And this morning was particularly nice. The Autumn season had begun to take shape, the leaves on the trees transforming into an array of earth tones. He was tempted to take his ride a little slower to enjoy the view, but he was already running behind. And for as many faults as he had, being late was never one of them. He was the only student at South Side High that had an untarnished attendance record. And though his friends sometimes teased him for it, it happened to be one of the few things that made him feel accomplished.
As usual, his heart sank somewhere into the pit of his stomach as he pulled into the lot and came to a steady halt, cutting the engine and hearing those dark whispers creeping back into his head.
She was waiting for him as he pulled in, hand on her hip in a stance of impatience.
"There was a Serpent meeting this morning. You missed it."
Jughead swung his leg over the seat of the motorcycle, dismounting and grabbing his book bag from the back.
"I'm sure you all got through it just fine without me."
Toni rolled her eyes. She had always tried her damnedest to look out for him, even when he wasn't doing a bang-up job of it, himself. Especially then.
"Sweet Pea was pretty pissed off."
"Sweet Pea can kiss my ass."
He swept right past her, barely bothering to acknowledge her. With a couple of quick strides, she fell into step beside him.
"Who pissed in your Cheerios this morning?"
That was a loaded question, if he had ever heard one. He hadn't worked up the nerve to open that government-stamped letter until this morning. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting to read, but it certainly wasn't a summons to testify as a character witness at his father's parole hearing.
He had gotten used to the idea of living alone. His mother and sister had been gone for years, victims to a fatal car accident when he was young. He could scarcely remember their faces, save for the photographs gathering dust on the mantle. His father had been in prison the past two years, serving his time for assault and battery with a deadly weapon and grand larceny. The only thing that had saved him from becoming a ward of the state was the social worker who had taken pity on him, insisting she saw his potential. She had helped him file the emancipation papers, and within a couple of months, suddenly he was free.
He had expected it to be liberating. But instead, the perpetual silence was somehow deafening. The haunting whispers of cynicism that followed him everywhere he went could hardly be stifled. He had turned to writing to calm the racing thoughts, but it served only as a temporary solace.
That word again. So close he could taste it, yet somehow still evading his grasp.
He was quite used to being on his own. But when it came down to brass tacks, there was no true liberation in loneliness.
"Actually, I had Fruity Pebbles this morning, but I'll be sure to keep an eye out for strangers urinating on my breakfast."
Her sigh was so melodramatic that it ended in something resembling a growl.
"Jughead, you have to be careful with Sweet Pea. You're already on thin ice with him. You know that."
He paused to hold the door for her, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips. "Then I'll be sure to skate around the perimeter."
She stopped to give him a deadpan glare. He saw that glare in his dreams. He had seen it his entire life. The first memory he had of it was when they were six, and he put one of her Barbies in the microwave. It was forever burned into his brain.
But if there was one good thing about that glare, it was the fact that it always came as a punctuation mark to any argument. It meant she was so annoyed with him that she was folding. And the silence that followed was nothing short of blissful.
They made their way through security and did a quick drive-by of their lockers. Jughead had always had a bad habit of forgetting which locker was his. But now, in his senior year, it was impossible to miss. A former resident had been kind enough to tag it with a gargantuan, if anatomically-inaccurate, depiction of a certain male body part. He fondly referred to it as his "cocker locker."
And though most people touted senior year as the time to make memories, he had the sneaking suspicion that this would be one of the only things that he remembered in the years to come. The thought was simultaneously amusing and depressing all at once.
Toni walked him to English, playfully thumbing her nose at the "Advanced Placement" placard adorning the doorway, and took off down the hallway to her remedial math class.
English was his favorite subject. Not only was he fond of his teacher, Mr. Phillips, but there was something about the escapism of literature that kept him anchored from the undertow of self-loathing. It was another example of his paper-thin interpretation of solace—however cheap a knock-off it was.
He took his usual seat in the front corner, next to the window. Mr. Phillips usually left it cracked this time of year, the soundtrack and scent of the crisp autumn outdoors wafting in to play an accompaniment to his mediocre musings. It was a grounding combination of ambience that he could not explain. But, unlike most good things in his life, he did not care to dissect it beyond recognition.
The sharp clatter of the bell served to usher remaining students into their seats. Mr. Phillips, as if on cue, entered from the hallway, a bizarre blond creature in tow. Jughead was sure for a moment that he was hallucinating. Surely someone had sprinkled Jingle Jangle into the ventilation shafts.
The gossip-laden whispers began immediately. She shifted uncomfortably, undoubtedly aware of just how sorely she stuck out. In a room of gang tags and leather jackets, there was no room for pink cashmere sweaters and peppy ponytails.
Nevertheless, something about her struck him as being familiar. He was certain he had seen that doe-eyed gaze before. It echoed in the caverns of his memory banks, rifling through recollection to find the answer.
"Good morning, everyone. We have a new student joining us today. She's transferring from Riverdale High School."
The murmurs crescendoed in intensity. People didn't just transfer from Riverdale to the South Side. It was like trading a Porsche for a bicycle. If anything, people in Riverdale traded up—not down. Those who married into rich families and managed to get the hell out. People who managed to keep their noses clean through school and land in an Ivy League. Folks who stumbled upon a dead relative's inheritance and suddenly found themselves presented with options.
But slumming it? It was virtually unheard of.
"Elizabeth," Mr. Phillips began, "why don't you tell us a little about yourself?"
Her hands were balled into anxious fists at her sides. Part of him wanted to feel something resembling sympathy for her. The other part of him was inexplicably irritated at the notion of this queen bee invading their hive.
"It's Betty, actually," she began. "Betty Cooper."
"Okay, Betty," Mr. Phillips continued. "What brings you to our side of town?"
The question was meant to be innocent. But Jughead knew immediately from the look on Betty's face that it was impossible to answer without unveiling something incredibly personal. But she poised herself, a brisk smile spreading across her face.
"My mother grew up here. This is…home."
Lie. She could barely spit that drivel out without her face twitching involuntarily. Nobody in the history of all the South Side Exoduses had ever willingly returned to roost after breaking free.
"Thank you, Betty." Mr. Phillips took his place at the chalkboard, beginning to scrawl notes for the day's discussion. "Why don't you have a seat, and we'll get started?"
She smiled politely, taking a second to survey the room. Some of his classmates made a purposeful show of slinging book-bags into vacant seats, their eyes scanning Betty up and down, as if daring her to approach. With Mr. Phillips' back turned, her protective exterior cracked ever-so-slightly, and she was a deer in headlights. It was like watching the collision occur in slow motion. Macabre and infinite.
Through gritted teeth, he mumbled her name.
"Betty."
When she turned to look at him, he hesitantly patted the open chair beside him. In response, that syrupy smile returned. She practically skipped over to him, sliding into her seat.
"Thanks, you're a lifesaver."
He grunted noncommittally.
"I'm Betty."
"I literally just called you by name 20 seconds ago."
She didn't take the hint. "What's your name?"
With an impatient sigh, he pointed to the patch on his Serpent jacket.
"Jughead." The way she read it out loud was almost amusing, like a child auditioning a curse word for the first time. "That's an interesting name. Where does it come from?"
"It's a nickname."
"Oh, that makes more sense."
There was a moment of silence. He did not acknowledge her, instead focusing on copying the discussion outline from the board.
"So, Jughead is a nickname, but what's your real—?"
"Listen, I'm going to save you some time," he began, with perhaps more volatility than intended. "I'm not the small talk type. So, if you're looking for someone to shoot the breeze with, I'm not your guy. Okay?"
She dipped her chin in a single nod. "Fair enough. I appreciate your honesty."
He was completely blindsided by this response, finally looking up from his notebook. "Pardon?"
She sighed a little, peering at him from under mile-long lashes. Her eyes were a very different shade of green than he'd ever seen before. "Where I'm from, everybody treats each other with kid gloves. It's nice to have someone be real with me for once. So, thank you."
"Yeah," he replied robotically, still dumbfounded. "Sure."
He took the opportunity to quickly look her over, his curiosity suddenly getting the better of him. However, she had quickly lost interest; she was studiously taking her own notes with a purple ballpoint pen, her loopy script everything that lollipops and candy canes were made of.
He did not have time to get properly annoyed with her handwriting. Mr. Phillips had spun round, dusting chalk from his hands.
"All right, everyone. Let's turn to Chapter 24 of The Catcher in the Rye."
"You missed the meeting today."
There was no ceremony to this statement. No preceding, "Hello, how was your morning?" Sweet Pea had just marched up, dropping his lunch tray to the table in an irritated clatter, and collapsed into his seat, his eyes burning into the side of Jughead's face.
"So I heard," Jughead replied dismissively. "Everyone seems awfully butt-hurt about it. Did you sit around crying because you missed me so much?"
"Shut up."
"No, really. Tell me all about the tragedy that befell the group in my absence. What irreparable crises were made worse without me there?"
Sweet Pea's face scrunched in a bit, as though he were trying to decipher what Jughead was saying. He always got a bit flustered when Jughead used big words. It took him a minute to gather his bearings, and a few bites of his lunch later, he started again.
"I'm just saying," Sweet Pea mumbled around a mouthful of tuna sandwich, "that if you want to be a Serpent, you've got to act like it."
It took everything in Jughead's power to not roll his eyes. His father had been the king of the Serpents, once upon a time. It was all Jughead had ever known. He had been born and bred into this life. He could "act" like a Serpent in his sleep. To him, it was simply a state of being.
"I told you before, Sweet Pea," he began, not looking up from his laptop, "that the morning meetings are a waste of time. You want to get together and bitch about school administrators and crappy lunches? You might as well form a Student Council."
Sweet Pea's jaw visibly twitched in distaste. Nothing was more disgusting to him than school-sponsored activities. But something in what Jughead said must have clicked, because he did not press the issue any further.
"Hey," Fangs chirped, elbowing Jughead to get his attention. He tipped his chin to the other side of the cafeteria. "Check it out."
Jughead followed his train of view, an odd sort of chill worming its way through his blood stream at the sight before him. It was Betty, holding a lunch tray, looking around the cafeteria for somewhere to sit. She looked as though she'd rather be swimming in a pool of acid.
"Is that the new girl?" Sweet Pea demanded in amusement. "Hello, Nurse!"
Several of the guys at the table laughed along with him, but Jughead could not bring himself to find the humor in the joke.
"Seriously though, what is she wearing? Is there a Stepford Wives convention later today?" Joaquin quipped. The boys erupted in raucous laughter once more.
Sweet Pea chewed on his lower lip, a gross sort of fascination crossing his features. "How much you wanna bet a girl like that is a virgin? What do you think it would take to get that pink sweater off her perky—"
"Enough," Toni said at last, slugging him in the shoulder. He tried to be nonchalant, but it had very visibly caused him pain. "Grow up, you pig."
Jughead was silently grateful for Toni stepping up where he could not. The comments had made him uncomfortable, too, for whatever reason. As annoyed as he was at the idea of Betty Cooper, something in him connected with her. That look of loneliness and despondence on her face was haunting. Probably because it was a very visual manifestation of how he felt, most days. And that sort of vulnerability did not need to be poked at.
"Cool it, Ghetto Barbie," Sweet Pea grumbled. "Just having some fun."
"What you fantasize about in the shower is your own business. Do it on your own time. Nobody wants to hear about it," she replied waspishly.
Jughead snorted involuntarily. Sweet Pea had gone crimson at the implication, mumbling a few very unkind female names under his breath. But he did not speak up again. Toni had successfully shut him up for the time being.
Betty's eyes flickered over to him, and they locked gazes. He instantly looked away, trying to refocus himself on his laptop. But he had completely forgotten what he was doing before she walked in.
"Uh…she's coming this way," Fangs said.
Some of the guys at the table smoothed their hair and adjusted their jackets at this. It was ironic, really…That not two minutes ago, they were making fun of her. And now they wanted to impress her. Jughead understood, to a point. It wasn't every day they saw this kind of creature in their midst. She was an enigma. A siren amongst mortals. Mesmerizing and deadly.
"Hi," she said, her mouth ticking upwards in a hesitant smile. "Can…is it okay if I sit here?"
Nobody spoke. A few of the guys had turned back to their lunches, trying to play it cool. Others just continued to stare at her, sizing her up, silently picking apart everything about her. She seemed keenly aware of this, for she had begun to blush a bit.
"Of course," Toni said at last, moving her book bag from the empty seat beside her. Betty breathed a visible sigh of relief, settling into the chair. "I'm Toni."
"Betty. Betty Cooper."
"What brings you to South Side High?" Toni asked. To her credit, she was trying to present the question in as friendly a way as possible. But there was a distinct confusion in it, much like Jughead had felt hearing her story earlier. Like there was no logical explanation in the world for why a girl who looked like her would be in a place like this.
Betty's eyes went to Jughead's once more. He knew she was trying to remember how she skirted the question during class this morning, so as to replicate it as closely as possible.
"My, uh…My mom grew up on the South Side. She went to this school."
Sweat Pea choked on his Dr. Pepper. "Cooper!" He cried, like he had been struck by an epiphany. "As in, Alice Cooper?"
Mumbles erupted at the table. It finally clicked in Jughead's brain, why she looked familiar. His dad had countless photos of Alice Cooper—or Alice Smith, as she had been back then. He had grown up seeing that same doe-eyed expression in picture frames.
But this left him more confused than before. Alice Cooper, despite her high-rank Serpent status, had married out of the South Side. She had been one of those people who got out and never looked back. So why return now?
Betty cleared her throat. It didn't seem as though this were a discussion she cared to have. "Yes. Alice Cooper is my mom."
"No shit?" Toni mumbled in disbelieving wonderment. Jughead knew she was remembering tales of the Serpent Queen. His father had been fondly reciting them since they were in diapers. Something in the stories shifted, though, as Jughead grew. Once upon a time, F.P. Jones would recall these memories with a soulful appreciation. But as the years passed, the tone changed to something resembling a quiet mourning for what could have been, bottom-shelf whiskey on his breath and silent tears in his eyes.
Jughead doubted Toni had noticed the subtlety of it. After all, she did not know his father as well as he did. To her, the stories were simply monuments of the Serpent legacy—Alice Cooper was an idol to women all over the South Side.
But to him, the stories had come to represent a dark veil that had curled its way around F.P.'s throat, slowly suffocating him until nothing remained of the man he had once been.
And suddenly—inexplicably—he was angry with Betty for being her daughter. He knew it was stupid. She had no control over who brought her into this world. Nevertheless, he couldn't bear to look at her a moment longer.
He stood up with such fervor that the feet of his chair groaned loudly against the tile. He quickly gathered his belongings.
"Jug?" Toni began, concern seeping into her voice.
He did not look at her. Did not acknowledge that she spoke. He barely even registered that she had made this feeble attempt to reach out to him at all, until he was already halfway down the hall.
It wasn't until he was in the restroom clear across the school that he took a moment to breathe. Clutching at the sink to steady himself, the chipped bits of porcelain sharp against his vice grip. The contents of the letter he had opened this morning played through his mind once more as he lifted his face to meet his own reflection. He was surprised to see that his skin had gone pallid, all discernible color almost entirely drained from his cheeks.
"Pull it together," he muttered to himself, dipping his chin to his chest and squeezing his eyes shut. He could hear the cacophonous thrumming of his heart in his ears.
He began to count backwards from one thousand. A technique he remembered from their brief stint in grief counseling. He envisioned the numbers as a scoreboard clock counting down, and slowly he felt his pulse begin to match the rhythm. He was somewhere in the seven-hundreds when he was finally able to release the shuddering breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. As if on cue, the bell clattered noisily above him.
Lunch was over.
He inhaled deeply a few more times, just to ensure that the panic attack had subsided. Once he felt his head was clear enough to move forward, he stepped back into the hallway, the episode left quietly behind him at the bathroom sink.
TO BE CONTINUED