The sky was smeared grey, ugly clouds blurring the day. Parked along its edge, the quiet rush of Sweetwater River nearly had Jughead Jones asleep behind the wheel of his rusting pickup. Aggressive chirping from his phone - a text with a single word, then one with a number - snapped his eyes open.
A job request.
Jughead knew that his operation wasn't the most professional – no business license, no 'special' insurance – or the most legal. But in a town like Riverdale, laws were easily skirted and taxis were virtually non-existent. The one legitimate car service around was helmed by a mobster transfer from New York masquerading as a local entrepreneur, Hiram Lodge, whose luxury appeal priced his rides out of most residents' reach. Jughead took this advantage, his one man, underground enterprise the lesser of necessary evils, and drove strangers around on the weekends. It was the least annoying job that he could possibly have outside of working at Pop's Chock'lit Shoppe, which he did more formally a few days a week.
He punched in the number from the screen. "Yeah?"
He was greeted by a feminine voice requesting a ride, to where exactly the caller wouldn't say upfront. When he arrived, she said. Her tone was shaky but determined, like whatever secret came by withholding her destination was one she would only share if Jughead somehow lived up to her expectation. Like she could do this without him, but she wanted a partner, a confidant.
Jughead momentarily wondered why she hadn't asked a close friend for this ride but stopped his train of thought, preferring ignorance about riders' choices and personal lives. He took down the meetup location, described his truck to her, then gave himself a twenty minute window of arrival.
The address was in a neighborhood he had been to a few times, mostly to pick up high school kids who were too drunk to drive home from parties. The streets were arranged in perfect rows, some tapering into cozy cul-de-sacs. The small park looked clean, idyllic to an outsider. Everything was part of the perception of Riverdale that flourished. None of the patchy dirt lawns and overflowing, dented trash cans that dotted the playscapes of his youth. Sunnyside Trailer Park - and the south side in general - was like an ugly slash hidden under a sleeve, its residents the epitome of the forgotten.
The girl, a blond around his own age, was standing in front of a two-story American Dream, arms extended skyward.
Jughead watched as she tightened her ponytail, snapped her umbrella open. He sat back, the reality of her competing with his perception in an intriguing scramble. Her heels began to bounce, her eyes flicking up and down the street, like anyone could speed by at any moment and she would be caught. The pink of her coat was surprisingly unpredictable, Jughead wondering if it had been chosen for her instead of by her. Like the pretty of it was meant to make her fit against the backdrop… yet it didn't.
He shoved his leather jacket behind his seat and scrubbed the last bit of glassiness from his eyes, a passing glance at himself in the rearview reassuring him that he looked more inconspicuous, less youthful serial killer. He grabbed his beanie from the passenger's seat, its addition completely the desired effect.
The truck rolled up to the curb in front of her. Leaning over the seat, he swung the door outward. "You called about a ride?"
Without any introduction or ceremony, she slid into the seat beside him. "Just, go, please." Her glance flicked over her shoulder once more as she snapped her buckle in place. "Toward the highway."
There was no demand, and definitely no insult, in her request. The nerves he'd seen on the sidewalk were coming to life in his truck and Jughead knew the best distraction for her would be the pursuit of her destination. He cruised to the stop sign that ended her block as two teenage girls crossed, one of them staring through the windshield before turning to her friend with a whisper. Had they been giggling about the condition of his truck - it wouldn't be the first time - or did they recognize him… or the blond? Had she noticed? Would it somehow spook her if she had?
Turning his head, Jughead caught her examining his profile instead.
"You look familiar."
Most riders barely noticed him, which Jughead preferred. Yet this girl was staring as if attentive observation would reveal something essential about him. Like he was going to be her distraction.
"I work at Pop's." Not that he ever remembered seeing her there. Kids passed through the iconic diner's doors daily, no face memorable enough to stick. And someone like her, with an apparent presence, he would have likely held onto.
She made a 'huh' sound, and he couldn't tell if his answer satisfied her. "So this is your second job?"
Jughead nodded as he checked his mirrors, his actions meant to convey a focus that would make him inaccessible.
"Why this? Driving, I mean. It seems like you would need to be older to do this. How old are you?" The words came out in a single breath. "And how do stay off of Sheriff Keller's radar? It can't be as simple as a code word in a text."
The shift of his shoulders, roll of his neck, revealed his discomfort with her questions. She asked way too many, but he wasn't surprised. First impressions told him that she was the kind of girl who dug in until she found out what she wanted to know. He just wasn't going to give in so easily.
"So where are we going?"
He noticed her fists clench, her nails seeming to press and tear at her palms as her eyes locked forward. "Before I tell you, you have to promise to take me no matter what." She turned to him, Jughead guessing that her eyes pleaded the way her words refused to.
Promise? Jughead had never felt more uneasy around another person, and he actively avoided other people because of how uncomfortable they made him. She was getting to him but he couldn't let it show. "As long as you're going to put cash in my hand at the end of this, I will take you anywhere you need to go."
Her knee began to bounce. "… I need to get to the Sisters of Quiet Mercy."
Jughead straightened, her quiet words turning his palms slick against the steering wheel. Notoriety shrouded the Sisters of Quiet Mercy group home, as did rumors of illegality and abuse. Brochures sold their methods as helpful, young occupants relearning obedience, discipline, and piety, but that, Jughead knew, was just code for indoctrination, brainwashing. He lacked any and all enthusiasm to drive to a place that had the kind of reputation and made his skin prick with foreboding. Still… "Alright."
"You're not going to ask me why?"
He nearly had, her barely masked surprise sounding like she wanted him to. Instead, he stared straight ahead and shrugged. "I'm not here to pass judgment on what you're doing or why you're doing it."
She nodded, her hands relaxing as they lapsed into silence. It wasn't until they approached the highway that she spoke again. "I'm Betty, by the way." Another secret spoiled, with very little understanding as to why on either of their parts. "Betty Cooper."
Cooper. That name he'd heard before, been warned against. Avoid at all costs, that's what he'd been told. Jughead wondered if she was 'that kind' of Cooper, if the infamy came from her aunt, her mother, or if the last name was more common and she was no relation at all.
With any other rider, finding out would never have been a priority. But he'd already established that she was different. That Betty was nothing as ordinary as a regular job.
Rain began to splatter on the windshield as Jughead passed a sign announcing the distance to their destination. "Well, Betty Cooper, I guess we're off to see the Sisters."