I recently went down the Riverdale-rabbit hole, and for a while, I simply could not understand myself for this gleeful obsession with a high-school, Maple-drenched, rom-com/film noir, CW television show with hip music playing underneath every. single. scene.
However, I've come to realize that there are two main reasons I fell in love with this show, that make it extremely compelling in such an unexpected way:
1. The electric dynamic between Betty Cooper and Jughead Jones as opposites with a common moral core, and
2. The unapologetic, balls-to-the-walls, 100% Sisters-of-Quiet-Mercy-certifiable batshit los tostitos locos nature of it all. And I've just gotta respect that, you know?
This fic is my attempt to honor both of these elements. It is set early season one, if you tilt your head, squint your eyes, and accept that summer comes between fall and winter.
(Please review if you enjoy this chapter more than a glass of maple-flavored water!)
Jughead Jones was not a man above enjoying a maple-seasoned pork slider now and again, but this was getting ridiculous.
Maple syrup-slathered french toast? Yes, please. Maple ham and cheese omelet? Eggs-ellent. Maple sugar candies in the shape of a moose head or decorative leaf? Dainty and delicious. He could even spring for a maple-flavored milkshake from Pop's if he was in an especially reckless mood.
But maple syrup on an otherwise pristine medium-rare cheeseburger, juices dripping delicately onto a toasted sesame-seed bun?
Now his feelings were getting hurt.
"As if we needed more proof that the Blossom clan are the maple-worshipping Illuminati of Riverdale," he muttered to Archie, surveying the table of maple-flavored custards, cookies, salads, chips, french fries - there was even some kind of maple-and-green bean casserole. Jughead felt his shudder all the way down to his toes.
"Ah, come on, Jug," Archie said, chomping through a sleeve of maple-crusted onion rings, "it's still food, right?"
"Well, I mean, obviously," Jughead conceded, taking a huge, suffering bite of his burger. He licked the syrup off his fingers irritably.
He'd inhaled half the sandwich before they reached the end of the counter. Archie peeled off two tens (courtesy of Fred Andrews) and handed them to the cashier with a mid-bite smile.
"Hey," he coughed, wiping greasy crumbs off his mouth with his forearm, "you want something to drink?"
Jughead peered down at the tub of ice slowly melting on the counter, filled with tall fancy-looking glass bottles.
"'Sparkling water bubbled from Riverdale's own Sweetwater River,'" he read, "'bottled by the Blossom family – hint of maple.'" He looked up at the cashier, eyebrows raised. "What, no fruit punch infused with blood of the innocents?"
Archie snorted, grabbing a bottle and tucking it under his arm. "So, you want one?" he asked.
"Thanks, Archie," he said through another bite of his maple burger, "but I really, really don't."
Archie tossed over a few more bills for the water, and they headed off through the fairgrounds, the midsummer sun hot and snappy on the back of Jughead's neck. He wiped greasy fingers on his jeans, tugged off his beanie for a few seconds of open-air relief, then pushed his hair to the side and jammed it stubbornly back on his head.
"Jug," Archie side-eyed him as they passed the entrance to the Tunnel of Love (looking mighty cool and shady in the midday heat), "just take off the hat, man. You must be dying."
"We're all dying, Archie," Jughead responded (predictably). "Every last one of us. Though this rollercoaster of life may deceive us into believing that the ups, the downs, the loop-de-loops of our everyday tribulations continue on ahead of us in a straight line to our unknowable future, the truth is that existence is more like a Ferris wheel, Archie, taking us through the roundabout paths of our lives from beginning to end, which is, in the end, just another beginning."
"We could probably find you, like, a crown-shaped sweat band or something," Archie suggested.
"I have an appearance to uphold, Arch," Jughead said. "And as Riverdale's consummate eccentric non-conformist – yeah, actually, a crown-shaped sweat band would fit my image pretty well," he admitted.
"Nice," Archie nodded. "I'll get Veronica to look online – you know my dad still hasn't sprung for Amazon Prime," he lowered his voice, ashamed, before unscrewing the cap to his water and taking a swig. Then he straightened, looking around at the brightly-colored vendor tents dotting the lanes criss-crossing Riverdale's fairgrounds. "Or maybe we'll find something at one of these stands!"
Jughead shook his head. "Everything here is doused in the sickly-sweet stench of maple," he said, disgusted. "Let's just find some rigged carnival games so you can demonstrate your athletic prowess and drop twenty bucks to win a five-dollar teddy bear for some passing female."
"Alright!" Archie agreed enthusiastically, knocking back the last of his onion rings and striding off down the lane. He crumpled his greasy wrapper and shot a hole-in-one (wrong sport, Jughead reminded himself) into a nearby trash can.
"He scores!" Archie cheered, raising his arms in victory as he turned to flash a grin at his best friend. "Fifteen bucks, tops, and that teddy bear is mine, Jughead," he bet, pointing a finger at him.
Jughead rolled his eyes, fighting back a smile. "I think you're still missing the point, Arch," he said, pulling at his collar to unstick his shirt from his chest. They ambled across the field, the curves and drops of the Sky Coaster tall and threatening in the background.
"Two rounds," Archie declared when they stopped in front of a basketball toss with five rings set up at various heights and distances, different points assigned to each. He slapped his cash down for the carnie, who gamely rolled two balls across the counter at him. Archie picked up one and turned, offering it to Jughead.
"Yeah, no," he shook his head. "This game is for people possessed of that rare gift known as hand-eye coordination."
"C'mon, Jug," Archie wheedled. "When was the last time you even tried your arm at throwing?"
"Pretty sure I was in the sixth grade when F.P. traded my catcher's glove for a six-pack and some smokes," Jughead mused. "So, probably, before then."
"Well, forget that," Archie said, shoving the ball against his chest. "I'll bet you're really good, and you're definitely way more jacked now."
"Than I was when I was twelve?" Jughead raised his eyebrows, shifting the ball in his hands. "Gee, thanks, Archie."
"Oh, stop your frowning, Severus Snape," Archie said, throwing out his arms and tilting back his head. "It's a beautiful day! Look, the clouds are smiling at us!"
Jughead squinted at him, then up at the unassuming white clouds drifting high across the sky. "That's poetic of you," he said.
Archie laughed and lined up his first shot. Jughead watched, an uneasy tickle sliding down his back. Archie's ball slammed against the backboard and bounced a good fifteen feet down the road behind them.
"Whoa, easy there, tiger," Jughead muttered as Archie ran after it, white teeth glittering in a wide smile. He looked up at the carnie standing in the corner of the booth; the carnie stared blankly back. Although Jughead had long been a fan of the psychological warfare of staring down strangers who dared stare at him, something in the carnie's utter lack of response, his empty eyes set back in his stringy head, made Jughead raise the white flag early, and he turned away to look for Archie.
"Whoopsie-daisies!" Archie giggled, skipping back up to the booth, sweat glistening at his temples. He gasped, slammed the basketball firmly on the counter, and took a long, protracted swig of his water.
"Uh, did you just say, 'whoopsie-daisies'?" Jughead asked, highly concerned.
Archie gulped down the rest of the bottle, Adam's apple bobbing dauntlessly, clear streams dribbling down his chin. When he was done, he leaned back with a huge sigh, then straightened to fix Jughead with a look. Jughead's heart skipped unpleasantly. Archie's pupils were blown so wide not even a ring of his usual browns could be seen in the glare of the overhead sun. It was a bit like gazing at H.P. Lovecraft's The Unnamable, Jughead thought, or the empty, unrecognizable nothingness of a black hole imploding.
"Go on!" Archie urged him. "Let's see what you've got! 'Hit me with your best shot!'" he sang, snapping his fingers wildly off-beat.
Jughead groaned. "It is way too hot out for Pat Benatar, Archie."
Archie panted, wiping his brow. "Who?" he said.
Jughead lined up his throw, giving himself the easiest target. Surprisingly enough, the ball jostled on the ring a few times before dropping through.
"Jughead Jones!" Archie cheered, lifting his arms in victory. "The man, the myth, the legion!"
"Legend, Archie," Jughead corrected him.
"Oh, it's gonna be!" Archie nodded, then burst into laughter.
"Uh-" Jughead scratched the back of his neck, feeling a bit left out of this conversation, all the more so since he and Archie were the only two talking. "What?"
"Legend...wait for it...Archie," Archie gave his best Barney Stinson impersonation, ruined somewhat by dissolving immediately into giggles.
"Man, that is..." Jughead shook his head, now completely perturbed, "...not good."
Archie grew serious again when he stepped up for his next throw, lining up his shot in slow-motion. Unfortunately, he threw the ball in slow-motion, too, and it wobbled off his fingertips to bounce dejectedly at his feet. Archie scrambled to the ground with much more enthusiasm than required to retrieve it.
"Archie," Jughead muttered when Archie stood back up, setting a hand on his friend's shoulder to lean in and peer at his face. "Did you take something? Something that maybe you shouldn't have?"
Archie gazed back at him solemnly. "I take everything that's given to me," he said, the wonder of revelation in his voice. "And then I shape it into something new and give it to someone else." He ran a hand through his hair, his black eyes widening even further. "Everything is the same, Jughead, but when we touch it, we give a piece of ourselves and, and- that's how we make something new."
"No, I mean, like drugs," Jughead whispered, frustrated. "Are you high?"
Archie blinked back at him, considering this. "You know, Jug," he said, nodding slowly, "I think I might be."
Jughead looked around at the families and couples strolling by, trying to appear non-conspicuous. His fingers tightened, digging into Archie's shoulder bones. "You know that's your call and I'm not gonna judge you, but you could have warned me," he hissed. "Also: we're in public, in broad daylight, at Riverdale's 75th damn Maple Fest, Archie." He shook his head. "This does not strike me as the best place to experiment, Mr. I-Am-the-Walrus."
But Archie shook his head at him, growing increasingly distressed. "I didn't take anything, I swear!" His wide eyes flicked around the colorful, noisy lane of carnival games and cotton candy vendors. Jughead watched the dawn of paranoia rise in his gaze. "You know I wouldn't - I've got football! They won't let me play if I'm on drugs! And my music!" He clutched at his hair in emotional agony. "Jughead - what about my music?!"
"Alright, take it easy, Tom Jones," Jughead muttered, giving the carnie a quick wave as he guided Archie away from the booth and down the road. "You swear you didn't take anything?" he double-checked. His rapidly devolving friend shook his head and moaned.
"Everything that was on the inside is now on the outside," Archie whispered, staring at his hands.
"Uh- right," Jughead raised his eyebrows but chose not to pursue this line of thought. "So when did you start seeing the underlying truth of the universe, exactly?"
Archie shrugged, squinting as he brought his hand directly in front of his nose, entranced. "By the basketball toss, you were there," he said. He dropped his hand and stared at Jughead with creepy drug-addled eyes. "The- the carnie!" he gasped. "He did it! He drugged me!"
"Keep your voice down, Jim Morrison," Jughead hissed at him. Archie's head snapped back and forth as he looked at the passersby ambling up and down the lane. A group of three little kids squealed and laughed as one of the boys stole a lick of his friend's dripping popsicle. An (objectively) good-looking couple probably a few years older than Jughead, walked by with their arms crisscrossed, their hands tucked securely in each other's back pockets. Two vendors sat under their tents, back from their wares, sipping flimsy cups of beers, sweaty hats pushed back on their heads.
"Oh god," Archie groaned. "I'm a scourge on this rich tapestry of life!" He set his shoulders and started to march back the way they had come.
"Whoa, whoa," Jughead jumped in front of him. "Don't go back to that carnie, Arch, it doesn't make any sense. He couldn't have slipped you anything; he didn't even touch you."
Archie stopped, so tense he was nearly vibrating. "Jughead," he said, trying valiantly to get his eyes to focus on him, "you're a great person. There is so much light inside you- you should let it out more often." He leaned in to whisper in his ear. "Don't tell my dad I got high, okay?"
Jughead nodded, confused. Of course he wasn't going to-
"Gotta go, Jug, bye!" Archie spun around and ran away down the lane.
Jughead, stunned, watched his copper head disappear into the crowd. "Punk-ass grifter," he muttered, and charged after him.
Veronica loved Smithers, really she did, and Betty was bae, no doubt, but if the two of them did not stop chattering about that new "X-Files" meets "Stand By Me" Netflix show (with five, count them, five 12-year-olds, how cool could it be?), Veronica was gonna have to take a page from the universe's playbook because there was going to be a very Big Bang.
"And you just feel that Will is a part of the group, even though he's apart from them for the whole season, you know?" Betty was saying.
"He casts a mighty long shadow," Smithers nodded. "And that Nancy! From high school sweetheart to monster hunter-"
"Excuse me!" Veronica interjected. "Spoilers much?"
Betty turned to her guiltily. "Sorry, V," she said. "But you've got to watch it, it's my new favorite show!" She brightened considerably with an idea. "Let's binge the first few episodes tonight after we get back from Maple Fest!"
Veronica was not all that adept at passing on a good eye roll, but for Betty Cooper, she dredged up a few ounces of sincerity (from somewhere very deep down).
"Betty, you know you're my bestie, in Riverdale and otherwise," Betty smiled at her, pleased, "but I'm not sure our tastes in media entertainment are quite on the same wavelength."
Betty pinned her with an exasperated-slash-amused look exchanged between BFFs worldwide. "And what wavelength is that?" she asked.
"Oh, you know," Veronica said, tossing her hair and straightening her gold filament bracelets, "you like mysteries, and adventure, and sci-fi, and I'm more of a… fashion, relationships and psychological thrillers kind of a girl!"
"Veronica, 'The Bachelor' is not a psychological thriller," Betty informed her.
Veronica huffed. "Please," she said, "Elimination round? Private confessionals? You can't make up the stuff that comes out of a human mind under siege."
"Those shows are made up," Betty argued. "They're all staged."
Veronica gasped. "Take that back, Betty Cooper!" she demanded. "You have no basis for saying such a thing!"
Apparently Betty didn't get the memo about not rolling her eyes at her bestie, because she went ahead and rolled her eyes at Veronica. "Except for every single interview done with a contestant after the show was over," she said.
"You know, I have so many things I could say to you about your 98 Degrees obsession, but I choose not to, because, um, feelings," Veronica sniffed.
"What's wrong with 98 Degrees?" Betty asked, attempting to pull off a devil-may-care attitude, her pink cheeks and shifty eyes giving her away. "They're catchy and relaxing, and I like the way their voices blend together."
"Yeah, they were fine, fifteen years ago!" Veronica said. "And they weren't even that hot then. At least go old school Backstreet Boys, if you're not gonna join the rest of us in this decade and listen to One Direction."
"This decade is overrated," Betty grumbled. She looked up at Smithers, an embarrassed smile curling her lips. "I hope you don't think this is all we talk about, Smithers," she said.
"What do you want him to think we talk about?" Veronica asked before Smithers could get a word in slantwise or edgewise. "The tenth dimension? Gravitational waves? The Pythagorean theorem?"
"Okay, A-squared plus B-squared might equal C-squared, but one of these things is not like the others," Betty responded.
"Yeah, one of them I learned in Intro to Geometry, the other two I heard on NPR," Veronica said.
"Oh, very good, Miss Lodge," Smithers said, "you can never go wrong with an hour or two of NPR. I personally enjoy All Things Considered a few times a week."
"I like Car Talk," Betty enthused.
Veronica shook her head. "Where did you even come from?" she wondered aloud. "And everyone knows that Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me, followed by Pop Culture Happy Hour are the best NPR programs." She picked up her handbag from Smithers' front counter and slung it over her shoulder. "Even if NPR is a hot bed for left-wing commie conspiracies."
Betty and Smithers stared at her, wide-eyed.
"Joking!" she assured them. "Like I'm gonna talk politics in this election cycle when an axe-murderer is on the loose." She straightened her skirt, then set her giant sun hat on her head. "I don't fancy washing up on the shore of Sweetwater River for my less-than-informed political beliefs, thank you very much."
"Veronica!" Betty scolded her. "You shouldn't joke like that. And- are you putting on gloves? Why, V? Just... why?"
Veronica tugged the delicate lace gloves down her wrists to slide tight on her fingers. "It's before Labor Day, isn't it?" she asked. "I'm not a savage. Alright, let's get a move on, shall we? I thought you told Archie we would meet him by two."
Betty straightened at the reminder and checked her pink watch. "Yep, we gotta go," she agreed and gave Smithers a warm smile. "Have a great day, Smithers- say hello to Emily for me!"
"Emily?" Veronica asked in a low voice as they exited the Pembroke's air-conditioned interior and stepped out into the bright afternoon sunlight. She stood on the top stoop for a moment as her eyes adjusted, fiddling with the placement of her hat.
"His granddaughter," Betty said, turning from her spot at the foot of the stair to blink up at her. "I actually babysat her once, when the Rice girls had a slumber party…" she trailed off, gazing at her friend's choice of footwear in dismay. "Veronica!" she exclaimed. "What in god's name are those?" She pointed an accusing finger at Veronica's feet.
Veronica struck a flirty pose. "Aren't they adorable? They're so last season, but it's not like that matters much in Riverdale-"
"Uh uh," Betty shook her head. "Not happening." She gave a great, put-upon sigh and climbed back up the stairs wearily, pushing Veronica through the door. "Sorry, Smithers," she called over her shoulder as she ushered Veronica to the elevator, "you didn't think you could get rid of us without at least one fashion emergency, did you?"
Smithers chuckled and waved at them indulgently.
"Betty!" Veronica protested. "This is really not necessary-" Betty stopped suddenly and Veronica wobbled a few steps in a drunken circle before finding her balance again atop her five-inch stiletto heels.
"Oh, yes it is, V," Betty said, punching the elevator button decisively. "We are going to a fair, Veronica- a carnival. Thousands of people come every year from all over the state to Riverdale's annual Maple Fest to celebrate our prosperous maple empire!"
"Please tell me those words did not just come out of your mouth, or at least tell me they didn't come out in that order," Veronica begged.
"There's food and games and rides," Betty continued, ignoring her, "the Tunnel of Love, and this actually kind-of-intimidating Sky Coaster, even a mechanical bull- and it's all very fun (and very Riverdale), but you can't do any of those things if you can't walk." The doors slid open with a light ding and Betty shoved her in the elevator. "Besides, as your BFF, I am allowed one revision to your ensemble per day." She crossed her arms prissily, daring Veronica to challenge her.
Veronica snorted. "What bro-sephina code of conduct did you find that one in?"
Betty sniffed, pulling at the ends of her ponytail. She watched the lights move behind the floor numbers as they ascended toward the penthouse. "I think it was in Mean Girls," she said innocently.
Veronica well and truly gasped at that, a very dramatic gasp that bubbled up from her stiletto-ensconced toes to her pearls-bedecked chest, which swelled in so much outrage she was forced to place a quavering hand upon it. "Betty!" she exclaimed. "You know the one true tragedy of my life is that I got sick from an expired Red Bull when I tried watching Mean Girls for the first time, and now cannot get past the first ten minutes due to my lingering PTSD!"
Betty shrugged. "Sorry, V," she said, stepping off the elevator and into the Lodge residence, ponytail swinging, "But I'm pretty sure that's where I heard it." (It wasn't.)
Five shoe-changes and forty minutes later, they finally purchased their admissions and passed the bright green entry booth underneath a wide banner reading, "Welcome to Riverdale's 75th Annual Maple Fest – Things Might Get Sticky!"
They looked around at the rickety booths and stalls, the confusing array of signs and arrows pointing in every direction, the masses of sweaty fairgoers in t-shirts and flip-flops, simmering on the blacktop.
"Into the void, I suppose," Veronica said with more gumption than she actually felt. "Still nothing?" she asked as Betty took her phone from her ear and slid it in her pocket in frustration.
"He's not picking up," Betty said, "but I texted him and Jug that we're here, so I'm sure it won't be long before-" she broke off, staring down the road to their right. Veronica took a step past her to see what she was looking at, only to find the man himself, Archie Andrews, wandering along the lane, swiveling back and forth to peer at the vendors in their brightly colored tents.
"Archie!" Betty called, waving a hand. Archie pulled up short, his head snapping around to stare at them. Betty hurried forward to greet him. Veronica followed, her hat giving her a very wide berth amongst the other fairgoers.
"Hey, I tried calling you," Betty was saying as she approached, reaching out to place a hand on Archie's bicep. Archie followed the movement of her fingers before looking up at her with wide eyes.
"Is everything okay?" Betty grew concerned at his lack of response. She peered around behind him. "Where's Juggie?"
Archie glanced to the side as if expecting to find Jughead waiting peevishly beside him per usual. His eyes locked on Veronica and traveled up and down and around her giant hat.
"Oh my god," Archie murmured.
"I know, right?" Veronica simpered, tilting the hat coquettishly.
"I've got to get out of here," Archie looked between them. "Betts... Ronnie... you're both so beautiful, you know? Inside and outside," he gave Betty a brief hug, then seized Veronica's shoulders, eyeing her sun hat warily. Eventually he wrestled his way under it to give her a peck on the cheek. "Love you guys!" he said and hurried down a side path branching away from them.
"Archie-" Veronica attempted to call after him.
Archie turned in response, but his eyes locked on something behind them, panic evident on his features. "Gotta go, sorry!" he waved hastily and took off down the road.
Veronica and Betty stared after him, dumbfounded.
"Do you think it was my hat?" Veronica asked.
Footsteps slapped up the blacktop behind them. They turned to find Jughead panting, rubbing at a stitch in his side, sweat glistening on his temples and staining the collar of his t-shirt. He pulled off his beanie and waved it testily in front of his face. One hand pushed through an unruly mess of dark curls. His tanned armed glistened in the afternoon heat, his ratty shirt lifting to reveal a sliver of lighter skin at his hips.
Veronica's eyebrows lifted in spite of herself. The whole awkward duckling takes off her glasses and lets down her hair to become a stunning swan story was so 1999, but this was a transformation she could get behind. It was like watching Dan Rad retire those round spectacles for chiseled abs in preparation for his full-nude stage debut (Veronica had found the video online a few years ago, and- thank you, thigh press, that was all she was going to say about that).
"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair," she purred.
He gave her an annoyed look. "What?" he demanded. "And what the hell is on your head?"
Veronica sighed. Really, had no one in Riverdale watched the classic derby scene in My Fair Lady?
"Jug, what's going on with Archie?" Betty asked. "We just ran into him, but he took off again right after saying how much he loved us."
Jughead rolled his eyes. "Sounds about right," he grumbled. "Which way did he go?"
Betty pointed. Jughead followed her finger to study the rickety sign indicating the attraction at the end of the road.
"Oh no," he groaned.
Veronica peered up at it from underneath her hat.
Merlin's Mystical House of Mirrors, Magic and Mysteries to Melt Your Mind it read.
"Why 'oh no'?" Veronica asked.
"Besides the offensively excessive use of alliteration?" Jughead said. "A house of mirrors is the last place Archie should be right now."
Veronica supposed Jughead thought that was all the explanation they needed, because he took an aggrieved breath and set off down the road without looking back.
The clouds were friendly clouds, Archie was confident about that.
They had drifted nice and easy high above his head, pulling apart and twirling back together in a very happy way. He'd waved at them, and they had waved back, smiling broadly.
Archie missed them.
The sky was way too angry without them there. It was bright, and harsh, and- Archie blinked. His eyebrows were sore from squinting. Why did everyone put up with the sky, anyway? It was so rude.
A house loomed ahead, getting the better of Archie height-wise. He craned his neck and leaned back back back back – oof. His spine crunched.
The house was tall, Archie decided. It promised darkness and relief, an escape from the negative waves pulsing down from the resentful sky.
The door creaked and clicked shut behind him. His tennis shoes scuffed softly across the dusty floor. Archie sighed as he took in the dark anteroom, feeling better already.
A light gleamed peacefully ahead. Archie glanced around, but no one appeared to ask him questions or demand more of his dad's money from him. He paced down the hallway and entered the next room.
He stood inside a gleaming mahogany-decorated study. A leather chair beckoned enticingly next to a side-table, where half a glass of amber liquid and an open book were propped, forgotten. Bookshelves lined the walls except where a few landscape paintings were hung tastefully.
Archie took a few steps into the center of the room and looked around. He liked this room. It reminded him of his Grandpa Pete, from way back in Archie's early youth when he would-
Archie stopped, heart pounding. A strange shuffling sound, like a rope crank being turned, seeped into his ears from behind the walls. He ducked and stared in shock as the room began to move, floorboards and panels sliding into each other. The leather chair turned and climbed up the wall, the open book and half-filled glass moving improbably with it along the corner and up to the ceiling.
Archie closed his eyes and clutched the edge of the floor beneath his feet-
Wait.
The edge of the floor?
He looked down to see that he was standing on some kind of bridge, stretching across the center of the room while the walls continued to move underneath his feet.
His eyes traveled down the length of the bridge, pulling his gaze to a door on the other side of the room-
He dashed down the plank, threw open the door and hurled himself onto the other side.
He looked back over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the leather chair making its shaky way down the opposite wall before the door snapped shut and he leaned against it, breathing heavily.
He took a few moments to calm his racing heart. He gulped down several lungfuls of air, trying to cleanse himself of the tense, shattered paranoia that crowded around the ragged edges of his jumbled consciousness.
Just- let's get out of here, okay? he told himself. Then I'll call my dad to take me home. He shuddered at the idea of calling his father out of the middle of a weekend workday because he was tripping (on drugs), but another part of him knew that Fred Andrews would want Archie to count on his help in such a dire pinch. He took another deep breath and looked up, taking in his surroundings.
A row of mirrors glittered before him.
Archie stepped forward warily. His reflection peered back at him, bemused, projected down the lane over and over again on twenty different mirrors.
A faint whirring sound rose up from the corner. Archie turned to it, squinting, but then the sound echoed back to him from the other side of the room. He spun a full circle, trying to pinpoint its source, but it eluded him.
A click reverberated through the dusty light streaming from the windows high above.
Then the music started, brash and chirpy.
"It's not unusual to be loved by anyone…"
He turned another circle, but the bright rhythm seeped up from the floorboards into his feet, which moved him down the lane of mirrors.
"It's not unusual to have fun with anyone…"
He stepped up and looked back at his own reflection, distorted and impossibly skinny. He blinked and ran a hand through his hair, distressed-
His reflection smiled back at him.
Archie stared, heart pounding.
The man in the mirror winked.
I'm the Archie who bailed on Jughead, his reflection said.
Archie stepped backward, trembling. His left shoulder knocked into something hard, and he jumped around, landing in a solid offensive tackle position.
Another reflection looked back at him, white-faced, knuckles stretched tight across the back of his fists.
I'm the Archie who chose music over helping his own father with his work, the other Archie taunted him.
Archie brought his hands up to his eyes and moaned.
This was a mistake, the reasonable voice in Archie's head decided. He needed to get out of here - now. This – wacko – garage full of mirrors, this macabre fun house, or whatever it was supposed to be, was not the right place for him in his current state.
He shuffled along the dark hallway, searching desperately for an opening through which he might escape, staunchly avoiding the faces, the wide dark eyes that looked back at him curiously.
I'm the Archie who slept with Miss Grundy and didn't tell anyone about what they heard at Sweetwater River.
"It's not unusual to see me cry, I wanna die…"
Archie clutched the hair at his temples, then picked up his pace, breaking out into a run. He skidded around a corner and jogged down another dark hallway, sneakers squeaking. He stopped when he reached a wall, cold bright mirrors gleaming back at him. He swiveled back and forth, eyes flitting desperately for a break in the road. A tall young man sneered down at him, copper glinting cruelly in the glare from the high afternoon sun.
I'm the Archie who couldn't choose his very good friend, his faithful and lovely Betty, over himself, Archie declared.
"Love will never do what you want it to, why can't this crazy love be mine…."
"Help!" he screamed. "Somebody help me!" He shoved his shoulder against the wall of mirrors and began running back down the hallway the way he came. Whenever he ran up against a break in the wall, he turned into it, but the maze continued endlessly, a thousand Archies watching his struggle, refusing to help him.
I'm Archie, he tried to assure himself. They're not real, I'm real, I'm Archie-
But who is that? a voice asked, cruel and indifferent.
He tripped, catching his toe on the back of his heel, and landed on his knee painfully.
"I need to get out of here!" he yelled desperately. "Can somebody turn on the lights and help me!"
He thought he heard a door slam from somewhere in the building and looked up hopefully.
Then the click echoed around the lane of mirrors and snapped in Archie's ears, heralding the start of the music again.
Archie moaned and pulled his legs around, pressing his eyes into his knees.
"It's not unusual to be loved by anyone…"
It's not real, it's not real, none of it's real, he chanted to himself.
You're not real, another Archie whispered in his ear.
He kept his eyes closed, rocking back and forth, clutching desperately at his calves, and didn't notice when the lights flickered on above him.
If Jughead was surprised to see Sheriff Keller striding up the dead-end lane to Merlin's Mystical House of Mirrors, he hid it well, so Betty followed his lead.
"Someone needs to turn the lights on in there," he demanded without further introduction, holding the door open behind him. "Our friend - something happened to him - he's acting really oddly, and he's stuck in this stupid house-"
Sheriff Keller strode through the door and unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt. Betty stood behind, propping the door open with her foot to keep the afternoon light in the dusty anteroom.
"This is Sheriff Keller," he radioed, a beep preceding his transmission. "Shut it down, Gary, we've got another one, wandered right into the evacuation center."
Jughead turned and looked at Betty, eyebrows raised.
Another beep sounded and then, "Copy, Keller, bring him on back. We've had two more since you left." The transmission scratched through the eerie quiet, a profound sense of uneasiness unsettling Betty so much she felt it prickle down her ponytail.
"Two more what now?" Veronica asked, yanking off her hat as she pushed herself inside. "Evacuation center for what?"
Sheriff Keller turned with a sigh and opened his mouth to answer- but then footsteps echoed across the ceiling above their heads, and in another second, bright floodlights flicked on, dousing the fun house in a fluorescent white, an unpleasant buzz reverberating around the walls.
They heard a faint pounding from deeper inside the house, and then, a shout- "Somebody help me! Somebody get me out of here!"
Jughead took off through the opposite doors, Betty at his heels. Someone might have called behind them, but they skidded around the corner and into a peaceful-looking study, except that all the furniture was on the ceiling and the bookshelves were hanging upside-down. Jughead looked around quickly, cursed under his breath, and ran across into the next room.
The overhead lights reflected off a hundred mirrors stacked in a haphazard maze and burned Betty's eyes. A sickly-sweet smell of mustiness and sweat settled underneath the dust in the room.
"Archie!" she yelled, wide eyes travelling down the nearest row of mirrors. "Archie, where are you!"
They waited a breath, and then-
"I'm Archie!" they heard, quite closeby. "I'm here, help me!" They followed his voice down one hallway, heads swiveling back and forth as they yelled out to each other.
"We're coming, buddy!" Jughead assured him, and Betty would have raised her eyebrows and smiled at the endearment if the situation weren't so disquieting.
They paced a few hallways, turned two corners, retraced their steps once, and finally found him huddled on the floor, his back pressed up against a wall of mirrors, his head clasped firmly in his hands.
"Archie!" Betty dropped to her knees beside him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "It's alright, Archie," she said soothingly, wrapping her fingers around one wrist in attempt to get him to look up at her. "We're going to get you out of here-"
Her breath caught in her throat when he raised his head and blinked at her with black eyes fully-dilated.
"I'm Archie," he whispered at her desperately, "but who's Archie?"
"Uh-" she started, uncertain.
"C'mon," Jughead announced, the voice of reason as he slung an arm around Archie's back and prodded him up to his feet. "Let's find our way out of here, what do you say?"
Archie swiveled around to gaze at him full in the face. "You're so smart, Jug," he said, voice slurring just the slightest. "You always know just what to do-"
"Alright, let's not start that again," Jughead said crisply, an undercurrent of discomfort evident beneath his bravado.
They turned as a unit, Betty and Jughead balancing him on either side, and pulled up short, hearts pounding in unison, when a man with bright blue hair appeared through the wall.
"Who's that?" Archie demanded. "Do you see him, too? Who is he? Why is his hair blue? What is he doing here?"
"Archie, breathe," Betty begged him. "We see him, too. I don't know why he's here, and I assume his hair is blue because he likes it that way."
The man approached them cautiously.
"Hello," he said, just a few steps past where he'd first appeared. "I'm Gary. I work here. If you follow me, I'll take you into the back with the others."
Jughead regarded him suspiciously. "What others?" he demanded.
"The other victims," Gary answered, and turned, beckoning them to follow. Betty and Jughead exchanged a look behind Archie's head, then ushered him down the hallway behind Gary.
"We've seen five cases already," Gary told them over his shoulder as they pushed through a hidden door into a dark, cramped space that they had to turn perpendicular to fit through. "Your friend here is the sixth."
"Case of what?" Betty asked. Archie's arm slipped off her shoulder, and she hurriedly shifted her grip around his waist.
"Someone's been slipping Maple Fest fairgoers psilocybin, very large doses of it, probably through the food."
"Psilocybin?" Betty repeated, confused.
"Magic mushrooms," Gary clarified.
Betty looked up and back at Archie with wide eyes.
They exited the cramped hall into a large concrete garage filled with rows and rows of old festival equipment. There was a broken-down dunk tank in pieces, a deflated bouncy castle, a stack of dusty old pinball machines, and a scratched-up rock climbing wall towering in the corner. Archie peered up at an old stage proscenium decoration, painted clown faces grinning luridly down at him, and shuddered.
"Let's let him calm down a bit in here," Gary led them to a darkened office set along the garage wall. They guided Archie into a scratchy-looking chair behind a nondescript wood desk. Archie sighed deeply and leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes.
"This is a much better place," he said, greatly relieved. "This desk is not judging me for everything that was once on the inside."
This comment did not help Betty's unease, but a soft knock on the door drew their attention.
Sheriff Keller stood outside the office and motioned for her and Jughead to join him. They left Archie to his peaceful rest, leaving the door open just a crack behind them. Gary strode off back the way they came, disappearing from sight when he ducked back into the low-hanging concrete hallway.
"When did you notice your friend's behavior becoming strange?" the Sheriff asked, looking between them. Betty glanced at Jughead, who scratched the back of his neck and shrugged.
"About an hour ago," he said, "right after we ate lunch."
"And what did your friend-"
"Archie," Betty murmured. Sheriff Keller's eyes flickered over her.
"What did Archie have for lunch?" he asked.
"Those disgusting maple-flavored onion rings," Jughead answered. "And an utterly inconceivable bottle of maple-flavored water."
The Sheriff nodded. "It's the same with the others," he sighed. "Someone must have gotten their hands on a case of flavored water before it was delivered this morning." He shook his head. "Somebody's inane idea of a fun prank, no doubt. Well, if you want to call his parents, it would probably be best to get him to a familiar place-"
"Isn't there anything we can do?" Betty asked. "Any leads we can follow up on for you?"
But the Sheriff shook his head. "That wouldn't be appropriate-" he started.
"We want to help!" Betty exclaimed, drawing herself up to her full height. "Our friend is tripping!" she gestured at the office toward the desk where Archie sat, staring diligently at his hands.
"Yeah, and he's really bad at it," Jughead said.
"Betty!" they heard a voice call behind them. "Jughead!" They turned to see Veronica marching across the garage at them, Gary with the blue hair following at a careful distance.
"Did you find him?" she demanded when she reached them. "This man-" she brandished her giant hat behind her at Gary, who leaned back warily, "-told me you had, and that you were safe, but my father always taught me to beware of people who purposely make strange fashion decisions-"
"Veronica!" Betty scolded her, embarrassed by her friend's lack of tact, but Gary just smirked and gestured her toward the office.
"Your friend is in there, Princess," he said, "but you might want to leave the hat outside, I doubt it will fit through the doors."
Veronica glowered at his back as he turned and left them again, then pushed her way into the office.
Betty looked back at Sheriff Keller, opening her mouth to try again to convince him to accept their help, but his radio beeped with another call, and he waved them away.
She sighed and walked through the door that Jughead held open for her. He caught her eye and gave her a small, reassuring smile.
Veronica stood over Archie, peering down into his wide black eyes. Archie stared back up at her, pinned to the chair like a bug to a collection board.
She looked over her shoulder at them where they stood, arms crossed, just inside the office. "What's the matter with him?" she asked.
"Archie's been drugged," Betty tried to explain.
"Drugged?" Veronica asked. Archie laughed, pointing at the dangerous slant of her eyebrows.
"The water's been laced," Jughead told her.
"Laced with what?" Veronica demanded. Betty and Jughead exchanged a glance.
"With…" Betty sighed, "…mushrooms."
"Magic mushrooms," Archie elaborated, attempting to match Veronica's eyebrows with his own.
"Oh no," Veronica shook her head. "Uh uh. No way did I spend my pubescence playing spectator to the rise and demise of Selena and the Biebs in nightclubs across Manhattan, only to witness my first drug-fueled hallucinogenic meltdown in Riverdale."
"I can't believe this," Betty said, turning to Jughead. "Archie can just be drugged in broad daylight - someone's laced an entire case of water without anyone knowing-"
"Sheriff Keller thinks it's just one case," Jughead said. "But it could very well be more than that."
Betty shook her head.
"I can't just stand around, waiting for Archie to come down off Psychedelic Mountain," she protested, "and meanwhile, more victims will keep turning up. I want to do something, ask around, see if we can discover something that Sheriff Keller might not be able to." Her hands twisted in her short jean skirt as she looked up at Jughead. "What do you think?" she asked. "Are you with me?"
"Betty," he said steadily, "when it comes to sticking my nose in places it doesn't belong to find the truth about what's really going on underneath Riverdale's pastel-and-neon exterior, I am always with you."
Betty felt her answering smile rise up from her candy-pink toenails, and with it, a measure of relief from the simmering anxiety always just below the surface.
Maybe, she thought, she and Jughead could find the truth about what happened to Archie. Maybe the truth was what Riverdale needed, what she needed, in order to move on without this constant sense of unease tailing her wherever she went.
Maybe they could help - maybe she could finally make a difference.
Maybe.