A/N: this is the "veronica doesnt move to riverdale bc her dads embezzlement wasnt exposed but jason still got murdered bc he doesnt know what a condom is and had to run away w polly so bughead exposes papa blossom for being the killer so penelope burns thorn hill down and takes cheryl and nana rose to nyc and enrolls cheryl in spence ft Extremely self indulgent jewish blossom family headcanoning" fic that no one asked for or wanted
December
You arrive in New York after flying coach for the first time in your life and with oversized sunglasses covering up bloodshot eyes and Jason's old track hoodie over a pair of gross $5 leggings that aren't warm enough and you've never felt more ashamed. Here, your name means nothing. In Riverdale, back home, your name is tarnished.
Because Jason didn't want in on Daddy's drug dealing and you were stupid enough to help him try to run away.
Because Daddy caught him at the river and had him tortured and then shot him point blank.
Because a fucking Cooper and her hobo of a boyfriend found out and told everyone.
And now you're here. Eyes red and puffy, hair messy and hidden under your hood, lips clean of your maple-flavored lipstick. Everything that once made you powerful, that made people like Betty Cooper fear you, is gone. Ruined. Even Thornhill is in fucking ashes now. Mommy had made sure of that, made sure you had a reason to leave town before everyone found out.
You'd told Josie though, of course you had called Josie and told her everything with your voice cracked and snot dripping down your chin. Even the memory disgusts you now. That had been the last thing you did in Riverdale. You wept, like a bitch, whimpering and sniveling so much Josie had barely even been able to understand what you were saying. It was a complete reflection of what the once great Blossom family had become: pathetic. Utterly pathetic.
It was no wonder Mommy hadn't even wanted to fly with you. The official reason was so she could make arrangements in New York with Nana Rose (who had, to the dismay of your mother you're sure, wheeled herself out of the fire) but you know your mother. You know she hates you. She always has. And now, with Jason and your father both dead, she always will. All you can ever be to her is a reminder of what happened, of which twin lived.
(After Jason's funeral, the real one, the one they held after the sheriff's son found Jason's corpse washed up on the shore of Sweetwater River, she had gripped your chin, her nails digging into your skin, and whispered to you that she wished it had been you.)
You get in the car she's sent for you and you force yourself not to think about it.
In typical Blossom staff fashion, the driver makes no effort to talk to you. He barely even grunts for you to get out when he stops in front of the Dakota. Your mother makes even less effort to talk to you when she lets you into the apartment.
She still wishes it had been you Daddy killed.
(You do too.)
For the umpteenth time since Jason's lifeless body washed up, you go to bed with an empty stomach and sob yourself into something adjacent to sleep. And, for more than the umpteenth time in your life, if your mother hears you crying, she ignores it. Maybe even relishes in it.
.
.
.
Your first week in New York is spent almost entirely in some stupid espresso bar on 72nd. You leave your room at eight AM every day without breakfast and without seeing your mother and you don't come home until the day has passed, just in time for dinner. Dinner is quickly becoming the only meal you eat which your mother seems to find more and more pathetic each time it happens. Her disgust with you only makes you want to avoid her more.
Avoiding her is easy until your first week is up. She stops you before you can leave for the cafe you've taken to. She doesn't even have to go near you to do it, all it takes is a look.
It's the first time she stops you from leaving and the first time she really looks at you. The look she gives you is, as per Blossom tradition, irritated at best. Another reminder of what a nuisance you are to her and to your family. "Cheryl," she says it like it's a chore to even acknowledge you, "you're starting at Spence next week."
"... I didn't know they took mid year applicants," you murmur.
Her teeth grind almost violently before she speaks again, "they don't, they made an exception. Sit down and eat breakfast, I'm tired of you sneaking out."
If you ask her to explain, she might just hit you. She hasn't laid a hand on you in some time, not since the funeral two months ago, and before that she'd only hit you a handful of times but right now, you're sure she's volatile. "An exception, based on what?" you ask anyway, your whole body tense in preparation for a blow.
She doesn't hit you. She moves like she wants to, but then she remembers Nana Rose by the dining table and she doesn't. "I don't know, maybe they took pity on you since your father would be rotting in jail if he was alive and your house burned down."
You flinch at that and don't push any further. You'd almost forgotten what your mother was capable of.
January
The weekend ends without incident. She sends you to the campus to be acquainted with it and in the main office, they tell you to come back for your schedule before classes start Monday. And then—Monday morning, your mother wakes you at six AM.
She's hissing at you for being so lazy that she needs to wake you and then she's thrown something in your face—a uniform, right, Spence is a private school so of course you'll be wearing a uniform. She doesn't vacate your room for you to change though, instead she stands at the foot of your bed with her arms crossed like you've done something wrong again.
"Well?" she snaps, "get dressed, Cheryl."
"Now?" you ask, blinking stupidly because you're too disoriented to know better.
You've never seen your mother inhale so sharply. "Yes, now. Take that goddamn jacket off, Cheryl."
Not wanting her to yell any louder, you tug it over your head. Immediately, your mother is tugging at your arms, twisting them around to examine them. Her grip is too tight but you keep your mouth firmly shut.
"Take his sweats off too," she orders.
Silently, you comply. She's tugging at your legs to look at them in less than a heartbeat, pulling at the skin of your thighs to get a better look.
"Satisfied?" your voice comes out small and weak and un-Blossom-like. The question is entirely, pathetically earnest.
Your mistake costs you, of course. She strikes you hard and fast with the back of her palm. Your cheek is redder than your hair, you're sure, but not bruising. She would never dare to hit you hard enough to make you bruise or bleed. (Bruising and bleeding had been what Daddy did, he cared less about appearances and more about dominance than Mommy ever has.)
"You are going to keep them clean, your uniform won't have long sleeves forever and I will be damned if you ruin New York for us too by making people ask questions, Cheryl," she's got your chin in her hands, nails digging into the flesh, "do you hear me?"
Choking on your own tears, you nod.
No cutting must be a new house rule. After seventeen years of living as Penelope and Clifford Blossom's daughter, you know better than to even consider breaking it. After all, if Daddy had killed Jason for disobeying him, you didn't even want to consider what Mommy would do to you.
.
.
.
You arrive at school perfectly on time and with your signature spider broach proudly pinned against your blouse and your signature maple-flavored lipstick even prouder across your mouth. Any trace of this morning has been swallowed up into the air. Weakness, your mother had reminded you before you left the car, will not be permitted. Her words echoing in your head, you lift your chin to look down at your new classmates. If any of them know who you are, or what your father did, they don't show it as they watch you, not all at once but in stolen glances.
It happens like this:
First, you flick your wrist to pull your hood off before you enter the office. Then, a girl with raven hair, standing at least three inches beneath you, bursts out, snickering and arm in arm with a blonde girl. Lastly, the whole world stops.
You've never met her in your life but you know who she is. You've seen pictures of her, read a few articles about her out of gossip magazines. Veronica Lodge. A ruthless socialite, daughter of Hiram and Hermione Lodge, both people your parents have brought you up to despise. You should immediately hate Veronica, before you've even spoken to her, the same way you grew up hating the Cooper sisters.
Just because you should doesn't mean you do. As much as you know you're supposed to hate her, as much as you don't want to disappoint your mother even further, Veronca Lodge steals the breath from your lungs before you can even try to hate her. The pictures you've seen have nothing on what Veronica looks like in person.
And then Veronica breezes past you like you're not even there.
It's the most inadequate anyone not your parents has ever left you feeling. You tell yourself to move on anyway.
For a week and a half, it's easy. Spence is nothing. You make sure people know you're better than them, you don't make friends at school, you go to your classes, you do your work, and then you go home. Lather, rinse, repeat. You haven't even called Josie yet to bitch about the girls you're going to school with or check in on how she is.
A reason to call Josie comes Thursday at lunch.
You don't eat but you sit with some of the passable girls in your year pretending not to be lonely. Your heart kind of hearts, wishing you could sit with Jason again, you would even take Ginger and Tina. You don't let yourself linger on the feeling, taking to engaging in gossip trade with the bimbos around you instead.
Veronica Lodge herself disrupts your new normal.
"Cheryl Blossom," she says your name like an omen and a fact and an inconvenience all at once, "we haven't officially met yet, have we?" She feels no need to tap your shoulder to get your attention as she stands as tall as someone her height can, proud and in a manner you've never seen but recognize as stupidly Lodge-like. She looks so good doing it you feel your jaw clench.
It's infuriating. She's infuriating, only a junior yet standing there so coolly like she owns the entire school. Not even introducing herself like she knows she doesn't have to. Putting on a bright but disingenuous smile, you say fuck you as nicely as a rich girl can, "should we have?"
There's a slight twitch to her mouth. She wants to tear you to shreds right then and there for that. "Everyone who's anyone should meet me, or... I guess Blossoms aren't really anybody now, right? Not after the family business went south?" she talks like venom and she looks even better doing this than she does just standing there.
"If that were the case, I don't think I would be living at the Dakota, now would I?" your teeth are flashed in less of a smile, more of a snarl now.
"I suppose," Veronica hums, "but even the nicest places get rat infestations."
It takes more self control than you knew you had to not lunge at her. You hate her, not even just because she's a Lodge. You hate her in a personal way that you never quite hated Betty or Polly. You hate the color of her eyes and the shape of her mouth and the way that she talks.
"They get cockroaches too," you agree, "you would know that."
Her lips purse together in a half smile. "Maybe so, Heather Chandler, but at least I know where my daddy's money actually comes from. I'll be seeing you." She's gone before you can say anything else, her arm linked with some bimbo you hadn't realized was there. She's wearing blue and black but you see red.
This is definitely something to call Josie about.
.
.
.
She picks up on the second ring. "Cher? Jesus, girl, I was gettin' worried your mom did something to you."
"I'm fine, Josie. Physically, at least. I'm going to Spence and the girls here are awful, private schools are nothing like Gossip Girl."
"Well I hope nobody's doing all that coke. And that there are less white girls. What's up though?"
"Nana Rose is looking more stable than Mommy, Veronica Lodge hates me, I have to take dance to graduate, and I'm supposed to join an extracurricular but Mommy won't let me do cheer here and it's too late to do student council."
"Extracurriculars... like you're not the queen of those, little miss 'I ran my damn school district.'"
You laugh at that. "Shut up, Josie, it's not like you don't run that dump now."
"That's fair... do they have a Jewish culture club?"
"Fuck you."
"No thanks, I don't do white girls."
You bite your tongue, knowing exactly what she wants you to say. And then—"I don't do girls, period."
"Oh, so you gotta lie that hard 'cause I rejected you? It's like that? Alright, Cher. Whatever you say."
"I don't do girls," you repeat. Your voice comes out strained and dishonest.
Josie sighs. "Yeah, you just have that thing sometimes, like you had for me and Polly. Sorry for implying you're like me."
That stings. "I'm sorry," you mumble.
"Me too, sugar. I love your difficult ass though."
"Not as much as I love your difficult ass. How are things?"
From the way Josie inhales, you know you're going to miss all of your fifth period now.
.
.
.
You're going to spend your third Saturday in New York drunk off your ass. You've already decided. It's been several weeks since the last time you drank anything and, after watching the video of your father murdering your beloved brother, waking up to your house burning down around you, and catching a glimpse of your father burning with the house, you think you get to be wasted.
Pulling on a coat, you press a kiss to Nana Rose's temple. She hums disapprovingly like she knows what you're doing as you slip out of the Dakota without an explanation but you know she'll buzz you back in before Mommy gets home late (again, that's becoming a pattern in life).
"Siri, where's the nearest bar?" you ask, your breath fogging up your screen.
The results pop up with Siri's ever annoying voice and you scowl at them. The Dakota Bar (like you'd be stupid enough to go there), Malachy's Donegal Inn, (the Irish, you think you'll pass), A.G. Kitchen (not exactly a bar).
You scowl even harder when the voice of Veronica Lodge cuts into your thoughts. "Did your hair get redder or is it just me?"
"Fuck off, Lodge," you huff, "I'm not in the mood."
The snow crunches under her boots as she walks over to you. "I'd hope not, it's no fun when people want to be insulted," she drops her chin onto your shoulder in an over-friendly manner, "you asked Siri about bars near here? Just how small is Riverdale?"
You're too aware of the feeling of her breath against the skin of your neck not quite covered by fabric. "It's quaint," you murmur, "now get off of me, you dumb dyke."
She fakes a gasp. "My, my, Cheryl, homophobia? Riverdale really is quaint," she laughs but it comes out weirdly tense, "believe me, blue isn't the warmest color so you can relax." Her arms snake around you for a second before she's snatched your phone out of your hands.
Heat surges to your cheeks. "Some people don't like parasites latching onto them," you hiss, trying to grab your phone back.
"Out of the kindness of my heart, we can call a temporary truce so I can take you to my favorite bar. They don't card and a bunch of rich older guys whose wives won't sleep with them anymore go there. You don't have to sleep with them either, but they will buy you drinks," she hums, pocketing your phone, "now come on if you ever want your phone back."
She tugs on your hand and, in the most un-Blossom-like fashion, you follow after.
.
.
.
Twenty something minutes later, she finally lets go and tells you you're here. She leaves our hand cold and doesn't hold the door for you but she does wait until you're inside to sit down at the bar. She orders for both of you, a French 75 for you and a Tom Collins for her. You ask what in hell a French 75 is and she flashes bright, white teeth at you before asking if you like champagne.
You roll your eyes at the non-answer and don't answer her question either.
Before you know it, you've let Veronica fucking Lodge, of all people, buy you two of those stupidly good French 75's. You still don't know what's in them but they taste better than any of the shitty liquor you could've gotten in Riverdale. You're not drunk yet though, which is just a bit infuriating because that's all you wanted out of tonight.
"I'm tipsy at best, Veronica," you huff.
Her eyes roll and she shakes her head, "hence why you're still no fun. Get her a shot of whiskey please, Chris, and make it fast."
You down the whiskey as fast as Chris puts the shot glass in front of you. He shoots Veronica a look that you can't decipher and Veronica nods. He sets another down on the counter for you. And then another. And another. And then—you're drunk. Definitely drunk.
And Veronica... isn't. She's smiling at you with something you would recognize sober. Sober. Why is Veronica sober?
"Drunk yet?" she asks.
God. Her voice is so... regal. Like she knows she's better than you. Very New York. You have something adjacent to that very New York way of speaking in your voice, but it's different. It's... you don't know how to explain it. Fuck, that's right, you're drunk, drunk and giggling stupidly.
"That's a yes," Chris snorts, "you want anything else or can I go tend to my other patrons now, Ronnie?"
"You're dismissed," she smiles.
That's it. She's been sipping that damn Tom Collins this whole time. Meanwhile you've had... you don't know how many drinks. Too many, if you're drunk and she's sober. You should've gotten drunk alone, like you'd been planning before she stole your phone.
"Give me my phone," you try to say it like a command but you can't stop giggling.
Her head tilts, her smile looking a bit more genuine. "What's the magic word, Miss Blossom?"
Something about how she says that is too damn funny. You're hunched over laughing at her now. "Fuck you," you try, your hand landing somewhere on her knee.
Two hands lift you back up and readjust you on your bar stool. Veronica's hands, you think. Maybe. It's definitely her that speaks, "not even close. But do tell what's so funny that you fell onto me laughing about it."
Forgetting how your mother would berate you for it, you snort. "You sound like such a... " what was the word? You settle on telling Veronica she sounds pretentious.
She blinks twice and then rolls her eyes, muttering something under her breath. She says something you miss and then she's gone. Wanting to know where the hell she went, you twist around to ask Chris but he's gone too.
Someone plops down onto Veronica's seat with not nearly enough grace to be Veronica. Turning your head, you see you're right. It's one of those old men Veronica mentioned, who'll buy you drinks since his wife won't sleep with him anymore.
Drunk you lacks both the filter and the poise of sober you and so your nose scrunches in a way that you're pretty sure is both unattractive and rude.
He doesn't seem to notice or care. Instead, he asks what he can get you, his eyes decidedly on your legs. Not even your ankles are visible right now but you can't help but feel violated by his gaze. He must be thirty, at least. Maybe even older.
You don't think you could pass for any older than nineteen, except maybe twenty when you're all dressed up. But right now you're in fleece leggings and a mock turtleneck with a coat halfway on and you may be in a bar, but you do not look old enough to be here, let alone be with him.
His hand snakes its way to your thigh. You hear him call you sugar but you're too repulsed to listen to what else he's saying. Only Josie gets to call you that.
"Out of my seat, Humbert Humbert," Veronica's stupid voice cuts through the air like ice, "she's with me." He mumbles something—you think he calls Veronica a bitch then something about jail bait—and then he's gone and Veronica is comfortably back in her seat. Before you can ask when she got back or where she even went, she's talking again, asking questions about Riverdale and your parents.
They're simple enough at first. What was Riverdale like (small and horrible and everybody loved Jason and loathed you), what extracurricular activities were you a part of (senior captain of the River Vixens, co-head of the yearbook committee, social activities director for student council), are your parents/family actually ginger supremacists (most definitely yes), etc.
And then she asks if Daddy really did kill JayJay.
"I'm not drunk enough to answer that," you murmur. You want to yell at her or hit her or do something cruel back but you can't. You're too inebriated and too numb to do anything but get up and leave. You stumble back to the Dakota as she calls after you, drunk and alone and more miserable than when you'd arrived at the scummy bar.
You almost get hit by five cabs but you can't make yourself care.
.
.
.
"JoJo?" you sniffle into the Jason's old phone, the one you hadn't let them deactivate.
"Hey, sugar, what's up?"
"I wanna go home."
Josie makes you drink three glasses of water, take your makeup off, eat some crackers, and settle into a bubble bath before you're allowed to fall asleep on her. You mumble your thanks and ask her to tell you everything you've missed. You pass out before she can finish.
You wake up with a good morning text and a reminder to eat breakfast. You almost resent that Josie knows you'd have skipped the meal if she hadn't told you not to as you shoot back a few kissy face emojis as thanks.
Your good mood is shot down when you leave to go find a bagel shop and run into Veronica Lodge.
Dressed to the nines as always, Veronica doesn't even look like last night happened. If not for the rose gold iPhone in her hand and your own memory, you wouldn't even know it had happened.
"You forgot your phone," she says simply, holding it out.
"Did you wait out for me to come out of my apartment?" It's an accusation more than anything else. The truce, that in hindsight was nothing but a ploy to get you drunk, ended the moment you left that bar, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't have a couple of nasty things to say to Veronica now.
Veronica is annoyingly unfazed by this. "I checked Aroma first, you weren't there so I figured you had a hangover and would want your phone. Veronica Lodge is many things, but a thief isn't among them."
You sneer a bit. "A lowlife seems to be one of them. Keep my family's name out of your mouth, Lodge." Snatching your phone back, you turn on your heel and head out of the lobby.
"There's a bakery on Colombus Avenue!" she calls after you.
You don't give her the satisfaction of looking back.
.
.
.
The rest of January goes like this:
You go to class, you hate the girls around you, you hate Veronica an extra 30%, Veronica blows you smug kisses when she sees you around campus, and you spend the car ride home on the phone with Josie, talking about Archie Andrews wants the Pussycats' help with his music or how Val definitely likes Archie Andrews for some ungodly reason Josie can't think of or how Josie's dad is stupid for not liking her band or anything but New York.
February
On one of the worst Tuesdays of your life, after sleeping through your alarm and being awoken by your mother screaming at you and not having time to grab all your homework or do half your makeup routine and being smacked in the hall for trying to go back inside to get your favorite spider broach, the last thing you want is to talk to Veronica. Murphy's law, of course, decides that is exactly what should happen. And so Veronica walks into your third period like she owns the place.
She looks better than ever and certainly better than you do right now. She rubs it in, shooting you half a smirk before turning to your teacher. They talk for too long and she hands him a slip.
"Miss Blossom," he says, "go with Miss Lodge."
A few girls ooh at that. Naomi, one of the girls you tolerate, asks what you did. You restrain yourself from flipping her off and instead hiss that you did nothing. Because you didn't. Not that you can remember at least.
Veronica yawns. "Any day now, Cheryl."
You march out of the classroom, barely waiting for her to catch up.
"Brizendine wants to talk to you," she hums, "what'd you do?"
You glare sharply at her. "Nothing, who even is that?"
Veronica snorts as un-lady-like as you had while drunk. The memory makes your hands curl into fists at your side. "Brizendine is the head of our school, dipshit. Otherwise known as a headmaster, chancellor, head teacher, principal, et cetera."
"Fuck you, I know what it means. Why are you the one he sent for me? Don't you have class right now?" You're walking even faster now, your heels clicking angrily and echoing in the halls.
"She sent me because I was in the office anyway. Some bitch ratted me out for making her drink from the gutter," she shrugs the last part off, like making someone drink gutter water is somehow acceptable or no big deal.
"That's barbaric," you snip.
She shoves her shoulder into your side. "It was sophomore year and it was Katie's idea anyway. Not like you're any better, I've seen the things your classmates at Riverdale High had to say about you."
You stop walking. "Like what?"
Veronica stops too, pulling out her phone and opening up to her Twitter. "Shall I read the DMs? Let's see, an unfortunately named Jughead Jones called you the biggest bitch he's ever met, a Betty Cooper said you told her she looked 'too season five Betty Draper' to be a River Vixen, whatever that is, because she still had baby fat her freshman year, Kevin Keller called you the significantly less tan and more ginger season one flashback only Alison DiLaurentis, some guy named Chuck Clayton said you were, and I quote 'a high maintenance, bitchy whore not worth the $4 milkshake he bought you,' need I continue?"
You almost cringe at Chuck's. You'd been repressing the memory of your date with him junior year (repressing how kind he was, his charm and wit and how he'd always been your favorite of Jason's teammates and he had barely even tried to kiss you like he knew) ever since Betty made you read that stupid fucking playbook the football team kept.
"So, you did your research."
She laughs in a pinched way. "Why else would I have waited to talk to you? Did you think I was intimidated by your faux bravado and red hair?"
The rest of the walk to the main office is silent, aside from the clicking of your heels. Brizendine, Bodie, she insists you call her, just wants to know why you haven't joined any clubs. You leave her office with the dates the Jewish culture club meets crumpled in your bag and the way Veronica had looked at you stuck in your head, your face burning up.
.
.
.
"What's up, girl?"
"I joined the Jewish culture club."
"Should I have said shalom then?"
"Fuck you, Bodie made me. Mommy is going to kill me when she finds out."
"Let's kill her first." Josie is only half joking. You're joking even less when you hum in agreement.
.
.
.
One Tuesday later, Valentine's day, you go to school draped in Jason's varsity letterman. It looks like the width of his shoulders as he held you to his chest and it feels like the warmth of his hands as he held yours and it smells ever so faintly like his cologne and like maple syrup. It's sickening to look at in the mirror but it feels more like home than the Dakota or Thornhill ever could. It's Jason, or all that you have left of him, and Jason was everything good in the world.
You snarl when one of the girls you tolerate asks you what you're wearing.
The rest of your day passes without incident. You don't even see Veronica until school is out. Her tongue is in some—some boy's mouth, her thumb tracing down the edge of his jawline and one hand tangled in his hair. You can practically see her moaning like he's doing anything for her even though you're sure she's doing all the work and she could do so much fucking better than him if she wanted.
Veronica looks like artwork.
She's got eyes like the galaxy and hair like the ashes a phoenix rises up out of and this stupid confidence to everything she does that makes her look that much better. She speaks in the most pretentious, beautiful prose you've ever heard even when the things she says are beyond scathing and she walks like you imagine Aphrodite must have, even when she knows she's almost a hobbit. She's so much more than the ugly boy with too pale hair and greedy hands on her hips could ever deserve.
Your train of thought finishes and it feels like something in your gut churns and then sinks. This was supposed to be gone. Josie thought it was the real deal, but you were sure you were over this. You'd gone all summer without feeling it once, you hadn't even felt a twinge when Veronica had been pressing into your back outside the Dakota, her breath hot on your neck. All you'd felt towards Veronica was hatred, even when she'd left you breathless.
But here you are, staring as Veronica makes some greasy boy you don't know's damn day, hating that you're not him. Hating Veronica and hating that you can't have her.
It's another reminder of your worst flaw. Your eyes burn at the memories. You'd wanted Josie like this at first too, you'd lashed out at Jason's meathead friends for looking at her too long and threatened Reggie Mantle when you heard him talking about her like she was an object.
And then... you'd felt like this about Polly too. With Polly, you tried to ignore it. You tried to befriend her for awhile, you even let her be a Vixen. You thought that if you could just be her friend, your stomach would stop curling and uncurling around her. And then she'd started dating JayJay. You stopped being nice to her. You called her a slut, you barely let her keep her spot on your River Vixens, you hissed to Jason how he should dump her for being a Cooper if nothing else.
You don't want that again. You can't have those feelings inside of you again. Veronica Lodge is stupidly beautiful but she is nothing like Josie or Polly. What you feel for her is nothing. You don't even want to be nice to her. You want to rip Veronica Lodge apart, piece by stunning piece. You want to smear your lipstick across her jaw violently, and to tell her she is just like you, if not worse than you.
(More than anything, you want her to destroy you.)
.
.
.
"Veronica didn't even look at me today."
"Isn't that a good thing?"
"Maybe... you remember... that... thing, the one I talked to you about? It's back."
"That's kind of how feelings work, sugar."
A sharp inhale.
"... who is it?"
"Aforementioned socialite."
"Well, damn, Cheryl."
You try to laugh. It comes out closer to a sob as you lose your composure.
"It's okay, sugar, I promise. Shit, you know I'm the same way too. You're not alone, okay? I know Jason's gone, but as long as you've got me, you're not alone. Deep breaths, Cheryl, deep breaths." She spends five minutes talking you through your panic attack. You wish you deserved any of this.
.
.
.
At eleven PM, you slip out of the Dakota. Your mind is fast at work, trying to recall where the bar Veronica took you to is and praying that your mother won't find out that you're not in bed. You don't make it out of the lobby before Veronica stumbles in, guided by the blonde girl you saw her with your first day at Spence.
The blonde girl, Kendall, you think her name is, sees you.
Like a dear caught in headlights, you freeze. You brace yourself, waiting for Kendall to sneer or point you out for Veronica to rip you apart. It never happens.
Kendall half carries Veronica right past you and into the elevator silently. The next day, Veronica doesn't say anything to you. And then again. And again. And again. And then February is over.
March
The snow hasn't even begun to melt when March begins.
Josie calls you whiny when you tell her and sends a snap of how freezing Riverdale still is. You miss it a little less than you did two months ago.
.
.
.
Another week passes without Veronica talking to you. It's pissing you off now, so, like the Blossom you are (no matter the state of your family, no matter how loudly your mother screamed at you last night, no matter what anybody in New York says), you attack her during lunch.
"Veronica," you greet, teeth barred in a fake smile, "you've been avoiding me. Were the things my former classmates had to say about me really that bad or are Lodges just more cowardly than they like to pretend?"
Her eyes take you in almost greedily. If you weren't so mad at her, you would thrive under the attention.
Today, you roll your eyes at her silence. "Well? I'm waiting."
"I guess you're just... not on my radar anymore," she shrugs. You know she's lying but it still stings.
"Let me clarify: I was on it enough for you to get me drunk and interrogate me and, when that backfired, for you to stalk people from my hometown to interrogate them and since Valentine's Day, I've just magically dropped off of it? No big finish? No spark? No fire? That's more disappointing than losing your virginity in eighth grade," you scoff.
Veronica's teeth clench at that. "Fire? Sorry to disappoint you, Cheryl, but my specialty is ice. If you fuck with me, you're going to do worse than drink gutter water.
"You see, you don't seem to quite get this, but you are nothing here. The Blossoms may have been hot shit in Riverdale, but then your daddy decided to torture and kill your brother for not wanting in on the drug dealing business, and you're not in Riverdale anymore. This is New York, honey, and if you think anybody here actually cares about the great great granddaughter of the founder of some washed up little town, you're not only wrong, you're stupid.
"This is my territory, Cheryl, the Lodge name means something here, the Lodge name means something everywhere. I own you in New York, and if I decide to leave you freezing and begging for mercy, that's what's going to happen, because that entitlement that you wore in Riverdale, you've outgrown. Your kingdom is in ruins and I'm the queen now, bitch."
It's the most Veronica has said to you in weeks. You don't tell Josie.
.
.
.
She haunts your dreams that night. She looks like ice as she drags her teeth past your collarbones but she lights the pit of your stomach ablaze. You wake up at one AM with curled toes and a damp aching between your legs that you've never quite felt. You don't shake the image of her from your head for hours.
.
.
.
You don't go to school afterwards. The thought of seeing her makes you vomit so Mommy believes you when you tell her that you're sick with your forehead pressed to the cool toilet seat, the aftermath of vomiting the empty contents of your stomach still painfully fresh.
"Have one of your friends," she says it sharp like she knows you have none, "bring your homework. No child of mine is going to fail out of school."
You draw your gaze to your knees. They're pale and bony and ugly and they won't stop trembling. "Yes, Mommy," you breathe out, willing them to stop. They don't until her footsteps carry out of your room.
Half an hour later, you trudge outside through the still there snow and head for the drug store on 72nd. You wish it would just melt already instead of making you take these heavy, struggling steps.
You collapse while crossing the street and the last thing you hear before everything goes black is car horns screaming at you and—is somebody screaming your name?
You wake up in a warm room wearing clothes that aren't what you left in. The lighting is a low, orangey shade of yellow. This is not your apartment. Your mother has always hated too yellow lighting and how it reflects onto ghostly Blossom skin.
For a few minutes, you blink and try to figure out just where you are. The furniture arrangement is nicer than in your apartment, the layout similar enough that you think you're in the Dakota at least. Your concentration is broken by the sound of heels clicking against tile, and then heels muffled by carpeting.
"Oh, thank God, Cheryl, I was starting to think you were dead." Veronica. This is Veronica's apartment. "Here, I made you hot cocoa," she holds out a mug to you. You don't take it. "I didn't poison it, if that's what you're thinking. My name may be Veronica but this isn't Heathers," she speaks almost playfully, like she didn't rip you to shreds yesterday or haunt your dreams last night.
Wearily, you find your voice, "why are you doing this? Blossoms and Lodges are worse than cats and dogs."
Veronica laughs softly—beautifully. You hate it. "You passed out in the street, Cheryl. We don't have to like each other for me to do the right thing."
"So Veronica Lodge has a heart after all, who would've thought," you quip, hands wrapping around the mug.
She sits down next to you on her couch and takes to rubbing patterns into your back as you sip on the hot cocoa. Veronica's skin feels somehow softer than you'd expected, not as cold as her mouth had been outside of the Dakota. Her movements are controlled and graceful in a way that aches.
You recognize that this is a dangerous moment to let happen. Knowing your flaw and who Veronica is, this should not be allowed to happen. You should get up and leave right now, before anything worse happens. Instead, you sigh into the warmth of Veronica's touch. Against everything you know, against reason, against promise, against peace, hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that is, you unravel under her fingertips in the way that only Jason ever knew.
(Like background noise, your mother's voice hisses to life in your head, weakness will not permitted. You don't heed her words.)
The silence stretches out between you two until your mug is empty.
"Can I have some more?" Your voice leaves your mouth a whisper.
She smiles too gently and gets up, mug in one hand and finger tips in the other. For the second time, you follower after her. This time, you do it without even a thought of how completely un-Blossom-like it is.
(You're sick. You weren't lying, you're actually sick and you have an excuse to be submissive and weak right now.)
She tears the packet of powder with her teeth so she won't have to shake your fingertips off of her palm. "Have you eaten? I'm no Gordon Ramsay, but I can at least heat up some leftovers, or order out if you really don't trust me." The smile on her mouth is still too gentle, too familiar, like the two of you are friends and you never provoked her into saying what she did.
You start to say that you did, and then your stomach rumbles. It's almost comical but you feel heat rush to your cheeks and your eyes go wide and child-like. You haven't been caught in a lie like this since you were six. Back then, you'd been berated almost violently for lying to your parents.
Veronica laughs at you instead. "We have some appetizers from Valbella and churrasco from Son Cubano," she hums, sticking the mug in the microwave with a cover. "I'm assuming you eat kosher since you're in the Jewish culture club with Kendall and... actually I don't know if any of that is kosher."
"I'm not—" you close your mouth sharply, "I don't eat kosher."
Her head tilts. "Aren't you supposed to?"
"Maybe... I'm not even supposed to talk about it, just—I'll have the appetizers. I don't eat red meat," you mumble.
"Gringa," she laughs, "there's fried calamari with zucchini and neck clams, I'm guessing you want the calamari."
Nodding slightly, you purse your lips nervously. "I thought gringa meant foreigner... that's what Ginger said, at least."
She snorts. Pulling out a to-go container, she answers, "it's someone who isn't Latin. First gen Latinos always forget the rest of us are just as Latino as them, Chicana I may be, but both my parents are Mexican and they raised me the same way. Just... in New York. And rich." There's a burning in her eyes that makes you wonder what it must be like to be proud of who you are.
You can't even begin to understand it, so you say nothing.
The microwave beeps, breaking the atmosphere. You can't place why you feel so cheated that it did, and then Veronica is sending you back to the couch with your hot coca and saying something about the zucchini.
You count the minutes as you wait for her, your fingers tapping anxiously against your mug in a way your mother would never approve of. After three, you take a sip. It doesn't burn your throat but you wish it would, or that Veronica would hurry up.
Like she knew what you were thinking, Veronica's heels click against the tile of the kitchen as she speaks, "it wouldn't heat evenly, sorry about that."
Your fingers brush against hers as you take the plate. Her skin is warmer than before, more electric. You inhale too sharply at the feeling of it and your stomach clenches tightly.
Veronica sees it. Her lips curl up just a little bit at the sight, like she planned it.
Your cheeks feel like they're burning, so you speak before she can. "Why aren't you in school?"
"Ditching, some friends and I were going to the movies," she shrugs.
You blink. "You're blowing them off for me."
Veronica tilts her head, the upward curl of her lips back. "Is that so?" she says it like a challenge, like a dare that you can't refuse. Somehow, even though you know she is because she's here, taking care of you, and not with them, the way she says it makes you feel stupid.
"Aren't you?"
"Maybe," she chuckles softly, "or maybe this is just like when I got you drunk. What was it you called me back then, a lowlife?"
If your face can get any redder, it does. You bow your head, hoping your hair will cover just how deep your blush is.
"Oh, don't cry on me, Cheryl, it was a bitchy thing to do, I'm—I'm sorry," she scoffs, "for that and the other day." Her voice catches on her apology, like she's not used to actually doing that.
Reluctantly, it makes you believe her. "It's fine," you mumble, "I... I've been a bitch to you too. Because you're a Lodge. I'm... sorry about that. I guess."
The two of you sit quietly for a minute longer. You poke at your calamari awkwardly, not sure what exactly is supposed to happen now. You've never done this before. Apologizing is not something that Blossoms are supposed to do. (Your mother would be ashamed. Your father too. Would Jason?)
"You should eat," Veronica suggests, like she doesn't know where to go from here either.
You do eat. And then, just as Veronica goes to speak again, you vomit it all back up. You leave three minutes later, feeling more embarrassed than you can ever remember being. You text Josie immediately, I apologized to somebody and then puked. Blossom genes?
Josie texts back a half hour later, when you're comfortably in bed and just barely awake, just cuz you don't like veronica doesn't mean you can puke on her cher
.
.
.
Two days later, the snow starts to melt.
