IV

Sweet Pea thought seriously about killing Penelope. Well, not super seriously, but frequently enough that it started to feel like a hobby he was enjoying at the same time he was doing her landscaping. His employer was suddenly always around―directing the workers who were installing new windows on the first floor, coming and going in her car, and sitting on her back patio under a monster umbrella, big stupid hat, and sunglasses that looked like two hockey pucks glued side by side. Sweet Pea considered provoking Cheryl and seeing if she'd take her rage out on her mom. He considered cooking up some crazy lie that would get Jughead worked up enough to have the same kind of freak out he'd had when he'd skinned the tattoo off that bitch Penny Peabody. Mostly, he contemplated murdering Penelope himself, with whatever gardening implement he happened to be holding, directing, or steering at the time.

It wasn't the woman's presence alone that pissed him off, it was also the way that presence divided him from the naked mystery girl upstairs. Maybe she had more appointments for guys to ogle her (Sweet Pea had figured that was what the sliding window was for), or didn't need the fresh air now that the new windows had better insulated the house? Or maybe he'd scared the crap out of her because she was somehow psychic and knew that the guy who dug around haplessly in the gardens like an oversized gopher was the same creep who'd startled her in the room, then tried to engage her in conversation. Admittedly, not his best pickup attempt. At least he didn't have to tell anybody about it.

He felt like a massive fucking dunce when he remembered that he already knew how to get more naked girl time. And no, it wouldn't be by swiping dirty magazines from one of the Southside's sketchy variety stores (his favourite hobby, age twelve). The boom box and the '80s tunes Sweet Pea cranked out of it would lure his fair-haired, second storey princess, just like they had before. Tried and goddamn true. It was a fact that '80s music and Blondies went together like French fries and a chocolate milkshake. So, he took his time working over the gardens on her side of the house and when her window opened, Sweet Pea twisted the volume way up.


I've been meaning to tell you

I've got this feeling that won't subside

I look at you and I fantasize

You're mine tonight

Now I've got you in my sights

With these hungry eyes

Betty was already smiling as she leaned through the window she'd just opened, looking for the young gardener. "Hungry Eyes" today, huh? Very cute. The scene in Dirty Dancing where it was used had always been her favourite from childhood―it was a montage about determination, focus, hard work, and improvement, all traits that she felt defined her very being. Her mystery guy was standing out from the wall today, but as hard as she stared at him, she couldn't get a good idea of what he looked like. That was because he stood with his back to her. What was he doing that for? The closest flowerbed was behind him and… Betty had an epiphany: he was preventing her from seeing his face on purpose. She'd had to wonder about her surprise visitor the other day; it had been the first and only surprise visitor she'd ever had at this job, arriving immediately after her near miss with the gardener when she'd laughed and had to duck back inside. Betty was too realistic to consider that a coincidence.

So what was with the hiding? She cupped her chin, resting her elbow on the windowsill and swishing her ponytail side to side to generate a little breeze for her bare back. He was actually starting to make her a little impatient. He couldn't be shy, or if he was, he was fine being shy about himself yet totally cool with peeping on her. He couldn't be shunning her, or if he was, it was because he hadn't liked what he'd seen after checking her out through the hatch. Betty frowned in dissatisfaction. Perhaps his reasoning was something she hadn't thought of, but what if it wasn't? Should she just sit by (naked!) and allow this arrogant garden-helper-dude to control their interactions? Absolutely not!

"Hey!" she called down at him, echoing his previous overture to her… in a ruder tone of voice.

He didn't so much as turn his head. Betty crossed her arms in frustration. She was deciding whether or not to shout at him again, self-esteem fighting caution, when he bent down and apparently rewound the cassette. Seconds later, Eric Carmen took it from the top.

Betty sighed. It seemed like he was trying to communicate something to her, but what?

Her lips parted without regard for her brain.

The gardener… the guy… her gardener-guy… was taking off his shirt.


Sweet Pea wasn't trying to spring an impromptu strip show on the girl, just even the score; he hoped that his lack of hip swaying and the fact that his dirty white tank was the only thing he removed would make that clear. Now he'd seen her naked and she'd seen him… ok, a little less naked, but they could work with that, he thought. He waited a minute after the song ended, keeping the muscles of his back tensed for maximum effect, then turned and looked eagerly to the window. Gone! Goddammit!

He was still wondering about it as he got ready for work the next day, about why she'd disappeared. Client? Prudishness? Shit, he hoped not. That would put a serious fucking wrench in his plan to have her. Last night, it had even screwed with the fantasy version, in which he laid her back in a bed of rose petals―the joint influence of the plants he worked with every day and watching American Beauty without permission at a formative age.

Had he done something incredibly stupid in a half-baked attempt to do something noble? Sweet Pea knew he always fucked that kind of thing up. He just had to believe that there hadn't been a better option. Stupidity, when acted on in the face of no additional choices, could be justified. (In his personal opinion.) Another consolation was that at least this dumbass (him) worked out, so disinterest was pretty low on the list of reasons she might've turned away. Ugh, he should've just talked to her when she'd called out to him! Why bother pretending not to be desperate when he thought about her enough to be half, maybe three-quarters in love with her already!

Sweet Pea let Riverdale's gracelessly aging public transit (busses with gum under every seat―and on top of some seats) take him as far as it ever did, passing the time with his elbow propped in the uncomfortable crook of the shallow window casing and thinking about love. He probed his mind the way he'd probed his stitched-up gums with his tongue after the dentist had removed his wisdom teeth; it hurt almost as much, that was what made him certain it was love. Maybe he'd already proven that it was a struggle for him to behave many degrees better than a jackass, but Sweet Pea's devotion to himself made it so that he never worried he didn't deserve that girl in the window.


Betty was so absorbed in Mansfield Park that she didn't realize her commute was over until the driver turned around and spoke to her.

"This close enough?" the older gentleman asked.

Looking out the windows on either side of the bus, Betty realized she was just one big curve in the road away from Thicket Hall.

"This is perfect! Thank you so much," she gushed on her way down the steps. The man gave her a kind smile before turning off on a side road and reversing course back to Riverdale proper.

She hadn't asked for special treatment, but she'd been catching this bus for a while, getting into enough of a routine that she often had the same driver, and he'd picked up on the fact that she rode his route to its conclusion, then got off and kept going on foot. Today being a hot one, he'd offered to take her closer to her destination. Of course, Betty had protested, but the man endeared himself to her by saying he had a granddaughter almost her age. He also pointed out that there were no other passengers left on the bus to worry about taking out of their way. Preferring to agree by nature, she had given in.

Rounding the curve with her feet smacking her flip flops, Betty admired ditch lilies and weedy, wild daisies. She contemplated the pleasures of taking up gardening―growing something of her own, something small, maybe something edible. Definitely nothing to rival even one of the gardens being constantly groomed by…

The road was straightening out and there he was, right ahead of her! Panicking, Betty slowed her pace, but she couldn't idly enjoy the surrounding flora now. She was far too distracted.

This was impossible! She hadn't had a chance to consider how she would interact with the sometimes shirtless, apparently Dirty Dancing-loving boy. More accurately, she'd had plenty of time to think about it and simply hadn't taken it, not yet past the mere idea of him in her head as an entertaining diversion with, yes, ok, a nice body. Betty didn't know anything about him! She quizzed herself: was he hardworking? No idea! Except that she'd watched the gardens transform under his touch. Was he funny? Hard to say! Except that he'd purposely peeled off his shirt, knowing she was staring at him, to "Hungry Eyes." Did they have anything in common? It looked as though they both liked to dance, possibly both liked movies about people who liked to dance, and had both, somehow, come to work for Penelope Blossom. Really, Betty admitted to herself, that was a fair variety of commonalities.

Of the most vital importance, she thought as she observed him heading up the driveway to the Hall, was that he didn't only see her as a tool for his sexual gratification. Not like all the other young men she was paid to have a one-sided interaction with. It was probable, Betty allowed, that this guy was worth a shot. She sped up, marshalling her guts, determined that she would talk to him so they wouldn't spend the rest of the summer shouting "hey" at each other through windows.

A sudden lack of options made Betty skid to a stop, getting road gravel in her shoe in her awkward transition between street and driveway. It was a breeze to say she'd just approach him and start talking when she'd had an escape route, but the boy had halted halfway between where she stood and the house, setting down the boom box he was carrying and a backpack, and rummaging through the latter. She couldn't get to the Hall without passing him and she couldn't turn back because, eventually, she needed to get to work. There wasn't anything nearby where she could hang around for a while reading or drinking a soda. What was she going to do? Make for the woods and take herself a mile out of her way trying to sneak onto the property? Nope, nuh uh, not this girl. Not Betty Cooper. She would just be normal. Any second now, she would get her flip flops back under her brain's command and march right over.

The boy turned his head and she jumped.


Sweet Pea stared at Betty, confused. Why the hell was she looking at him like he'd just crept up on her with a face that was horror-movie-disfigured? Wait, he thought, why was she even here to look at him? Oh no. Oh god. That blonde hair. That tote bag over her shoulder that said she was settling in for a stay, not out for a casual visit. (Besides, what else would a teenage girl be doing at this place? He knew full well what kind of visitors Penelope Blossom got. Dicks―the type of man, and the appendage.) Those fucking arms. That was the definite identifier, since Betty was wearing a sleeveless, button down shirt and he could see the complete length from her shoulder to the tip of her middle finger. He kind of wanted to give himself the middle finger for the way he was staring at her. Luckily, she was looking back at him with about the same expression he would've guessed he was using on her. Bewildered, stunned, maybe a little horny, though the last could've been wishful thinking.

"So," Sweet Pea said, "should we try to lie to each other or jump straight to―"

"Hello again," Betty offered, cutting him off. Sweet Pea grinned.

"This is a different look for you," he commented boldly, glancing all the way down to her feet.

"Casual?"

"Clothed."

She flushed. Aha, so not a perfect marble statue after all.

"And you," Betty shot back.

"Why? Because no dirt?" He examined himself. Yep, clean shirt today (not for long). So maybe he liked to do the fucking laundry. No big deal.

"Because no partner. What's her name?" Betty asked, turning sly on him. Sweet Pea could only bend his eyebrows down towards his nose.

"Whose?"

"The broom's," she informed him. He grinned, judging from her face that bold wasn't one of her standard settings, which meant it was him bringing it out in her. "Honestly, if you're going to dance with somebody―or thing―like that, you should at least get her name."

"So she thinks I have honourable intentions?"

"So you can exchange insurance information when one of your moves goes terribly wrong. Don't flatter yourself, Serpent. You're no Fred Astaire."

Sweet Pea's eyebrows shot up.

"Shit. You are not what I thought. Haven't you spotted any redeeming qualities in me in all the time you've been staring?"

He watched Betty shift her weight from one neon orange flip flop to the other, his smile drooping. He'd shoved her out of playful banter as firmly as cracking an ice cube out of a tray. You could try to put it back, but it wouldn't stick. Unless you got it all wet, he thought, his analogy beginning to break down as memories of her naked body resurfaced.

"Maybe one."

"One?"

"You have good taste in music," Betty complimented, giving Sweet Pea a shy smile.


To be continued...