A/N: Okay, so here are the apologies and weak excuses for the lateness in this update: sorry, and I also work a lot, I worked six/seven days last week and so sometimes writing gets pushed down on the list of priorities (unfortunately and with great regret).

Otherwise here is another chapter of teenagers yelling at each other over stuff (also known as Riverdale).

chapter fourteen: here she comes again

I never speak of it in the next couple of days, that little scuffle in the parking-lot between myself and those men. I never want it mentioned and I skirt around the gentle prompts from Ruth. The night that it happened, I told Rosie that the bruises had come from falling off a bicycle. She plopped onto the sofa alongside me and pecked each cut, smoothed each plaster beneath clumsy fingertips. Sweet Pea had been in the hall with Ruth and I heard them talk, but I held Rosie close and breathed in that soft, floral scent from our detergent. Rosie wiggled from me and blinked at me owlishly, her small hands scrunched into the folds of my shirt. She glanced at the hall, as if she could hear each word but I knew that she could only hear those faint murmurs and her eyes drifted toward me once more, drinking in those bruises and cuts. Her breath had been hot against my cheek; she whispered, "I won't let anyone hurt you, Mila."

Sweet Pea slammed the door behind him.

ii

For a little while, I wallow in my bedroom with blankets drawn tight around me. I think too much about those little scenarios in which Michael never made it to the parking-lot and it was just myself and Gideon against those men – and I think of how Stone had slithered his hands around my waist and held my chin in his grip and pulled me close against him – so, so close that I feel him here, now, in this cocoon of blankets – his eyes had been filled with –…

Girly, girly. Out this late, alone?

iii

The wooden floorboards in the hall creak beneath careful footsteps. Quickly, I smear clenched fists against my face which is stained in a reddish colour, my cheeks swollen from tears and my nose sore from sniffles. I brace myself for Ruth. Instead, there comes a strangle shuffle of paper and I watch a couple of pamphlets being pushed beneath the doorframe. Slowly, I pull myself from my bedsheets and pick them up, flipping them over and reading their bold headlines.

BOXING FOR GIRLS – COMMUNITY CENTRE CLASSES -…

I hear the crinkle of leather and a soft sigh. "You have been through some rough things, kid."

Michael stands in the hall. I crouch to peek out through the keyhole, spot his silhouette leaned against the wall across from my bedroom with his arms crossed, but I cannot quite see his face. I feel a little childish and that feeling bubbles forth in the form of my words because I mutter, "What would you know about it?"

He shrugs. Even if I could not glimpse little snippets of him through this narrow hole, I could still hear it in the wrinkling leather and the shift of his body.

"I know that it takes a lot to carry this stuff around with you. It almost feels like something – like something alive, you know? Like it sits on your shoulders and it gets heavier and heavier with every step. And it stays in you, Mila, that stuff. It stays in you, and it starts to get too heavy. And one day, it feels like nothing you do will ever get that weight off you. So, if you ask me what I know about it – I would say that I know a lot about it. I've been carrying around my own for a long time now."

"Do you feel like you'll ever get rid of it?"

"No. But I feel like it got a little lighter now that there are people around to help me carry it."

I stare at the wooden grooves in my door and then feel my lips quirk upward into a fond smile. "Michael, have you been reading that one book Ruth about wayward teenagers and how to help them?"

"No." There is a drawn-out silence. "Is it working, though? Because, if not, chapter two helped me prepare a whole other speech for you. It was a metaphor about flowers and youth blossoming or something like that, I think. Way, way more embarrassing for the both of us."

I snort and lean my forehead against the door, grinning stupidly. Then my grin drips away from me, drips onto the floorboards and pools around my feet when I think of all the other things which float around my brain. I open my mouth to speak and shake my head, only to open the door and face him. He still leans against the wall, his eyes drifting to meet mine.

"Everyone asks me about the foster homes and about my Grandmother and – and sometimes – sometimes I just don't want to talk about those things," I tell him. "And it feels like if I don't talk then people think I'm not – I don't know, like I'm not healing or something. But it isn't like that. Maybe I just don't want to talk about the other stuff because all the good stuff is here. Is that so bad?"

Michael blinks, his arms dropping from his chest. "Damn. Chapters two and three of that 'how-to-help-wayward-teenagers' book did not prepare me for this stuff."

I blush a little, embarrassed. "Sorry, I shouldn't-…"

"Mila, it was a joke. Look – I'm not asking you to talk. I'm trying to tell you that there are other ways to get out those feelings if talking isn't your thing. Boxing is just one possibility – a chance to meet other kids your age, a chance to hit something other than walls. Because, you know, I'm the one who has to fix those dents."

"Well, you might want to start on that because those dents are still there," I tease, smiling softly.

Michael lets out a low whistle. He reaches for me, holds me in a light headlock and ruffles my hair despite my protests. I shake him off and snort at his feigned stumbling, as if I had really fought him. "Get a load of this one! Think you're the boss of this house now, Mila?"

"It was either me or the fishes, Michael-…" I grumble, brushing my fingers through my tangled hair.

He laughs and turns for the staircase, smoothing out his leather jacket. I watch him descend the first step before I blurt, "Michael?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"Thank you – and I'm glad you're feeling lighter."

"As a feather," he smiles. "And you will too. You just gotta let yourself feel it."

I nod. "Was that in chapter four?"

"Chapter five," he corrects, grinning at me. "I'm keeping chapter four for the next teen-pep-talk moment."

iv

Toni texts me that night; she tells me that she had an argument with Sweet Pea and he stormed off with Fangs. I call her with trembling hands and she explains that she had only come around his place for a little chat, but Toni could tell that his temper was that of a roaring fire and he sizzled fast, burnt everyone around him and then bolted for town. Fangs only followed because he was afraid that Sweet Pea might do something stupid alone, that he might come across a gang of Ghoulies and fight them just for the kick of it.

I dart from the house before I even really think about it and march toward town. I can only think of Sweet Pea and Ghoulies and his broad form contorted with arms held around his head, like Jughead had been that night in the school, beaten so much that he could barely breathe-…

And Sweet Pea still has bruises from Peabody and he still has dreams about that night. He never talks about it either and I wonder what it is about us that makes us so stubborn even when it hurts us.

Toni also mentions that Jughead wants a Serpent meeting. The words pass right over me until her soft voice asks, "Well, are you gonna come or not?"

"You said a Serpent meeting, Toni. I'm not quite Serpent yet," I huff, out of breath from my rapid pace, pushing through the park and onto the main street of the Southside.

"Yet," she repeats coyly. I can hear her smirk from the other end.

"Toni-…" I groan.

"All I'm saying is, if Betty 'Perfect-Ponytail' Cooper can become a Serpent, then you-…"

I hold still in surprise. "Betty Cooper is a Serpent now?"

"Sweet Pea didn't mention it? She did that stupid, outdated Serpent dance and-…"

"Mila?"

I spin around, startled by the voice. Fangs stands by a grocery-store, leaning against its brick wall with one hand stuffed into his pocket and the other latched around his phone, held in front of him, now forgotten. He seems as surprised as I am but soon pulls himself off the wall to come closer. I mumble a faint excuse to Toni that I may have found Sweet Pea through Fangs.

Before I hang up the phone, I hear her blow out a raspberry and mutter, "Good luck, girl."

"Hey Fangs," I smile. It comes out strained, my smile, and he can tell.

"You're looking for Sweet Pea, huh?"

I nod. "From what I hear, it seems he might not be in the best mood."

"You're telling me," Fangs scoffs, rolling his eyes. "I tried to tell him he should cool off, maybe just talk to you or…Well, you know like I do, Sweet Pea never tends to listen when you tell him what to do. Guess I learned that a long time ago."

I can hear the frustration and annoyance bleeding through his tone and it makes me wince. "Do you know where he went now?" I ask gently.

"The Roadhouse, a bar the next street over," Fangs mutters. "Didn't feel like following him this time, you know?"

"I understand. I'm sorry, Fangs."

"Don't apologise for him. Don't get into that habit," Fangs says. "I've done it enough for the guy myself. Just-…Just knock some sense into him, all right?"

"I will. Thanks, Fangs."

v

The Roadhouse flashes in neon-red screams; its floors are a cluster of black and white stripes, its walls made of dense red curtains and harsh, white lights which sting my eyes and blind me. I push through crowds of bodies, through sweat and foreign hands, until I stumble into another section made of tables pushed together, filled with chatting people from all around the Southside. Thumping music makes it hard to hear at all, but those mouths seem slow and sloppy. Their faces stretch wide, like some abstract painting, pushed against one another in silent laughter drowned out by the vibration of the bass and then it occurs to me that maybe these people are not just drunk and maybe they are hopped up on something just a little bit stronger. I wonder if Sweet Pea came here for that and the thought rolls through me, runs me right over like a truck, so much so that it makes my head spin-…

Hands grip my arms and I think of Stone and Snowy instantly. You're a pretty girl, why would you want me to ruin that face of yours-…

I feel warmth; a hard chest, a hand latched around mine and the dumb stumble of my feet once he pulls me out of the bar and into the alleyway outside and we are always in alleyways lately, like we can never talk anywhere but there, only I like the cool air and it soothes my hot skin and makes it a lot easier to breathe because that bar had been more stuffy than I had realised and it hits me all at once.

"…And you're just wandering around again because what – you didn't learn anything from that parking lot, right? Or you're just-…"

Sweet Pea paces in front of me, throws his arms out in his rush of anger, but his words wash right over me and into some distant sea, swept into another world. I think of Toni and Fangs and I can only guess what he had said to them. I can only guess what he did when he went back to his trailer after he left our place and I can only guess the things that he tells himself to make him like this, to make him so angry that he hardly even sees me, so angry that he sees his mother and father and his little sister Bug and he sees all the Northsiders too, he sees the Bulldogs and Ghoulies and all those other people who ever spat on him.

And then he really sees me. He really sees me, because his mouth slowly closes, and his body becomes all tired and slow, he feels the cool air, it soothes his skin, he can breathe now. It hits him all at once.

"Are you done now?" I ask softly.

His expression crumbles inward, he lets out some horrid noise which lingers between a scoff and a scream.

"We can't do this anymore, Sweet Pea."

He holds deathly still. "Can't do what?" he croaks.

I understand that he thinks I mean - this – us – Mila and Sweet Pea – us. "I mean that you can't just blow up at your friends when they're trying to help you and you can't just disappear on them."

He looks childish, his lips pout. "I told Toni that I didn't care if Betty Cooper became a Serpent and I told Fangs that I didn't care if he wanted to come to this stupid bar either. So, what? What does it even matter?"

"So, one day Toni will stop coming to your trailer and she will stop telling you things. And one day Fangs will never follow you to this bar or another bar or anywhere else," I say. "And you'll realise that they got tired of being your punching-bags, Sweet Pea." I look him in the eye and he flinches from it, his body still poised as if he might just storm out like he had earlier in front of Toni. "You know what you're really angry about, Pea, but you won't admit it."

"What am I angry about, Mila?" he retorts bitterly. "Is it that – maybe – my girlfriend got caught up with drug-dealers because of me, and that maybe she almost got – that she-…"

He bites his cheeks, I can tell. He holds it in and holds it in; and it festers and rots and becomes anger and ruins him.

Suddenly, I think of Ruth in those first few weeks that I had lived with her and Rosie. She had given me that bicycle and taught me how to ride it, held the handlebars and steadied me. She told me that I was a kid and I had laughed at her for it. You are a kid, Mila.

It strikes me that maybe she was right. Maybe she is right.

"You have to stop blaming yourself," I tell him. "We both need to stop blaming ourselves – we're kids, Sweet Pea, we're learning – we're trying."

"It's not enough," he replies weakly. He takes a step toward me, faltering, uncertain, like a new-born foal. I catch him, slither my arms beneath his and press myself against his chest. He stands motionless for a moment, until his arms finally hold me against him too. He lets out a long, long sigh and all of that fight flies away with it. "We can't do this anymore. You're right. But I don't know what else we can do. What are we supposed to do, Mila?"

"Instead of turning Toni and Fangs away, maybe we could ask them that same question. Maybe we can ask Michael and Jughead and all the other Serpents. We're not alone in this, remember? We're stronger than Penny Peabody. She's hurt more than just us in this town."

"You're wise for a kid," he snorts.

"Michael might have enlightened me," I mumble with a smile. "He read a book."

"Think he might let me borrow it?"

I laugh. "Get in line, Sweet Pea."

vi

Around noon the next day, Jughead sends me a strange text in which he offers a sundae if I will walk out of the house, which I do. There he stands, at the fence, his face pinched in deep contemplation, distracted by his distant characters in his distant stories, still untold. My boots crunch against fallen leaves, a blend of orange and reds, cracked and shattered. The sound must draw him from his thoughts, because he turns toward me and pulls me into a surprising hug. Neither of us are particularly touchy, especially not toward each other. I think Betty has softened him, somehow. Maybe Sweet Pea has softened me too, in his own way, because I hug Jughead even tighter and find comfort in his hold.

"Betty is a Serpent."

It is mumbled into my hair because of the difference in height between us, but I hear him all the same. I pull away from him, attempting to read his expression. His eyes are conflicted, darting away from mine, but his shoulders are not so tense anymore.

I nod at him. "So I heard."

He rambles, "It was this whole Serpent dance – she wants to be part of my world, but she doesn't seem to realise how – how dangerous it can be or the kind of people you meet when you're a Serpent like-…like-…"

"People like Snowy and Stone?" I ask.

Jughead recoils as if I struck him before he sinks into remorse. "Yeah. Yeah," he admits slowly. "Like them. Those guys that you met in that parking lot, Mila – I don't want Betty to meet those kind of guys any more than I want you to meet them."

"She has the Serpents to protect her," I say. "I had them, too."

I know he wants to argue. I can also tell that he is tired, and maybe he has had this argument one too many times with Betty herself. So, I ease my arm into the crook of his own and pull him into an leisurely stroll away from my house.

"I was promised a sundae," I joke lightly, poking at his arm. "So, where is it?"

"If you're willing to come over to the Northside, you'll get your sundae, you vulture. Besides, I was kind of hoping you might…be willing to let Betty… question you."

I pause, pulling us both into a standstill. "Question me? About what?"

Jughead looks awkward – that is, even more awkward than his usual self. "Um, your experience in foster-care."

"Why would Betty want to know about that? You do realise you're both too young to adopt, right?" I smile.

Jughead scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, like that'd go down well with Alice Cooper."

I had already heard enough stories of her mother to understand exactly what he meant by that.

"Betty found out something unexpected recently," Jughead continues. "She has a brother – a brother she has never met or even known about her whole life. Her mother put him up for adoption after he was born and now Betty wants to find him. She wants her mother to forgive herself for it and see if her brother might forgive her too and possibly become part of the Cooper family again."

"And why does she need to ask me about foster-care just for that? Can't she ask her brother when she meets him, see what he feels about it?"

"Betty – Betty is a little bit of a…perfectionist," Jughead explains carefully, right as we start to walk again. "She wants everything to be perfect when she puts a plan together and I think she just wants to make her brother feel welcomed and – and to do that, she feels like she needs to understand him."

I am about to tell Jughead that Betty can use a search-engine online if she really wants answers, but then I consider all the stuff that Michael had said. "Chapter five," I mutter beneath my breath.

"What?"

I shrug off his confused expression and say, "All right, fine. I want two sundaes for this, though."

"Two sun-…Okay. You got it," he winces, catching sight of my warning glare. "Two sundaes."

"Extra chocolate syrup."

"Extra chocolate syrup," he repeats, nodding.

I smile at him. "Thanks, Jug," I say gently.

"For what? Crippling my bank account to grant you these sundaes?"

"For being there in the parking lot that night."

He blinks, taken aback. He swallows and replies, "I'm glad I was there too, Mila."

We walk along in a comfortable silence, arms still linked. A couple of seconds later, he ruins it by saying, "Really though, two sundaes, Mila-…"

"Jug!"

vii

Jughead had not anticipated that Betty might bring her raven-haired pal whose pearl bracelet and kitten-heels cost more than my house and the entire Sunnyside trailer-park combined. Veronica Lodge, she introduces herself, sidling into the booth with a bounce. Jughead glances at me apologetically and I almost snort at his withered expression.

Betty follows, ponytail bobbing and pastel sweater ever-present, plopping into the seat alongside Veronica because Jughead has already sat beside me, almost like a barrier between myself and Veronica. She seems – enthusiastic. She rattles off our orders with a flourish and then laces her fingers together, rests her chin against them and says, "So, Mila, why don't you tell me about yourself?"

While our sundaes and milkshakes are placed in front of us, I glance at Jughead whose face falls ever further, a hand lifted to rub at his jaw. We offer our gratitude to our waiter first before I look at Veronica and say, "You start."

Veronica doesn't seem to take offense. Quite smoothly, she launches into rapid-fire speech: "Veronica Lodge, socialite whose once oh-so-glamorous lifestyle ground to a halt once her Daddy was arrested and she had to abandon her plush, luxurious New York penthouse for a less plush, less luxurious penthouse here in Riverdale. Okay, shoot!"

Blinking at her, a little thrown by her bluntness, I find myself lost for words.

Veronica smiles and adds, "What did you think? That was just the proposed blurb for my upcoming autobiography, soon to hit shelves in all reputable bookstores nationwide."

Betty lets out a laugh which punctures the odd tension between us all.

I smile, too. "I guess I can try. Mila Mason, socialite of foster-homes – whose Daddy was probably arrested and more than likely shared a cell with yours at some point, for all I know – and who has only ever seen penthouses on television and whose idea of luxury is this chocolate sundae."

"Very good," she purrs, leaning back against her seat with another bounce, crossing her legs. Her eyes look toward Jughead. "Juggie, did you not tell Mila about my Daddy?"

"You'll be surprised to learn that not all of my conversations revolve around you, Ms Lodge," he mutters flatly.

"I find that hard to believe, Mr Jones," she grins wickedly, plucking a cherry from her sundae and ripping its stem from between her teeth. Holding it there, she drawls, "All conversations revolve around me in some way."

"Mila," Betty cuts in. I turn my attention toward her and find her eyes wide, filled with typical Cooper-esque eagerness. "I know Jughead explained this all to you and it might seem a little strange but – but this possible reunion with my brother – it could really help my Mom out of a dark place in her life."

"I can only tell you about my experiences, Betty. I'm not sure how that would really help you with your brother."

"My Mom never wanted to give him away. She regrets it every day and it's been eating away at her for years. But before I meet my brother, I want to be prepared. I don't want to walk in there and act like I know anything about foster-care or what he has been through."

"Even if I tell you, you still won't know anything," I tell her. "Because each kid is different. I knew a hundred kids in foster-care. Doesn't mean we all feel the same way about it."

I must sound a little standoffish and blunt because Jughead quickly jumps in and says, "But you can offer one unique perspective among many others. That's all you need, right, Betty?"

Betty nods, smiling gratefully at him. "I just-…I want to try to understand what my brother might have been through before I really get to meet him, Mila. I guess I'm just – I'm scared that he might not like me, or he might…resent me. Because I wasn't the one she-…"

"Gave up," I finish for her. I let out a sigh and lean forward, elbows on the table. "Fine. I can tell you my own story and you can do what you like with it, but just remember what I said – you still won't understand him fully. I've been in the system since I was about three. I know what my Dad looks like from photographs and I met him maybe a handful of times. I don't know my Mom. They were deemed unfit parents. I was…I was in foster-homes for a long time, maybe four years - passed around until I was about seven or so, and then my Grandmother tried to claim custody."

"So, she took you in?" Veronica asks, perking up in her seat.

"It didn't work out," I shrug.

Veronica clasps her hands together, scrunches her lips tight and looks contrite. "Oh."

"But it did work out, because I found a place in the Southside," I continue. "Even though they were pretty much about to send me to the State Home."

"That's it!" Betty blurts out. "I found out my brother was in the State Home for most of his time in foster-care."

I feel my mouth fall open of its own accord. "Most of his time? How long is that?"

"Ten, twelve years? He was placed in foster-homes but I don't think anything really stuck for him," she guesses, her eyes flitting between Veronica and Jughead before she looks at me again. "Do you know about the State Home?"

"The State Home is what the older kids in foster-care use to scare the younger kids. They tell them if they don't do this or that, they'll be carted off to the State Home and left there."

"So, it's just used as some old story to scare kids?" Veronica asks doubtfully.

"It isn't just a story – the State Home is this big, ugly building with barbed-wire fences and a military style of existence from what I heard."

"From what you heard," Jughead repeats. He looks at Betty worriedly, noticing her downcast expression. "She could be wrong, Betty."

"I could be," I agree. "But I do know that the State Home is the place for kids who couldn't find any other placement – either through their own behaviour or a lack of suitable options. And another thing that is certain – if you're put in the State Home, you don't get out of it until you're eighteen."

Betty flops back against her seat and runs her hands over her face. "Will he even want to know us after all he's been through?"

I shrug even if she is not looking at me and then feel the hard, bony elbow of Jughead jutting into my ribcage. I glare at him, but he tilts his chin toward his girlfriend, eyebrows pulled into a stern, scolding glower. I look at Betty again and feel a rush of compassion for her.

"Look, Betty – if my Grandmother had cleaned up her act a little and really worked on getting guardianship after all the stuff I went through in those foster-homes, then it would have meant more to me than you could ever understand. I would have been able to forgive all the years that came before it because I knew she was at least trying. I don't know what your brother will feel, but I'm sure that it would be worth the effort to find out."

I surprise myself with my own words, my own frankness. Jughead seems to be, too, because he looks at me with eyebrows raised.

"Thank you, Mila," Betty smiles.

She looks toward Veronica and I take the opportunity to ram my own elbow right into Jughead, smirking when he lets out a muffled yelp and bends against the table.

"Jug?" Betty asks in concern, reaching out her hand to touch his arm.

He winces, cracks an eye open and looks at Betty. "I'm fine, I'm fine. Guess that cherry really has a zing to it."

I reach over and pluck a cherry from his sundae, plopping it in my mouth and grinning at him.

viii

Somewhere around six in the evening, we call it quits and stand from the booth to shrug on our coats. Veronica squeals over my tattered coat which reminds her of a collection she had once seen in her more oh-so-glamorous days and I find myself minutely more amused than annoyed by her. She tries a bit too hard. Then again, I suppose it is hard to settle into Riverdale from the outside – I should know. The bell of the diner tinkles behind her and a large, whooping group of Bulldogs bumble toward the booths, celebrating some great victory in a game from the sounds of their screeches. I glance at Jughead and he returns a quick, assuring nod that we will slip out of here quickly – and, more importantly, unnoticed.

I turn around, toward the door, intend on doing just that. Instead, I smack right into Archie Andrews.

I must crane my neck just to look at him because of his height, but I glimpse the spark of recognition in his eyes. I realise that he had been coming over here for Veronica, unaware of my presence until just now. I am not sure just what either of us expects, from the way we stand silently in front of each other, awkward and unsure of ourselves.

I think of him on that night, in the parking lot, his soothing words and how he had helped me stand when it seemed like my legs could no longer handle the task. But I also think of the Bulldogs behind him and Reggie among them, because I hear his voice above all others and it sends a bolt of anxiety blended into anger through me all at once. I want to step around him and ask Reggie what is so damn funny-…

We can't do this anymore.

I take a deep breath and smile at Archie. I can tell it surprises him, but he returns it, a slow and hesitant smile that soon shines with a natural brilliance. I suppose he really is handsome behind that trashy Bulldog jacket after all.

"Thank you, Archie," I say sincerely. "For helping me that night."

"Anyone would have done the same," he replies.

"No, they wouldn't."

I think he knows that I am talking about men like Stone and Snowy. So, he nods. He nods and there is an understanding between us in that one, delicate moment in which the Bulldogs are drowned out and the Southside and Northside merge into one.

"Enjoy your evening with your friends, Archie."

"Thanks, Mila. See you around?"

"You bet," I smile at him.

I turn around and find Jughead, walk outside with him and start our little trip back to the Southside. Jughead talks about his plan for Peabody and I talk about Sweet Pea and then he tells me about his little sister some more and the whole time I am wondering if this is what Michael had been talking about; like a feather.