#wherein betty shows up and my love for reggie shines through

[soyforramen]

Part 4: (Parts 1-3 Here)

“The first thing you have to do is figure out your classes.”

It was only Forsythe’s second day in this new world, and J.B.’s voice rings out in his head, reminding him of all the things he needed to do to seem normal.  They’d cracked the case about the locked phone (J.B.’s birthday of all things; “Seven: My brother would never forget my birthday”) and the laptop (Jughead’s full name, of all things, still a closely guarded secret in the books; it turned out Forsythe Jones and Forsythe Pendleton Jones III shared more than just a last name). Now he just had to figure out the rest of it.

He stares at the journal in front of him – a sparkling pink eye sore, regifted to him by a grinning J.B. With her help he’d been able to string together some of what had already happened in Riverdale. Between the text messages on the phone and Veronica’s Sharebook page, Forsythe has narrowed down where they were in the story. If he’s right, they were somewhere between book two, ‘Homecoming Hero’, and book three, ‘Mystery at Sisters of Quiet Mercy’.

It's now mid-September, which means Archie has already made first-string on the football team, but he hasn’t yet had Thanksgiving dinner at the boxing gym. Veronica’s father should be getting out of prison sometime in mid-December, just in time for the holidays, and Reggie’s family would be gearing up for their annual car-liquidation at the dealership.  Betty was all consumed with her classwork – 18 hours as a journalism major while volunteering at the local homeless shelter and interning at her parents’ newspaper – so there hadn’t been much of her storyline in that book.

Jughead was also largely absent from the book save for a thin plot about rekindling his friendship with the odd-ball Dilton. Forsythe circles the strange teen’s name and drew a string of question marks next to it. Whatever it was that they’d gotten up to it was enough to drive a temporary wedge between Jughead and Archie. There was speculation that the author had just forgotten about Jughead halfway through writing the book, never meaning for him to be anything more than a background character, but his popularity with the fans pushed him to share center stage with the red-headed heart-throb for the rest of their time at college.

With a start, Forsythe realizes he’ll have to attend classes tomorrow. He glances over at the stack of science text books still laying on the floor. There’s no way he’ll ever be able to fake his way through that. Opening the laptop, he scrolls through the school’s calendar. By some stroke of providence, tomorrow is the last day to drop class for a full refund. He jots down the information he needs, where to go, what classes to drop and which classes to pick up; after all, if – no, when – the real Jughead came back, he could easily resume his regular coursework. Sans a few humanities classes that is.

Forsythe lays back down onto the tiny bed, his feet dangling off the end, and yawns. Who knew being a fictional character would be so time consuming?

As he closes his eyes, he wonders whether he’ll wake up in his world, or whether he’ll still be stuck in Riverdale.

xxx

The next day, armed with a carafe full of coffee and an energy bar, Forsythe manages to change enough classes around in order to keep Jughead’s FAFSA loans. It does mean picking up a senior level class on Langston Hughes, but at least literary greats were in Forsythe’s wheelhouse. Twenty minutes later, he finds himself sitting in front of what he hopes is the right classroom, typing up a storm on the connection between monetary deprivation and physical lust, sprinkling in just enough blunt conclusions to make it seem as if Reggie had more than a brief understanding of the book. 

He glances up when a blonde sits down next to him, and she gives him a tired grin, opening up her own laptop.  Thankfully he recognizes her from his near constant scrolling through Veronica’s online photos. At least, he thinks he does.

“Hard at work already? What’s Reggie paying you in these days, stocks of Nabsico?” she teases.

Once more he’s struck by the association between Jughead and food – an ongoing comedic bit in the books – and whether his friends really understand the economic situation of the Jones’. For such a close friend group it’s strange how little they seem to know about each other.

“Hey, Bets,” he says, the name strange in his mouth.

She starts and glances at him, a line forming between her brows. Her voice is soft when she speaks “You haven’t called me that in years.”

Forsythe shrugs. He turns back to his laptop to hide his embarrassment at such a simple faux pas. Jughead and Betty don’t really get close until book four when they investigate the disappearance of Cheryl Blossom’s twin brother; before that they’re more acquaintances than friends.

“Sorry, I guess I was just feeling nostalgic.”

“No, I like it,” she says with a smile. She stares at him for a little too long, and Jughead wipes at the corner of his mouth self-consciously.

“Where’s your beanie?” she asks.

His hand flies up to his head, and he curses himself for such a rookie mistake. Jughead’s beanie was infamous. Thousands of fans had made their own version to wear proudly at every book launch; it was the lynchpin of all the romantic fanfiction centering around Jughead; it was as iconic as Betty’s ponytail.

“I.. uh –“

“Jug, Bets, how are we today?” Reggie says as he saunters into their conversation, unwittingly saving Forsythe from an uncomfortable lie.

“I’m fine. How are you?” Betty asks warily.

Forsythe nods his head and returns to his laptop, eager to tune them out and focus on the one thing he can control in this situation. He’s banged out another half page when Reggie waves his hand in front of the screen. Students swarm around them as the class lets out, and Forsythe closes his laptop roughly.

“We still on for Saturday?” Reggie asks. He shifts his gaze towards Betty and grins. “Wouldn’t want to miss our first big college party.”

Betty rolls her eyes and stands up carefully, her laptop balanced in the crook of her arm. “You mean you wouldn’t want to miss your first shot at Veronica without Archie around.”

“Don’t be like that Betty baby,” Reggie coos, slinging his arm around her shoulders and walking her into the classroom. “Besides, it's a win-win for you too. With Ronnie out of the picture you get Archie all to yourself come Sunday.”

She snorts. “As if. He’ll won’t have eyes for anyone other than some cute cheerleader he meet at the game. Besides, who said I wanted Archie all to myself? Maybe I have eyes for someone else now,” she teases, slipping into a seat at the front of the room.

Reggie collapses into the seat behind her, a hand over his heart. “Never such a sweet confession have I heard,-” he says dramatically, raising his other hand to his forehead, “ - the arrow from such ruby lips doth pierce my soul.”

“What’s that from, ‘How to Pick Up Chicks or Die Trying?’” Forsythe quips as he passes them both to take a seat at the back of the room.

“Hah! You wish,” Reggie shoots back. “Only a true connoisseur of romance can speak so soft and sweet.”

“Well then, Mr. Mantle, perhaps you can enlighten us on Felix’s own romantic notions at Clochegourde?” the professor, an older woman in her fifties, says as she takes her place at the lectern.

Forsythe settles down in his chair and, with a smidge of guilty pleasure, watches Reggie try to squirm his way out of this one.

Xxx

“Jones, thank god you’re here,” Tabitha says when he walks into Pop’s that evening. She tosses him her keys and picks up a full tray of food. “Throw your stuff in the office, grab an apron, and scrub up. I need you in the back, now.”

“Helluva day to quit drinking,” Forsythe mutters to himself.

Dutifully, he follows her instructions and in minutes he’s back on the grill. At the sight of the old industrial range his entire body relaxes. He cut his teeth in the back of diners like this, paying his dues as a line cook years ago. His reverie is cut short, though, when Tabitha rounds the corner like hell on wheels.

“I don’t have time to train you,” she says quickly, flipping over the burgers already on the grill, “but you’ve eaten almost everything on the menu by now and know what goes on what. Cooler’s through that door, fryer’s behind you – set the time to five minutes or it’ll burn – and watch out for Rosemary, she’s got a temper today.”

Tabitha gives him a quick, tired grin and runs back out of the kitchen as another customer comes in. Forsythe glances at the string of orders and cracks his knuckles, ready to get to work. It’s not until three hours later that Tabitha comes back in to check on him with a cup of coffee in her hand.

“I thought you said this was your first job?” she asks, handing him the mug.

Forsythe takes a sip and winces at the heat from the mug and from her question. 

“It is, but I cook a lot at home. And watch a lot of MeTube cooking videos.”

“Right. Because they’re so similar.”

She stares at him and he forces himself not to fidget.

“I also helped Pop’s out some during high school. When things were rough,” he says, dropping his eyes to the cup.

Forsythe doesn’t know whether this is a lie in this world, but it certainly wasn’t in his life. It was a trade after his parent died; a small, eight-year-old bussing tables for a warm meal and a cot in the back, out of the rain. He’ll always be grateful to his own Pop for taking him in and, after a week of living at the diner, bringing him into the family as his own son.

Tabitha places a warm hand on his arm, the touch sending goosebumps along his skin. “He was always good at picking up strays,” she says, eyes glistening. “Sometimes I wish he was still here, helping me out, instead of living it up in Boca Raton. He claims he’s a lady killer there.”

Forsythe barks out a laugh. “I’m sure he is. He’s had a lot of practice dealing with the moms of Riverdale.”

“Now on E!,” Tabitha adds.

A bell rings, and she sighs, tightening her apron strings. “It never ends.”

Forsythe picks up the coffee cup and relishes the comfort it brings. It’s the first moment of peace he’s had since he’d arrived in this world, and he’s grateful to Tabitha for taking a chance on him. It doesn’t last, though, as Tabitha slides another two papers across the small window. He glances at it, then picks up the spatula and gets back to work.