Chapter Text
Betty stared at her reflection. Her arms were littered in bruises, and she sighed softly at the thought of Alice hitting the liquor bottle again. She had been drinking more than normal lately due to her father’s death. She missed Hal Cooper as much as his wife missed him; how could she not? Betty was his daughter, and he was the only man that she had ever looked up to. They lived in a tiny town in New York called Albany, and Betty liked their quietness they were enveloped in. It snowed in the winter, lighting up their little town in a majestic wonderland that took away from some of the rougher aspects. After all, if Betty got to see the town Christmas tree being turned on while her mom stayed at their home and drank straight from the vodka bottle, well, who was none the wiser?
Her skin was hued in greens and yellows; black and blues and Betty was thankful that she wore pastel cardigans that hid what went on behind closed doors. She knew that her mother meant well – that she wasn’t evil. Alice Cooper had just always hit the bottle hard and now that her husband was dead, she hit it even harder. Alice felt like she had been slighted in life and, with alcohol turning her into mommy dearest, Alice took her anger out on the first available person: Betty. Polly, Betty’s older sister, had gone off to college and moved out of their tiny home in their tiny town. She went to the Big Apple, leaving Betty to look after their mother on her own.
She didn’t blame Polly from wanting to get away from the abuse – and that’s exactly what it was. Betty sighed softly as she took in the numerous bruises on her arms. Her mother never hit her in the face because she didn’t want to risk the chance of concealer not working. So, instead, she inflicted as much pain as she could onto her arms and legs. Gone were the days that Betty wore skirts to football games she cheered at. Her captain was the only one who knew about the abuse, and she let her wear long sleeves on game night. It was an easy fix to make, and her mother didn’t have to yell at her for not being a cheerleader anymore. She got to keep her position.
Just then there was a banging on her door, and it flung open, Alice pointing the lip of the whiskey bottle at her like a sword being brandished. “You slut. What the hell are these?”
Betty scrambled away from her mirror as her eyes fell to the box in her mother’s open palm. Shit. She had found her birth control.
“Nothing!” Betty hastened to explain. “They’re just to regulate my cycle.”
“Don’t you fucking lie to me,” Alice hissed, tone spitting vitriol as her words dripped in disdain. “You’re shacking up like some common whore, aren’t you? AREN’T YOU?”
Her mother’s words hurt more than any punch ever could and she bit her lip anxiously, wondering what the punishment would be. Alice delivered the blow moments later. “Go run four miles and no dinner or breakfast tomorrow. And for God’s sake, cover up those bruises. We wouldn’t want the neighbors to talk.”
“No mother, we wouldn’t want that,” Betty said quietly, eyes cast downwards as her mother stalked out of her room and slammed her door shut, a picture of her and Polly smashing to the floor in the after effect. Betty stared down at the broken glass and wondered when it started to reflect her life.
XXX
After her run, she went home and showered, mother passed out on the couch, and she shook her head sadly. Alice had always had a temper, but the alcohol heightened it. She took the bottle dangling precariously from her fingertips and put it back on the shelf. Alice always counted the bottles so would know if Betty poured one down the drain. Then she walked to the guest bathroom and got her Tylenol and a glass of water. Settling them beside her, she looked down at the woman passed out on the couch and sighed sadly. “Love you, mom.”
Some days, Betty couldn’t stomach calling Alice, mom. It was too hard on her. And Alice would get a peculiar look on her face and shake her head – as if the title offended her – but Betty never understood what that was about. She knew better than to ask, however. Sliding her sweater on over her diner uniform, Betty grabbed her car keys and headed towards her car, ready to make the drive to the diner she worked at. It was a nice, husband and wife run diner that had been in Albany for years. Betty liked Fortescue and Florence, the Italian couple that ran the diner. They often kept her late after work with a plate of homemade pasta and bread, doting on her where her mother did not.
Driving the familiar streets towards the diner, Betty saw that the parking lot was filled more so than usual. Nothing too alarming because two or three times a year, they got an influx of customers as visitors from out-of-town came by, desperate to try the homemade Italian food the restaurant critics raved about. She walked into the building, making sure her pantyhose were covering the bruises on her legs and the sweater was covering the bruises on her arms. No one knew what Alice did in their own home and Betty would make damn sure it stayed that way.
“Betty, my girl!” Fortescue called out and she smiled at him, walking towards him to give him a warm hug.
“Hey, Fortescue,” she greeted him. “Where do you want me?”
“There’s a guy in booth four, weird hat on his head and says he wants to be waited by you,” Fortescue said with a shrug and Betty looked towards the general vicinity of the table in confusion before shrugging her shoulders and heading over there. She saw a guy in a grey-knit beanie shaped like a crown resting atop his head and black leathers with a snake insignia on the back like patchwork. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he drove a motorcycle too. “Hi, I’m Betty and I’ll be your server tonight. What can I get you to drink?”
The man looked at her and smirked. “I’m Jughead and I’ll take whatever you’re having.”
Betty stared at the guy before her, taking note of his flyaway curl peeking out of his beanie he wore like armor.
“What kind of name is Jughead?” Betty snapped.
“The kind of name you nickname yourself when the real thing is worse,” he said, smirking at her intently.
He was getting under her skin, and he knew it. Betty wanted to throttle him.
“Besides annoying me to my grave, can I help you with anything else?” Betty asked, pencil poised to take his order, whenever he decided to stop fucking around.
He looked at her for a moment and then dropped a perfectly well-timed missile. “Alice Cooper isn’t your mom.”
And Betty didn’t have to ask him to explain what he meant. Nor did she think he was lying. Memories of another woman holding her at the tender age of three, telling her she’d always be her girl. And Betty understood.
Her life had been built on a lie.
This outsider knew more than he was letting on and in light of innuendos and snarky behavior, he probably knew a thing or two about Alice. As she thought about it, the smell of a long-forgotten perfume traveled to her nose, and she remembered a woman with long, blonde hair, who smelled like cigarettes and perfume. An entirely disgusting combination but it made Betty feel safe.
Then, like a cloud dispersing, the thoughts vanished from her mind and she was back in her reality, in Fortescue’s diner. “Don’t be ridiculous. Alice Cooper is my mother. I’ve lived with her my whole life.”
“You sure about that?” Jughead asked, smirk toying at his lips.
“Your drink?” Betty asked, closing the conversation with a decisive snap. She’d be damned before she let this out-of-towner arrive to her home and get her in trouble. Jughead shook his head, eyes belying the gentle smile he wore.
“I’ll take a water,” he said, looking at Betty speculatively and she wondered what he saw when he looked at her. She nodded, promising to bring the water right up, and went and got that along with a basket of bread for him. When she brought the food and drink back to the table, he pointed at the seat across from him. “Take a seat.”
“I’m working,” Betty protested but sat down, nonetheless. She knew Fortescue wouldn’t mind and she had been on her feet all day; it was time for a respite.
Jughead shrugged a shoulder. “So what? You’re allowed to take a break.”
Betty stared at him. “You’re an outsider. Where are you from?”
“A town tinier than this one in upstate New York called Riverdale,” he said casually, tearing a piece of his bread off and plopping it into his mouth.
Betty stared at him. She had heard of Riverdale once before, in a whispered conversation behind her parents’ closed doors. She tried to drag forth the memory but couldn’t and shook her head, standing to her feet the next moment. “I’ve got to go.”
“You can’t run from it, Betty,” he said as if he had known her all of his life.
Betty stared at him for a moment longer and then she did what she knew how to do best. She turned on her heel and ran.