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“Seriously, though,” Veronica drawled, twirling a strand of hair around her finger as she leaned forward to steal one of Archie’s fries, “are we not going to talk about how impressive my performance was today?”
“Huh?” said Archie, his eyebrows knitting together.
Betty cleared her throat, grinning over at Veronica. “V here,” Veronica made a mock bow, “took it upon herself to do Katherine in the Taming of the Shrew Act II readthrough today. She definitely gave Chuck Clayton what-for.”
“He was Petruchio,” Jughead added helpfully, reaching for the ketchup bottle.
Betty passed it to him. “Anyway, it was amazing and epic. I can’t believe I’d ever say this, but I honestly think Veronica has a career in acting.”
“Or Katherine’s character fits her,” Jughead suggested.
Veronica’s mouth flew open in indignation. “Are you calling me a shrew, Jughead?”
Jughead took a bite of his burger, chewing slowly. “Mmmm, that’s good,” he said. Veronica was way too easy to aggravate.
“Well? Are you?” Veronica’s voice crept higher and higher in pitch.
Jughead reached for his water glass and took a long gulp. “I mean, if you lived in Shakespeare’s time, you would totally be a shrew. Considering the fact that you sass anything and everything male within a mile.”
Veronica scoffed, drumming her manicured nails on the table. “No way. Katherine is a subtle subversion of gender roles. Shakespeare’s generally progressive; look at As You Like It--I mean, that play has Rosalind!”
Jughead’s eyebrow ascended towards his beanie. “No argument that Shakespeare often champions progressive values, but c’mon, are you really saying you’re more a Rosalind than a Katherine?” To Jughead, Betty was more of a Rosalind than Veronica, and not just in looks: she had the sort of inner strength one imagined for Rosalind, and a capacity for deep, frighteningly intense love. He personally thought that outspoken, flirty Katherine was a startlingly accurate portrait of Veronica (and in his opinion, clearly Katherine was not tamed by the end of the play. It would take more than a couple sartorial hiccups to faze Veronica Lodge.)
Veronica shrugged. “I mean, not in the sense of ‘run away to the forest dressed up as a guy’, or ‘fall for a bland dude who writes shitty poetry’, but yeah, in the sense of ‘liberated woman who takes literally no shit from the patriarchy.’” Jughead wondered idly whether Veronica realized that she wasn’t all too far behind Rosalind in the “fall for a bland dude who writes shitty poetry” race, but he decided against mentioning it, since Archie probably was unaware a) that Veronica was falling for him, and b) that his songs sounded like they were written by a word-generating program and sung by HAL from Space Odyssey 2001. Besides, Veronica had taken quite a shine to Cheryl Blossom last Jughead heard. “Betty’s Hero from Much Ado,” Veronica continued, “because seriously, she’s adorably sweet, and Archie is Ferdinand from Tempest, because he would totally get tricked by a fairy into jumping off a boat.”
Archie’s nose wrinkled. “Wait, what?”
Everyone ignored him. “Okay, so who am I?” Jughead inquired, dunking a fry in ketchup.
“The Fool from King Lear,” Veronica decided.
Betty began looking vaguely uncomfortable. “Um, guys, this is fun, but maybe could we be a little nicer?”
Veronica rolled her eyes unapologetically. “He called me a shrew. I’m calling him a fool.”
“You know, Juggy,” Betty pointed out, smiling at him with a combination of sympathy, isn’t this fun!, and something he hesitatingly classed as puppy eyes, “the Fool’s probably the smartest character in the play. He’s really loyal, and he sees things for what they are, not what he wants them to be.”
Jughead’s heart went out to her. Of course she was trying to make him feel better, even after Veronica said she resembled Hero. Jughead knew how much she hated characters like that: passive, demure women who let the plot happen to them, who forgave and forgave and forgave, no matter how much it cost them. “You’re right,” he said, smirking a little, “I should just start talking in gibberish. All the time. I mean, wise, symbolic, uniquely quotable gibberish that doubles as advice, but still: gibberish.”
“Hey, guys, this is great,” Archie interrupted, “but not everyone has read all the plays. I mean, I have no clue what you’re talking about anymore.”
Veronica made a scandalized face. “Archiekins!” Jughead and Betty stared at each other, silently choking with laughter. It wasn’t even that he hadn’t heard Veronica call Archie that before: it was more that he literally couldn’t think of a more incongruous (and yet somehow, fitting) nickname for Archie.
Silently, Betty mouthed the word “Archiekins”, savoring each syllable as though it were a long-lost friend. Jughead kicked her under the table (not hard enough to hurt). “Okay, I don’t want to know how you haven’t read the plays. That is shameful,” Veronica continued. “Archie Andrews, you are hereby exiled from this conversation. Go on, now, shoo!” She pulled a dazed Archie from his seat and shoved him out of the booth towards the door. “Go be a jock!” she added to his back. “We don’t want you anymore!”
Archie glanced back bemusedly, but Veronica had already turned around to face Jughead. “Okay, so if you’re going to dispute being the Fool, who do you think you are?”
“Aw,” he deadpanned, “I’m touched. You’re offering me a chance at self-actualization?”
“V, don’t tease Jughead--” Betty protested.
Veronica shushed her. “He called me a shrew, I called him a fool. I feel like we’re even.”
“Horatio,” he decided. “Observer of the action, best friend makes startlingly bad life choices, offers an academic perspective--I mean, what’s not to love?”
Veronica’s eyes widened cryptically. “Yeah, okay. So then Archie’s Hamlet?”
Even Betty scoffed at that one, and Jughead felt a fleeting little stab of satisfaction that she was over Archie enough to laugh about it. “Nope. Archie’s Romeo.” (Not so much in the sense of “tragic star-crossed lover” as in the sense of “immature idiot who writes bad poetry, distracts everyone from the more interesting plot elements, and thinks each successive girl is The One until he meets The Next One.” Then again, Ferdinand was also a perfect analogue for Archie. Shakespeare must have known someone who was girl-crazy, slightly less than intelligent on occasion, and insensitive to those around him, if ultimately good-hearted, because the type showed up a lot.)
Veronica looked like she was choking on some realization or another, and Jughead made a mental note to find out just what she thought she knew. “And Betty?” she prompted, failing to hide the beginnings of a smug smile.
Oh no. “Um--” he stalled.
Jughead saw Betty reflected in the best qualities of every character. Cordelia from King Lear, whose only crime was devotion. Portia from Merchant of Venice, dedicated to justice and willing to sacrifice anything for that ideal. Ophelia, tragically misunderstood by everyone around her. Juliet, beautiful and young and surrounded by death. Imogen from Cymbeline, loyal to a fault, a victim of misfortune who took a stand and defended her own name. Marina from Pericles, clever and intelligent and captivating in even the worst of circumstances.
“Isabella,” he blurted. “From Measure for Measure.”
Isabella was one of Jughead's favorite characters, a nun who came out of seclusion in order to plead for her brother’s life, who made brilliant speeches about power dynamics and hypocrisy and love, who was constantly striving to better others through sheer willpower, who was caring and witty and passionate and yet somehow lesser than everything Betty was to him.
Veronica’s right eyebrow rose. “Good choice. I can see that. Hey, Bets, do you want a refill?” she asked.
“Does it mean you two will stop fighting?” Betty asked.
“Um, maybe?” Veronica joked, looking at Jughead questioningly.
He shrugged. “I’m not paying, so I’m not about to start any fights.”
Betty grinned as she headed for the counter. Jughead forced his eyes away from her to stare down Veronica. “Betty’s birthday’s not till May, so why are we talking behind her back?” he hissed.
“You know, my original pick for Betty was Ophelia,” Veronica observed, stirring her milkshake with her straw. “I just didn’t know how much Archie knew, or how much you knew, so I picked Hero. I figured insanity jokes was probably crossing a line.”
Jughead resisted the temptation to growl, “It was.”
“You know,” she continued lightly, in a way that told him she was leading him into a trap, “you really are just like Horatio.”
“Okay?” he said, unsure where she was going.
“Yeah, if Horatio wore all black all the time,” Veronica mused. “And pondered the nature of life and death, and investigated murders, and had a massive crush on Op--”
“I get it,” he snarled.
“You know,” Veronica pointed out, “Ophelia could have used a shoulder to cry on--”
“I said I got it,” he repeated tersely.
“Good. You better have. It’s not like I was being subtle.” Veronica got up from the booth in a fluid swish of hair-cloak-smile. “Make a move, Horatio,” she whispered in parting.
Betty returned a few minutes later with a fresh serving of fries and a confused expression. “Is V okay? She left in a bit of a hurry.”
“I’m sure she’s alright, Bets,” said Jughead, thinking about bland men, shitty poetry, and femme fatales.
“Good,” said Betty, sighing as she dropped back into the booth. “I thought we’d never get rid of them. Listen, I’ve been thinking about finding Polly. I mean, asking isn’t going to help us out, since my parents are just flat-out lying now, but there’s got to be a paper trail. I mean, what we need is a magic Hollywood hacker, you know, the kind that can just zoom and enhance security camera images and magically access any bank account by mashing a keyboard, but we don’t have any of those here.”
Jughead took the final bite of his burger. “Checkbook,” he suggested. “They have those carbon-copy papers, right?”
Jughead Jones loved Betty Cooper, not in the way Hamlet loved Ophelia, or the way Romeo loved Juliet, but with a sincere admiration for everything that she was, a deep respect for everything she needed, and a quiet, instinctual knowledge that she made him complete. The way the Duke loved Isabella, or the way Benedict knew he loved Beatrice by the time Act IV rolled around.
Knowing that love, and knowing what she needed, he would have to wait.
Sonnet 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments; love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.