Choosing Betty, Part 2 (Jughead x Reader)
Imagine: After your boyfriend, James, ditches your poetry reading, you are heartbroken. Not more heartbroken than when Jughead Jones chose Betty Cooper over you, though. You prepare for your performance and notice a familiar face in the crowd.
You texted James a halfhearted excuse about not feeling well before driving home. After a lot of frustrated screaming into your pillow, and glaring at a picture of you and Jughead you kept on your desk, you began to prepare for your poetry reading that night. You shimmied out of your too-tight cheer uniform, glad to be free of the itchy polyester. You wiped off your gaudy makeup and undid your uncomfortable hairdo.
You re-did your makeup to how you normally preferred to wear it, and got dressed in some of your normal clothing. When filing through your closet, you found an old flannel Jughead had lent you one day when a teacher had gotten on your ass about the dress code. For some reason, you took it off the hanger and put it on over your ensemble. Just because I hate him doesn’t mean I can’t exploit his decent fashion sense, you reasoned. Plus, it smelled like him and it made you feel angry which was a good emotion to feel when reading poetry.
Finally, you rifled through your notebook to do a quick run-through of your poem. You’d originally opted to read a poem about new love and romance, expecting James to be in the audience. With the safety of knowing you’d be reading to completely unfamiliar ears, you decided to go with something a bit more provocative.
“To the boy who doesn’t love me back,” you read in a sarcastic voice to the crowd of young adults sipping cocktails in the audience. “I hope your girlfriend doesn’t mind that I’m wearing your shirt right now,” you ad-libbed, waggling your eyebrows suggestively. Some people in the audience gasped and laughed.
You began to perform a poem you had sloppily composed the night Jughead had admitted his feelings for Betty to you. It started off very angry. Full of crude analogies about all the ways you’d like to see him suffer. The creativity of the prose made audience members chuckle and cheer for you.
Then, it got emotional. You reflected on the inner pain you felt, relating it to metaphors demonstrating loneliness and rejection in a way only a metaphor could. You could have heard a pin drop in the silence of the bar.
Finally, it ended how you felt right now–confusion. You still cared about Jughead and wanted him to be happy, but some part of you wanted him to be heartbroken and run back to you, and another part of you didn’t want anything to do with him at all. You left the poem on a question. The audience snapped enthusiastically at your cleverness. You smiled and bowed. Maybe today was a good day, after all.
The house lights went up to help guide the next performer–a cellist toting a heavy instrument case–to the stage.
That was when you saw the faces among the crowd; all cool, hipster-like twenty-somethings, smiling at you in admiration for your performance.
And in the back of the room, leaning against the doorway, a dark-haired teenage boy with a crown-shaped beanie.
Your stomach dropped.