The New Guy (Bughead)

Part Seven: Pinkie-Swears

"Hey dad, ever tried sleeping in your bed?" I ask, sarcasm and cynicism dripping from my words, as I walk past him to get to the kitchen to see if I could grab something to eat, anything at all. He can't go to the grocery store and he can't give me any money to do it, either. My savings are quickly dwindling away with every coffee and burger at Pop's that I purchase. I need to get a job. 

"Shove it, Jug," he groans from the sofa, rolling onto his stomach and twisting his legs up further in the blanket that I'm sure hasn't been washed in months. "How's the old eye doing?"

"Still black." I say, peering in the fridge. I see some expired yogurt and a wilted head of lettuce. With a grimace I shut the door and sigh, turning toward the sink piled with dishes with dried up-microwave dinner stuck to them. Beer cans and bottles line the counters against the wall. "We don't have any food."

"Skinny kids are getting all the girls nowadays."

My father's arrogance and apathy are really beginning to get to me. He can't leave the house past ten feet or so, and he won't leave the couch except to go to the bathroom. "Who keeps getting you beer?" I ask, a critical edge to my voice, walking out of the kitchen and adjusting my backpack on my shoulders. 

"The kid two houses over, his dad and I we... We go back. Calls it a 'house-arrest warming present'."

I nod. I should have expected as much. Guilting neighbors into getting you beer. "Right, well, I'm going to school. I kind of want to do something with my life."

He doesn't respond. Maybe he's fallen back asleep, or maybe he just doesn't have it in him to say anything else. Maybe he's stuck in his head, imagining his life without all his stupid mistakes. It doesn't matter to me - I'm about to be late. 

As I'm walking down the stairs onto the frozen, patched-with-snow ground, I keep my eyes on my feet, making sure I don't trip. It's around fifteen minutes to walk to school, but it's so cold that I might speed up a little bit, just to keep from turning to ice. It's not like the climate here is any different from the climate in Pontiac, but everything just feels a lot more... Dead. Like winter is really winter here, and that it's never going to end. 

"Hey!"

I look up at the sound of a voice. There's nobody else out at this time, not in the trailer park, so they've got to be talking to me. Whipping my head around, my eyes land on a big guy approaching me.

I frown and shake my head, looking away. I'm not in a social mood, and that includes confrontation, and this kid looks like a doughy kind of tough and ready to prove it. 

"Hey, wait up. You're F.P.'s son, right?"

I stop and turn, "you could say that," I say, putting my freezing hands in my pockets. 

"I'm Rocky. My dad said I should introduce myself."

The boy puzzles me. From a distance, he looks so formidable, tall and strong, broad shoulders thickened by a heavy leather jacket. His ashy blond hair goes just past his ears and though everything else about him is fully grown, he still only has a few wispy hairs on the sides of his face that signal the start of a beard. He's smiling. 

"Jughead," I say, and he sticks out a hand for me to shake. I take it with some reservation and a couple seconds of reluctance.

"Yeah, my dad's been bringing your dad-"

"House-arrest-warming gifts." I finish his sentence, my words all dampened and single-tone. 

He chuckles nervously, almost embarrassed. "Yeah. Sorry about that, uh, you going somewhere?"