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“Screw him,” Gretchen said after continuing to absently pat my head for a second or two. “Let’s you and me buy that girl a burger or something.” I snorted with laughter, and it wasn’t until then that I realized I had been about to cry. “Okay, Jughead Jones,” I said. “Let’s do that.” “Hush your mouth,” said Gretchen, crooking his pinky finger through mine. “I am not Jughead Jones. I’m Betty.”