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Enid comes back to their room a lot later than Wednesday and a couple of hours earlier than dawn. When the door cracks open with a spooky creak—which, to her ears, rather comes as a soothing sound—, Wednesday turns around and sees her finally emerge from the shadows wearing a fresh set of clothes. She’s not covered up with blood from head to toe anymore, and the only bizarre colors tinting her natural hair are the dyes she unfortunately chose for herself. As much as the former imagery better related to Wednesday’s personal aesthetics, the sight can even be a relief. She stands up from the desk, and they stare at each other for a few seconds of complete silence. Enid’s face looks hesitant and tired.
“You’re back.”
“You’re awake,” says Enid. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”
She closes the door behind her, then walks up to the center of the room. Wednesday follows suit. She’s obviously not the one who’s going to point that out, but over the months, the spot has unofficially become where they hold most of their face-to-face conversations. It was once marked with black tape, but Wednesday gave that up when Enid miraculously decided to come back. Habit, however, did not die.
“Still too much adrenaline circulating in the blood.” Even though the tape is not there anymore, Wednesday remembers where the line separating their two sides of the room used to run. She’s careful not to cross it as she takes a few steps closer. “The school nurse stitched you up,” she says, sizing her up briefly. Her gaze focuses on the reddened sewn wounds. “They did a remarkable job.”
Enid startles, touches her forehead in a distracted gesture. “Do you think so? It took forever, and it hurt like hell. The cuts were so deep I thought I’d pass out.”
“Due to your newly acquired werewolf abilities, there’s a chance they might fade over time.” Wednesday exhales softly. “Though that would be a pity.”
“Are you for real?” Enid winces. “I can’t wait for them to be gone already, and you’re here, all sad that they might?”
“Some would say scars symbolize one’s honor in war, but I couldn’t be farther from sustaining such macho and militaristic delusions,” she says, unbothered by the offended tone. “I simply reckon they are alluring to observe. Not to mention how hilarious it is that they make everyone in close vicinity uncomfortable at the mere sight.”
“I just hope that they heal soon,” Enid whines. She does not show her usual disgust at the revelation of one more of her macabre fascinations. “I don’t like seeing my face like this,” she confesses.
She looks down with a barely hinted pout. She sounds saddened, and Wednesday finds it absurd that she could be preooccupied with something ever so foolish. She studies her shortly.
“That makes no sense. For the time being, it’s just reddened because stiches and gashes are still fresh. Its substantial traits remain unchanged.”
When Enid looks back at her, her expression is an unclear mix between astonishment and curiosity. “I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean. Are you trying to cheer me up?”
She goes to sit on her own bed without waiting to hear an answer. Wednesday watches as she lets herself drop onto the mattress. In the meantime, Thing left Wednesday’s desk and began to run towards the side of Enid’s room. He follows her, climbing onto her bed, and starts to motion resentfully with rushed and frenetic gestures.
Enid smiles, apologetic. “I’m sorry, Thing. I spoke without thinking. I should be more open-minded about scars.” He taps again, this time dispirited, so she grabs his fingers affectionately. “Of course I think your stitches are cool! They make you a rockstar.” Then, without leaving him, she gazes at Wednesday. “By the way, what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Your shoulder.”
“There won’t be a scar left on there either, unfortunately.”
Enid sighs. “I mean, does it hurt?”
“Solely an enjoyable amount of pain. It was barely a scratch. Besides, it was nothing compared to my earlier wounds.”
She frowns. “What wounds?”
“In the crypt,” Wednesday explains. “After Laurel Gates used my blood to resurrect Crackstone, I wasn’t of any more use to her, so he pierced his cane right through me. They thought I would perish in the matter of a few minutes, but just like any mediocre villains, they didn’t stay long enough to make sure I did.”
Enid’s eyes widen. “Hold on. You were dying?”
It’s what she just implied, Wednesday thinks to herself, though she chooses not to remark so. Instead, she just says, “I was severely wounded. Hadn’t it been for Goody’s assistance, I would’ve died of exsanguination.” She pauses to ponder. “Which was never my favored style. So filthy and unpractical. Usually the result of a sloppy job.”
Despite the provided clarification, the expression on Enid’s face does not lose its astonishment. If anything, something is added to it.
“We were lucky I didn’t actually get there sooner, then. If I had seen you bleeding to death, I…” she wavers, and for a moment, Wednesday wonders if she will have to flinch backwards, since Enid dangerously looks as though she wants to embrace her for a second time. “I think I would have passed out right on the spot without being of any help,” she concludes in a murmur.
Wednesday stares at her. “Most likely."
She has got the feeling that Enid’s thoughts were left incomplete. The notion intrigues her somewhat, and so she studies her demeanor: she’s keeping her look low and distant, as if to avoid hers, and her hands rest unusually still at her sides, not touching Thing anymore. It’s enough for her to draw a conclusion.
“I was not going to die in there, Enid.”
Given how Enid jerks her head towards her, taken aback, she gathers her line of reasoning was correct.
“I would have never accepted death at the hands of a zealot colonizer who should’ve remained dead.”
Enid’s hesitant glance lasts a few more instants, until she smiles. “Of course.”
“If you hadn’t transformed, on the other hand, you could have gotten seriously hurt.” She could have died, but Wednesday does not say that. The phrase does not bring back exactly pleasant memories, and she doesn’t want Enid to be reminded of the reason she decided to leave for a first time which may not necessarily be the last. “You couldn’t have wolfed out at a more convenient time, really.”
Enid’s smile falters almost imperceptibly. “Right?”
“Perhaps too convenient to be a mere coincidence,” says Wednesday, frowning pensively. “Do you think there was a reason you were finally able to transform tonight?”
“I’m not sure,” she says, but she sounds as though she’s hesitating, which would imply she has thought about it in the past hours. Wednesday ponders whether to enquire, yet Enid resumes before she can decide. “You know, I’d always thought that transforming was the thing I wanted the most. Sure, I knew it was also because I wanted my family to stop treating me like some failure, but I still figured it was what I truly wanted. But tonight, I wasn’t thinking about wolfing out at all. I was just running in the woods, and I really, really wanted to help you.” She looks at her, eyes somewhat inquisitive, as if she were expecting a confirmation to something undefined. “Maybe that was the trigger? Maybe I was only able to transform tonight because, for the first time, wolfing out wasn’t my primary goal, just something that’d help me achieve something I truly wanted.” She wavers again. “To get to you before something bad happened to you.”
Enid looks down with a sniff. Wednesday does not reply right away.
If she took one more step forward, she would enter Enid’s half of the room. For a moment, she considers the option. The next, she stiffens in her spot.
“You did egregiously,” she says at last, then, not leaving any room for a reply, “Have you told your family yet?”
At that, Enid lifts her head. “No.” After that, she does something unexpected: she smiles, not in her usual genuine, puerile way, but mischievously, not unlike Wednesday would when she waterboards Pugsley back at home. “I’m planning on leaving my mom to agonize just a little longer. After all, she did want to send me to one of those horrendous camps.”
Perhaps her deviousness really has rubbed off on her. Wednesday feels as though she wants to smile, but she does not. “Optimal choice. I would probably do the same to my own mother.”
“It’s never happened before,” Enid chuckles softly. “The two of us sharing a choice.”
“Indeed.”
“So, anyway, I guess I have to thank you? I wouldn’t have had any reason to go out in the moonlight if it weren’t for you.”
While Wednesday says nothing, Thing begins to motion at her again. Enid listens carefully. “You’re totally right. It’s you who warned me and Ajax that Wednesday was in danger,” she says between nods. “And you stood there with me when I turned back into my human form. So, thanks to you, too, Thing.”
He does the gesture which means he’s nodding appreciatively. Enid smiles at him, then stretches with hums.
“Well, I think I’ll try to sleep. I’m feeling exhausted, the drugs must be finally kicking in.”
“You should rest,” Wednesday agrees. “First transformations are known for being exceptionally draining.”
Enid gives her a concerned look. “Do you think you will be able to sleep, too?”
“I’ll give it a try.”
The conversation ends there on mutual, unspoken accord. Thing makes his way back to Wednesday’s side of the room and positions himself on the nightstand. Each of them turns to her own bed, preparing to take advantage of the last hour and a half of darkness left before the sun rises again. A few minutes have passed when, in the middle of arranging her night clothes, Wednesday feels the hem of her vest being pulled. When she looks down, she finds that Thing, who quietly moved from the nightstand to the bed, he’s yanking it to draw her attention, and so she glares at him, expecting an explanation. He twitches, insults her mildly, points at Enid. Wednesday follows briefly, seeing that she’s doing the same thing as her from her own side of the room, then brings her scowl back onto him.
“She knows already,” she tells him, impatient. “There’s no need to vocalize what is implied.”
He insults her again, not so mildly this time. Wednesday rolls her eyes.
“You’re growing excruciatingly rebellious. While that’s a trait I would normally appreciate, I must say it can be exhausting. Especially when it’s about how I deal with my interpersonal relations.”
He shrugs, unbothered.
“This school has corrupted your soul, if you have one.”
Thing does the gesture which means he couldn’t care less. Wednesday gives him one last resentful glare and resolves that any further attempt at communication will be unproductive, and that she’ll have to do something in the future to stop his growing resorting to emotional blackmail. She turns around reluctantly towards the other half of the room.
“Enid,” she calls.
She flinches, then also turns around and smiles uncertainly. “Yeah?”
Wednesday hesitates. She is very aware of Thing’s presence behind her, judgmental and intrusive, as well as of the extreme attention in Enid’s wide eyes.
“Thank you for protecting me.”
Enid’s smile grows brighter at once. “You don’t need to, silly. It’s just what friends do.”
It was obvious that she would say something along those lines—trite and unnecessarily sentimental. But the last time she told her something like that, she was yelling at her, and Wednesday really believed that she would become one among the hundreds of people who disliked her, yet without being able to find any pleasure in such notion. So she just stands there, in her side of the room, silent not by choice but because uncapable of thinking of a response. However, Enid must have predicted she wouldn’t reply, and she just turns around before she can say anything. Wednesday glances briefly at Thing, who gives her a satisfied thumbs-up. She scowls at him, but really, she feels that sensation again—the one that makes her want to smile.
This time, she concedes herself to raise the corner of her mouth into the least noticeable grin.