Chapter Text
june
Summer. The most deplorable season. Long sleeves are shunned, sweat drips to crevices unknown, and wearing black only attracts more of the sun’s heated attentions.
Its one saving grace is that, for three months, Wednesday is spared from attending an inane daily reenactment of Mean Girls at the local public high school. She would prefer if it was something more like a daily production of Heathers instead— one where J.D. is successful.
This past term marked Pugsley’s freshman year, and all of the Chads, Brodys, and Kelseys had been in rare form. Their classmates consistently orchestrated coups on Wednesday’s previously uncontested leadership of the Torture Pugsley club. It was a job that belonged to only her, a burden she was meant to shoulder alone. She took it upon herself to remind these barely postpubescent smooth-brains who was actually at the top of the student body food chain. Merely small reminders, here and there.
As a consequence, Wednesday spent much of her time in the principal’s office. Most of the punishments she did time for were because of plots Thing had come up with. Together they made a fearsome team. Sprinkling a crunchy mix of nails, screws, and nail clippings throughout the student parking lot. Replacing excessively saturated cologne with Uncle Fester’s lightly used bathwater. Rigging a minor explosive in the tank of the school’s last functioning toilet. Trading out chocolate chips in the cafeteria’s cookies for spiders— already dead, of course, from natural causes.
These were all pitifully tame, of course. What Wednesday really wanted was to cut brake lines, to switch cologne with sulfuric acid, to let a grenade do what it was made to do in the gymnasium during a pep rally, to lace spider chip cookies with arsenic. She was raised to stand up for herself as much as speak up, and if direct verbal confrontation fell flat on these fools, then these “pranks”— such a bland designation, so far below what she considered them to be— would have to do.
With the arrival of summer, a persistent sense of boredom has pervaded her day-to-day existence, sinking in its teeth like a leech. Normally Wednesday likes leeches, but finds them more interesting to dissect than to have hanging off her flesh. It’s with this in mind that she reaches a conclusion one pleasantly drizzly morning.
Wednesday takes her place at the breakfast table, where a bowl of gruel and a glass of sustenance await her. She pokes idly at her food while her family does their usual around her. Grandmama has a boiling brew on the stove, an occasional screaming speck spitting free from the grimy cast iron. Lurch is in the next room over, trapdoor flung open while he works on repairing the broken steps on the staircase to the abyss below the house. Pugsley tinkers with a device that intermittently sends an electric shock through the table, a kind but rather unimaginative way to keep the family awake.
“Don’t forget to take your vitamins, my dear,” Morticia tells her husband as she skims the newspaper. “You know our mortician said they’d keep you perfectly doughy and pallid.”
“Of course, my love, how could I ever turn down the advice of the illustrious Dr. Mac Abre?” As Gomez speaks, Thing skitters across the uneven floorboards with a tiny bowl balanced atop his wrist. He crawls up the side of Wednesday’s father’s chair and deposits a handful of horse pills in front of Gomez’s plate. “Thank you, Thing,” he says sincerely. He picks up the cup and, one by one, pops the large tablets into his mouth like candy.
It’s the same display as every other morning so far this summer. Grandmama prepares roadkill au gratin, Lurch grunts and fiddles around the house, Pugsley tempts fate with electricity, her father forgets to take his pills, and Thing brings them for him. Every morning, without fail. Wednesday would rather only speak in monotone, not live it.
“I’ve decided to procure a new hobby for myself,” she announces, pushing back her plate.
Gomez frowns at her through his mouthful. One pill fragment cracks loudly between his molars. “What is this? Are you being serious, Wednesday?”
“Of course,” she says. “I have no desire to be anything apart from dead serious.”
“And what, exactly, would this new hobby of yours entail?” Morticia asks, tapping tapering nails on the table’s rickety surface.
Another zap comes from Pugsley’s project, causing everyone’s hair to momentarily stand on end.
“My thoughts haven’t advanced that far yet,” Wednesday admits. Zap. She puts one hand over both her brother’s, freezing his movements. “Ideally, it would be something mentally enriching. As stimulating as it is to compose my novel, I have been hit with the curse known as writer’s block of late. And as far as curses go, it’s my least favorite one. Nor can I play cello, since Pugsley’s rats ate the strings.”
“Well, have you... have you solved all the local murders?” Gomez tries.
“Everything from Cape May to Hackensack,” replies Wednesday. “The motives and culprits are so obvious, it’s basically child’s play.”
Zap! Thanks to the electric shock, Thing jumps a few feet above the table, fingers splayed.
“Have you added to your stop sign collection recently, my death trap? It seems you haven’t touched it since you were a wee little cockroach,” her father says with a disturbing sense of fondness, squinting one eye and holding his thumb and forefinger apart with only a sliver of space between.
“That was Pugsley’s collection, Father. I always had more of an attachment to Dead End signs.”
Zaaaap! Without looking, Wednesday reaches out a hand. Suddenly her brother’s pliers are pinching the tip of his nose instead of wires that are equally as frayed as her patience.
“Hmm. I would suggest you try French lessons, but nobody could ever compare to your mother’s skill.”
“Not to mention I’m already fluent,” Wednesday grumbles.
All this time, Morticia has been noticeably silent. Yet Wednesday doesn’t miss the idea that’s been ignited and smoldering in her mother’s eyes, waiting for a chance to bite. Now her opportunity has arrived.
“Why don’t you apply for a summer job?” Morticia asks. She waves a hand as she speaks, as if that will increase the appeal of her conniving little scheme. “It would certainly prove mentally enriching.”
“Would it?” Wednesday tilts her head. “I didn’t realize squirting dairy paste into a styrofoam cup paved the way to acute mental capacity.”
“Working at a simple job with other people your age will sharpen your social skills,” says her mother with an innocent glance at her manicure. “It will sharpen them in whichever direction you choose.” Wednesday could sniff out Morticia’s true intentions through even the most persuasive language. She will not be persuaded.
“Yes, because mingling even more with my peers is all I’ve ever strived for.”
“And, perhaps best of all— you’ll earn yourself money, Wednesday. Money that is yours to spend, however you like.”
“But we have no shortage of it.”
“This is true,” Gomez contributes. “Darling, would you pass me the mayonnaise?” Wednesday chucks it in his direction without so much as a glance. “Ooh, three years expired! Just how I like it.”
“Don’t you want to earn something for yourself?” Morticia ignores him, leans closer to her daughter over the table. “Dearest, don’t you want to show off your ability? Rub in the face of others all that you are capable of?”
Wednesday considers. “Why should I show it if I already know it myself?”
“You should open your own store,” Pugsley pipes up. He scrapes out a hearty helping of earwax to seal a splintered wire. “I would be your first customer, Wednesday.” Thing signs a whole-handed agreement.
Somehow, this is the line that strikes a chord in her. Wednesday sits there for a few minutes while her family finishes their breakfast. She pokes her food, and it pokes her back. Then, in a flash, she downs the rest of her black coffee and slams the mug back on the table. When she opens her eyes again, it’s as if she’s looking through an entirely new pair.
“Fine,” she says. “But Thing will be accompanying me.” With no further explanation, Wednesday scoots back her chair and marches up to her room to sketch the blueprints. She has an idea.
The far end of Point Pleasant boardwalk is dubbed “Point Unpleasant” by the locals. It is a desolate stretch consisting mostly of abandoned shops and empty storefronts, shells of more prosperous years past. The boards are faded. Many are worn and whitened after decades of abuse from hurricanes, curling upward at the ends as if begging for mercy from the forces above that torment them.
It’s also the setting for hazing and other idiotic stunts among the nearby youths, or for a romantic rendezvous between daring lovers. It lays the scene for many a myth and legend told over campfire and flashlight. Truthfully, it’s dangerous, dull, and far outside the parameters of structure safety code— and that’s all before night falls.
But without the shroud of darkness, people tend to avoid it like the plague. Its ugliness is more pronounced during the day. Much like the Addams mansion, most of the public thinks it would look at its best torn down. Many dismiss it as an eyesore, slap the “haunted” label on it. Some swear they have seen millipedes the size of cars crawling out of the hollowed-out eye cavity in the gaunt, skull-like giant clown head next to the partially demolished funhouse. Quite the rumor.
Now, on the cusp of nightfall, Wednesday stands below a cape of charcoal clouds with undersides that threaten rain. She admires the partly exposed skeleton of the funhouse. Yes, this will do nicely. For Wednesday Addams, Point Unpleasant is perfect.
With a slightly wrinkled nose, she steps over a smear of sand blown onto the ragged boards by some energetic pre-storm winds. She grits her teeth as the grittiness grinds under the soles of her boots.
Wednesday is not aiming to construct a lucrative business model here. Rather, she plans to construct an illusion of one. A masquerade ball of sorts, only without the fashion component and with double the masks. Nothing feathered or bejeweled— just an elementary exhibit. She will let her parents think she is earning responsibility points out here within the sand-crusted view of the Jersey shore. That should keep them off her back and buy her plenty of free time to do with as she pleases.
In reality, she will spend her summer days inside an empty storefront, chipping away at her novel in satisfactory solitude. A change of setting should do wonders for the mind, she thinks. Even if the beach would not be her first choice for a temporary escape, it will suffice— so long as the word temporary remains in the contract. And it will. Wednesday never breaks a promise to herself.
So she has negotiated a rental agreement with the washed-up creep who owns most of the empty spaces along Point Unpleasant. Though she is a proponent of trespassing as needed, Wednesday also respects the idea of securing a little financial leverage over her summer writing space.
Through a putrid, pit-stained musk of watermelon-flavored e-cigarette vapor, the landlord had agreed that she could pay a small sum to occupy the place, as long as she would be gone in three months’ time. He tried to get at least six months out of her, but of course Wednesday refused. Thankfully for herself— and for Camp Chippewa, which had hosted her and Pugsley a few years ago— summers are only three months long. She will be unsafe and sound back at home far before the autumnal equinox arrives.
Then the landlord sneered and asked her if she had ever been with a real man. Wednesday told him he would have more luck searching for unsolicited physical intimacy somewhere up his own anal orifice.
Haggling this agreement had been the positive side of the situation. She at least has her shell of a store. On the less positive side, her “store” is located not at the dead end of the boardwalk, where wrathful waves thrash and lash against the rotting wood. It is instead at the opposite edge— where Point Unpleasant fades into oblivion and gives way to a livelier section of the boardwalk. She is teetering right on the borderline between blissful silence and cotton candy-stuffed nuisance. She should probably walk away, but Wednesday doesn’t like to give up on something when it has already been set in motion.
The storm breaks. As the first sheets of rain splash down, slapping the weathered boards with a commendable ferocity only seen at the shore, Wednesday slows to a halt in front of her sanctuary-to-be. The rain soaks through, driving deep into her bones, dampening her clothes into a second skin. An overhang isn’t far away, offering a patch of dryness amid the moistened chaos. But Wednesday remains standing right where she is.
Thing tiptoes into view, climbing up her leg until he comes to roost on her shoulder like the most loyal gargoyle. Wednesday nods in greeting. “We’ve got some work to do,” she tells him. Thing taps at her eagerly. They really do make an excellent team.
Enid walks in to find a leaky ceiling and Ariana Grande singing on the store’s speaker system.
“Aw, you guys are listening to my playlist!” Enid beams as she plays the usual game of hopscotch, dodging several buckets scattered across the sticky linoleum floor to catch drips. She skips all the way to the back room of the cramped shop, where her coworkers are gathered under an especially troubling spot. Tyler, her manager, is poking at a saggy ceiling tile with that puppy-dog frown of his.
“We aren’t,” Bianca says. “I was just about to turn it off and give our ears a break, but we got sidetracked.”
Enid sticks out her tongue at her, and Bianca’s vibrant eyes flash with amusement. Nearly every customer who comes by is enamored by her, and understandably so. It isn’t even Bianca’s fault— she wears her amulet religiously— but it’s just like that for her.
“As long as you don’t put on Xavier’s Coldplay stuff,” Enid says. She exaggerates a frown. “It’s so depressing.”
“I don’t listen to Coldplay,” Xavier says, arms crossed. They all nod in acknowledgement of his blatant lie.
“The rain last night really did a number on this,” Tyler says, the only one focused on the problem at hand. He jabs the ceiling again. “It is... very moist.”
Enid bares her teeth a little. “Please don’t say that word. Please never say it again.”
“What word?”
“She means moist,” Bianca explains, enunciating the one-syllable word with grating clarity. “She’s one of those people who can’t stand it for some reason. It’s like how a portion of the population thinks cilantro tastes like soap.”
“That word is only okay in the context of cake,” Enid adds. “I’m fine with cilantro, though.”
Tyler sighs, shakes his head. He’s just a year older than the rest of the crew, but sometimes he acts like he possesses the wisdom of a saint when he’s around them. Enid likes to see the good in people, so she figures it also means he has the patience of a saint. Before this, he worked at a coffee shop called The Weathervane in Jericho, Vermont, a town which is basically on every small town top-ten must-travel list, which therefore means it is on Enid’s top-ten must-travel list.
“I don’t know. I think I’m gonna have to call the landlord to check it out,” Tyler admits as he makes his way down the stepladder.
Bianca groans. “Not the skeevy landlord! I have zero patience for that guy.”
“I hear he might be busier now,” says Xavier, vague as ever.
Enid picks up a plastic knife and applies an investigative poke to a fresh batch of fudge that’s still setting. “Why’s that?”
“He’s finally sharing us with another tenant, apparently,” Xavier reveals. “Seems we have a new neighbor.”
A dent forms in Bianca’s brow. “Wait, what? Did the pizza restaurant next door get kicked out?”
“Nope.” Xavier leans against the wall. “It’s the place on the other side.”
“How did he manage to rent that place out?” Bianca asks, incredulous. “Reanimate a few corpses?”
Tyler claps his hands together, effectively killing the conversation for now. “Okay, group. Come on. We’re about to open for the day, so let’s start setting up out front. Enid, can you put out the wet floor sign? We don’t need to get sued right at the start of busy season if somebody slips.”
Bianca barely waits until Tyler is out of earshot, then winks over her shoulder at Enid. “Come on, Sinclair,” she mocks. “We don’t wanna get sued, do we?”
“No, ma’am!” Enid clears her throat and scurries to the closet to retrieve the desired wet floor sign. It comes out of retirement multiple times a week now thanks to the rainy weather. It’s her job to keep track of it since she’s still a newbie compared to the others, even though she’s been working here for nearly a month now. Ever since she escaped from the—
Suddenly a collective noise of complaint arises from her coworkers. An Olivia Rodrigo song has come on. Enid hears Bianca’s voice: “Ears. Bleeding.” She giggles to herself as she hopscotches through the leaky lobby again, and droops when the music is turned off.
In the momentary silence, punctuated by typical rustling of salt water taffy wrappers and clinking of glass candy jars, Enid approaches the front doors with a touch of curiosity. She peers over as far to the left as she can without stepping outside, eyeing the darkened storefront next door. It sure doesn’t look inhabited. In fact, it looks more like a mausoleum than anything else.
Regardless, something calls to her. That same curiosity expands, oozes out of her pores. She has to know who could possibly find that place worth fixing up. There are so many other spots on the boardwalk that will get more foot traffic. So why there?
She could go knock on the door super quick. Find out that way. It’s not like she would have to go inside or anything. They are right on the edge of the so-called Point Unpleasant. So she might as well get used to it, right?
Enid arranges the wet floor sign with care. Then she smooths out her pinstripe apron, straightens her name tag covered in smiley face stickers, and spins toward the others with a smile all her own. “Guys. I’ve got an idea!”