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Wednesday has no idea how she was talked into attending the Nevermore Christmas party, only that Enid had something to do with it.
Possibly some sort of mental break had occurred; Wednesday would not discount the use of poison or mind-altering substances in Enid’s strategy. All she knows is that at some point between Enid’s first, faux-idle, ‘Hey, you know what would be cool?’ and now, she had been manipulated out of standing by every single one of her fundamental principles — namely that she hates parties, hates most of her classmates, hates gaudy multicolored lighting setups, and hates all the things that most teenagers would generally consider a good time.
In other words, Wednesday is not enjoying herself.
The same cannot be said for Enid. Wednesday might dislike Christmas lights, but Christmas lights like Enid. The LED baubles that line the trees and wrap around the tinsel on the walls seem artificial when they glance off the peeling wallpaper, cheap where they illuminate the punch-bowl and the stacks of cakes, but they paint across Enid’s freckled skin like liquid glass. She laughs at something Yoko says with her whole body, and red and blue and green reflect off the tacky surfaces of her teeth.
“Merry Christmas, Scrooge.”
Wednesday’s head snaps towards the direction of the voice. Xavier, hands in the pockets of his slacks, sporting a toothy grin. Wednesday scoffs.
“It’s December tenth,” she says.
Xavier apparently takes this as an invitation to walk over, knocking his shoulder playfully into hers. He’s cleaned up somewhat — washed his hair, for one, and is wearing something other than grey or drab, lifeless green. He looks good, even, if you’re into that sort of thing.
“Yeah, well. Can’t have a school Christmas party on Christmas. No one would show up,” Xavier says. His smirky expression informs Wednesday that he thinks he just said something abundantly clever. She suppresses the urge to roll her eyes.
“How profound,” she says. She flits her gaze about the room. Pine trees with tacky decorations in every corner, sprigs of mistletoe hanging in the doorways and above the tables, and one sad inflatable snowman with a limp neck that has been leaned against the wall for support. “I think actual Christmas celebrations might be more tolerable than this rot. Who managed the budget?”
“I don’t even want to know what you think a tolerable Christmas looks like,” Xavier ribs. “I can’t imagine what your family does when it rolls around.”
“Actually, Pugsley has transformed it into a rather civil affair over the years,” Wednesday says. “Of course, it isn’t my ideal holiday anymore, but neither was comforting him for four hours that year I gifted him a box of spiders.” She sniffs. “It was actually very rude. I’d gone to all the trouble of smuggling them up from Australia.”
“Should you be confessing actual crimes to me right now?”
“Hm. Probably not. Disregard that,” Wednesday says, with a wave of her hand.
A pause. Wednesday’s eyes drift back to Enid, who has now been trapped in a conversation with Coach Vlad, who gets rather talkative after two glasses of mulled wine from the teachers’ stash. Still, instead of scoffing to herself behind her hand or keeping her expression carefully blank, she nods emphatically at the anecdote he’s telling. He speaks more with his hands than his mouth, his face flushed a drunken red, and even though Wednesday doubts that the punchline of the story could possibly, in any scenario, toe the line of being actually amusing, Enid throws her head back and laughs when he tells it. He develops a pleased, proud sort of look on his face in response.
“You know, I didn’t expect to see you here,” Xavier says, breaking Wednesday’s focus.
“Hm?” she says. “Oh. That’s prudent — I wouldn’t have banked on it either, if I were in your position.”
Xavier makes a vague noise of assent, taking a sip of punch. “So, what gives?”
Wednesday stews for a moment before saying, “Enid.”
Xavier grins. “Ah.”
“Oh, stop it. Don’t give me that smug, superior act; you aren’t good at it.”
“I’m not, I’m not,” he says. “Just saying — I should’ve guessed. I mean, if anyone could convince you to do something…”
“...Unsavory,” Wednesday finishes for him, though she isn’t sure he had been searching for a word. It’s infuriating when people trail off their sentences that way, letting some unknown implication hang in the air as if every present party understood it perfectly. Wednesday can only assume she approximated his sentiment.
“Sure, let’s go with that,” Xavier says. Then, he ducks his head and says, voice low, “Hey, want me to get you some punch?” He pulls his blazer open and flashes Wednesday the most cliche-looking flask of alcohol she has ever seen. He might as well be in a period piece about a rugged detective with a drinking problem. “Vodka. Could make the night a little more fun.”
Wednesday looks from the flask to Xavier, then raises her eyebrows. When he doesn’t get the hint, she sighs.
“I don’t do vodka,” she says. “Or at least, not the kind you probably have on your person. Lowest dollar-to-alcohol-percentage ratio?”
Xavier shrugs easily, letting his jacket fall closed. “I think Divina brought eggnog, if that’s more your speed. Home-brewed, so there’s enough rum in there to kill a horse.”
“Oh, well if I had known that.”
Xavier’s eyes sparkle with mirth, and he opens his mouth as if to jab back, when an arm slings heavily around Wednesday’s shoulders, demanding her attention. Multicolored hair tickles the boundaries of her vision.
“Roomie! What are you doing lurking in the corner? It’s a party,” Enid says, bright as ever, shaking Wednesday a little in emphasis. Then, she glances at Wednesday’s unsought companion/peer-pressure-er. “Hi, Xavier.”
“Hey, Enid,” he says, outstretching his cup of punch in a ‘cheersing’ motion. He gestures around the room. “Not a bad turnout, huh?”
Enid shrugs. “Better than the year Mr. Fitts bought metric tons of baby carrots instead of cake and then shut us off at nine. Not better than the year he got wasted and started crying about his Tinder profile.”
“The night’s still young,” Xavier says.
“Mm, true. Plenty of embarrassing left to be done,” Enid agrees.
“Were those two incidents connected?” Wednesday asks.
“Such a detective,” Enid says, smiling. “Yeah, they pretty much happened one after the other. Three guesses as to which came first!”
Wednesday snorts. “I’ll pass.”
She makes the move to extricate herself from Enid’s octopus-like embrace. The second Enid catches on, she snatches her arm back to her side, eyes big and a little embarrassed. Wednesday’s not sure how to tell her that she doesn’t mind, exactly, but that any modicum of physical touch can become exhausting after a while, so she says nothing.
“So,” Enid says, and reaches out to poke Wednesday’s nose, “have you had any of Divina’s eggnog yet?”
Wednesday throws her hands up in the air. “Why is everybody trying to get me drunk?”
“We’re not!” Enid protests, while Xavier tries to get her to lower her voice.
“What’s the big idea? The teachers are still here,” he hisses.
Enid continues: “You don’t have to drink, but the whole thing about the Christmas party is that it turns into a party party at eleven. The whole staff conveniently forgets about curfew, puts earplugs in, goes to bed, and pretends not to notice how we’re all hungover in the morning. It’s awesome.”
Wednesday wrinkles her nose. “Sounds it.”
Enid rolls her eyes. “Come on, Wednesday. I won’t make you come ever again, I swear, but I really, really wanted you to experience it. Just this once. Who knows — maybe something will surprise you.”
Xavier hides a choked laugh in his cup. Enid shoots him a look, then turns her attention back to Wednesday.
“Just give it a shot?” she says, imploringly, her eyes overlarge.
Wednesday considers this. Then considers this some more. Then she says, “Alright.”
“Whipped,” Xavier teases, and Enid gives him another look, this one even more withering than the last. He puts his hands up in surrender. “Shutting up.”
“Good,” Enid says, stoutly, and links an arm through Wednesday’s. “First step — cake.”
Xavier waves them off good-naturedly as Enid marches them both towards one of the tables piled high with excess sugar.
(Wednesday maintains that she has no idea how she was talked into attending the Nevermore Christmas party in the first place, but possibly it had gone something like that.)
—
The evening has bled into night, the winter chill sealed out by the windows but a definite air of crispness permeating the room regardless. The songs have devolved from more respectable classics such as Let It Snow to insufferable pop ballads like Wham!’s Last Christmas and its endless array of covers. Divina has sneaked out to her room and back to retrieve a second opaque bottle of eggnog, and is now giggling drunkenly with a violent flush over her cheeks, head bowed against Yoko’s. Enid has eaten her weight in fruitcake under Wednesday’s disdainful gaze, and the clock has struck eleven.
The second the door shuts behind the final dawdling teacher, Enid stands up on a table. Wednesday presses her fingers to her temples in a bid for strength.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Nevermore,” Enid begins, hands spread, and Wednesday cringes. “The time you have all awaited has come. After the mess that was last year’s holiday season—” the crowd murmurs various agreements, “—I think we’ve all been especially deprived of good, honest fun. The kind we will one day tell our grandchildren about, as the open fire roars and we pore through our old yearbook. They ask us about our high school days, of all-nighters and wild escapades in the woods…”
Wednesday stares up at Enid, eyebrows raised, as she spouts verifiable drivel with unabashed earnestness. She wonders if Enid might already be a bit tipsy, what with that giddy, attractive flush painting her nose, but she seems altogether too coherent for that. Besides, this Braveheart-esque speech about the wonders of partying is textbook Enid Sinclair.
“Get on with it!” someone calls.
Wednesday whirls around to see a boy (truly, why should she bother memorizing the names of people with whom she does not interact on a daily basis?) with his hands cupped around his mouth, already grinning. Despite agreeing with the general sentiment of his protest, Wednesday is devising the most efficient way to grab a plastic spoon from the table and make for his eye when she realizes that the crowd is laughing along with him, booing good-naturedly. She turns back to see Enid half-heartedly flipping him off, smile still in place.
Perhaps heckling is simply part of the ritual. Wednesday bites back the insult on her tongue and crosses her arms.
“Yeah, yeah,” Enid says. “Fine: let’s make this a night to remember — or forget!”
Everyone cheers and claps and whoops drunkenly, and Enid hops down off the table, glowing. She leans into Wednesday’s side.
“Cool, right?” she says.
“You?” Wednesday asks. “You’re a dork.”
Enid looks appalled. “I am not. You’re a dork!”
“You are mentally casting yourself in a coming-of-age film. Admit it,” Wednesday retorts, pleased when Enid goes a stubborn red.
“That doesn’t make you any less of a dork,” she argues.
“Yes — but I am not the one attempting to refute the accusations against me, therefore—”
Enid laughs, effectively cutting Wednesday off. “See? God, you can hear yourself, right? You talk like you’re writing your dissertation.”
“I loathe you,” Wednesday says, half-sincerely, and Enid only grins.
“Oh yeah?” she says, raising one eyebrow. “How much?”
Wednesday is just sifting through the slop her brain has become for a remotely witty response when they are interrupted. There’s a sing-song “Helloooo,” drawling long on the vowels, and that’s all the warning they get before arms are slung around Enid’s shoulders and a head is leaning heavily against her collarbone.
“Sorry about her,” Yoko says, exasperated but fond, trying to extract an unwilling Divina from around Enid’s neck.
“You should keep her on a leash,” Wednesday says.
“Gross, Wednesday, don’t ask them about their sex life,” Enid replies.
“If anything, I was advising them on their sex life,” Wednesday says. “But more importantly, try to refrain from being disgusting.”
Enid helps Yoko unwind Divina’s arms from around her and put them around Yoko’s middle, where she situates herself quite happily. She noses into the divot of Yoko’s collarbone where her shirt exposes it, her tie having come off at some point earlier.
“What’s going on with her?” Enid asks Yoko, glancing at Divina with obvious mirth.
“I just want us all to be together,” Divina mumbles. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year.” She chokes off in what might be an actual sob. Wednesday wrinkles her nose.
“I don’t know. She keeps quoting Christmas songs and acting like she’s going to cry,” Yoko says, stroking a comforting arm over Divina’s neck and down her spine. “Come on, it’s going to be okay. Look, we’re all together.”
“It appears the eggnog had a profound effect on her,” Wednesday says dryly.
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Yoko groans. “She makes it stronger every year. By grad, she’s going to have actually died from alcohol poisoning, and at least one of us needs to be alive for this relationship to work.”
Wednesday smirks. “How uncreative.”
“Oh, ew!” Enid complains, batting Wednesday’s shoulder. “I can’t make a one-off comment about BDSM but you can pull up with necrophilia jokes? How is that fair?”
“I am appalled at the places that your mind goes, Enid. My comment could have just as easily been about vampirism.”
“I think we both know it wasn’t.”
“I think one of us needs to finally internalize the results of her IQ test.”
“Hey!” Enid pouts dramatically. It is unbearable to look at. “Asshole.”
Yoko, who has, up until this point, been watching the exchange in silent amusement, says, “Okay, I feel like I need to butt in before this turns into an all-out bitch fight.”
Wednesday scoffs. “Sexist.”
Divina outstretches her hand vaguely in Wednesday’s direction. “Damn straight, sister.”
Wednesday hesitates, weighs up the loss of her dignity versus the possibility of an all-out drunken crying spell, and then relents and quickly slaps Divina’s hand. Enid grins.
“You’re such a softie,” she says.
Wednesday glares at her. She is just opening her mouth — first to insult Enid with a scathing retort, then give the thesis statement for her refutation, then throw in another handful of insults, just for good measure — when Divina gasps.
Wednesday glances over. Her head is thrown back so it lolls against the cradle of her upper spine, and her mouth is open. She’s looking wide-eyed at something above her, so Wednesday looks too — and promptly lets out a long-suffering sigh.
“The organizers of this party were huffing cliche like burnouts do gasoline fumes,” she says.
“Hey! It was my idea,” Enid says, brow furrowed. “It’s cute.”
“And I suppose it’s enchanted, too?” Wednesday says. Enid winces.
As if to demonstrate, Yoko attempts to move one foot, and then the other, legs jerking awkwardly in place. She leans back as far as she can, taking Divina with her (who giggles), but doesn’t so much as overbalance, and her hand stays rooted to the place where she had rested it on Divina’s back.
“Yep,” Yoko says. “Cursed more than enchanted, in my opinion.”
About a foot above Yoko and Divina’s heads, hanging as if suspended on invisible wire, is a small bushel of mistletoe, tied together at the top with glossy red ribbon.
Wednesday hears a complaining groan from somewhere behind her, and turns to see Bianca standing up from where she was lounging in a circle with a few of her friends. She crosses her arms and looks disdainfully at Enid.
“Are we really doing this again?” she says. “I thought we left this behind when we were fourteen.”
“Loath as I am to agree with anything Bianca says, I must say that it does seem juvenile,” Wednesday adds. Bianca, though looking equally pained as her at the prospect of being on the same page for once, nods in emphasis.
“It’s cute!” Enid protests, beginning to look embarrassed. “Besides, it’s not like it’ll affect you. Unless you’re sitting on some secret crush none of us know about.”
At that, Wednesday raises her eyebrows. “What does that mean?”
Enid winces, and glances at Yoko, who is leaning her head back to dodge the increasingly insistent kisses that Divina is pressing against her jaw. Yoko sighs, rolling her eyes heavily.
“It’s like a summoning spell,” she says. “It doesn’t just trap you under the mistletoe with some rando until you give in and french a little. It basically senses when two people have really strong feelings towards each other, mutual feelings, and — well.” With her free hand, she gestures to herself and Divina.
“I don’t know what you’re waiting for, Yoko,” Bianca says. “You two certainly have no qualms about PDA — there’s evidence enough of that.”
Wednesday finds herself nodding, having walked in on so many of Yoko and Divina’s impromptu make-out sessions that she now backs into empty rooms with a hand over her eyes until she is convinced the coast is clear.
“Yeah, but—” Yoko wrinkles her nose. “She’s had so much rum. She probably tastes like literal death.”
Bianca snorts. “Just get it over with. Maybe then the mistletoe can find some more interesting victims. Like, ‘wow, Yoko and Divina. Shocker. Who would've guessed?’”
Enid, who had fallen into a sulky silence at her idea being so mercilessly criticized, suddenly swings her gaze over to Wednesday. For once, though, there is no emotion betrayed by her forever-open expression — she doesn't quite look calculating, but she is certainly searching, as if trying to discern what is going on inside Wednesday’s head simply by looking at her. Unfortunately for her, Wednesday muses, Wednesday’s face is a constant iron fortress.
Enid suddenly groans, looking away, and Wednesday realizes that in the midst of her staring contest with Enid, Yoko had apparently decided to ‘just get it over with.’ She resignedly adds another tally to the collection of impromptu make-out sessions that she has been subjected to.
“God, they’re really getting into it,” Bianca mutters.
“This is harder on the eyes than torture porn,” Wednesday adds.
“Hey! Break it up!” Enid says, waving her hands around to get Yoko’s attention. Wednesday thinks privately that she is getting bravely close — Wednesday herself would be afraid of her hand getting caught and being pulled into the display, like hair in the cogs of heavy machinery.
Reluctantly, Yoko pulls back, face red and breathing labored. “What.”
“Impaired consent isn’t consent, missy,” Enid says, waggling her finger.
Yoko grimaces. “Gross, Enid. I’m not going to sleep with her like this.”
Divina looks up at her with large eyes, forlorn and utterly betrayed. “You aren’t?”
Yoko looks heavenward, and Wednesday sympathizes. Like when Wednesday inadvertently offends Enid on the basis of one of her outfits, Yoko appears as if she is mentally calculating how long it will take to untangle this mess. Divina already has tears welling in her eyes.
“Oh, you lovebirds,” Enid says dryly, patting Yoko a few times on the back.
Wednesday doesn’t miss the way her eyes flit upwards, watching the mistletoe spin and circle the group a few times in the air. It seems almost as if it’s deciding, conflicted, but after a few moments during which Wednesday holds her breath, it dances off to find some other poor saps to hold hostage. Enid’s shoulders slump minutely, perhaps in relief, and she paints a smile across her face.
“Thank God,” she says, pinching Yoko’s cheek. “I was worried for a second there that it might have figured out about our steamy love affair, Yoko. I just don’t think I can kiss you in front of all these people.”
Yoko’s eyes slide shut in resignation as Divina peels back from her chest.
“What?” she says, wetly, sounding completely devastated.
“Thanks, Enid,” Yoko deadpans, already hefting Divina by the waist and leading her towards the hall’s adjoining bathroom.
“No problem!” Enid claps her hands. “Ah, and the night claims its first victims.”
Wednesday shakes her head. “You are so strange.”
Enid gapes, and promptly attacks Wednesday, who maintains that she does not yelp.
“Me? I’m strange?” she says, but she’s laughing. If Wednesday were not so allergic to outwards expressions of joy, perhaps she would be laughing too.
Bianca gives an exasperated sigh and walks off to sit with her group again. Wednesday hardly pays attention, dodging the swipe Enid makes at her head.
“Down, girl,” she says, flatly, and Enid grins.
—
Wednesday mentally lists all the things that she would rather be doing right now as Xavier hands out the plastic cups. Spontaneously combusting; having her toes sucked by leeches; having her toes sucked by human men with neckbeards; setting the entire school on fire in a prophetic blaze.
She does none of these things, however. Instead, she is rooted to the spot instead by Enid, who has kicked Wednesday’s legs apart and sat herself between them. Her back is warm against Wednesday’s always-cold torso, and her head is lolling comfortably back against Wednesday’s bony shoulder, even as she laughs full-bodied at something Yoko says. Wednesday can feel the tremors of her laughter through the skin.
“Okay, so, we’re all older than eight, so I think we know how the game works,” Xavier says, after pouring himself a glass from the much larger bottle of cheap-looking vodka he produced after midnight. He sits himself down on an elaborately-carved chair.
Wednesday raises her hand. “I’ve never played.”
About half the circle turns to look at her, disbelieving, and the other half nods as if this is nothing surprising. Really, it isn’t. In her seventeen years on this planet, Wednesday has never once been arrested by the desire to play Truth or Dare.
Enid, as always, is the culprit of Wednesday’s suffering.
The hubbub of the party had been spilling warmly around them, the dimmer turned down so the overhead lights were just barely emanating yellow, overpowered by the colored twinklers reflecting off the tinsel. Divina had been the one to suggest it, fresh off a bout of (noisy) vomiting that had left her presentably sober, and Enid had been the first to join in.
Wednesday’s choices then were to play an insipid party game, or to stand at the edges of the room and watch teenagers get progressively handsier with each other on the dance floor. She was truly not sure which was more pathetic, and before she could decide, Enid had already pulled her over to the little huddle in the corner.
And here she sits, making resolute eye contact with Xavier, whose eyebrows are climbing up into his hairline.
“Uh, okay,” he says. “It’s pretty simple. Someone asks you ‘Truth or Dare,’ and depending on what you choose, they come up with a question or a challenge. Oh, and if you can’t do it, you drink.”
Wednesday looks distastefully down at the clear liquid filling her cup, swirling it around. She can smell it, even from where she’s holding it propped up against Enid’s thigh.
“I’m no coward,” she says, and Xavier grins wolfishly.
“Then it won’t be a problem,” he replies.
Wednesday isn’t stupid enough to be goaded. She promises herself that the moment she feels tempted to drink, she will up and go, firmly ignoring whatever giggles and light-hearted taunts are thrown after her. Regardless, she nods.
It starts out tame enough. Divina asks Yoko, and after Yoko chooses ‘truth,’ she immediately jumps on the chance to make Yoko list all her best features. The group is then subjected to several minutes of rhapsodizing while Divina grows pinker and pinker. Just as Wednesday is confident that Enid is about to fall asleep from sheer boredom, her body growing heavier against Wednesday’s chest, Yoko breaks off with a wink and asks Bianca.
Bianca apologizes to Divina but confesses that if she had to kiss someone here it would be Yoko (‘in, like, a friendly way’), Kent is forced to lick some part of Xavier’s body (he elects, curiously, the neck), and Xavier tells everyone about his recurring sex dream involving their Inhuman Bio teacher, which he insists is more terrifying than remotely sexy.
“She grows spider legs halfway through!” he protests, red-faced, to everyone’s laughter. Wednesday rolls her eyes.
She is surprised by how long the game goes on without anyone calling on her. She holds no delusions about her popularity, aware that Enid is the reason she’s even in this circle at all, while the rest of the partygoers dance and glance over at them every so often in idle interest. Even so, she knows her silent, brooding presence offers a certain allure, if not of likability then of mystery; Enid is the only person in the circle to really know anything about her. Though perhaps that is because these days, she is the only one who asks. (Then harass her into telling, when asking doesn’t work.)
Perhaps Wednesday sealed her fate with this thought.
She is brought back into the present when Enid taps her thigh with the flat of her palm.
“Hey. Wednesday,” she says, leaning her head back to make strained eye contact. Wednesday’s brow furrows. “Truth or dare?”
Wednesday huffs. “Well, I shudder to think of what you might make me do while pinned underneath you, so I suppose I choose truth.”
Enid goes lurid red, then blurts out, “Who do you like?”
The circle is silent, for a second. Wednesday hears someone choke off a giggle — she thinks it’s Divina, though it could be Xavier, who sounds surprisingly feminine when he laughs genuinely, and she refuses to look. Enid is still watching her upside down, her face close, her lower lip between her teeth.
Wednesday’s hand twitches on the cup.
She pushes Enid gently away from her chest and stands, stretching out the kinks that had formed in her back from holding both their weights for so long. She raises her cup of vodka. “Who wants this?”
Divina quickly raises her hand, and Wednesday reaches forward to pour out the remains of her cup into Divina’s.
“Hey!” Enid cries, suddenly shocked out of her stupor. She sits up. “That’s not how it works! You can’t just not answer a question without taking a drink!”
Wednesday shrugs. “I’m not playing anymore.”
Enid gapes after her as she walks towards a low-lit alcove, where she plans to block out all noise with her fingers and mentally write the next chapter of her novel. She can feel several pairs of eyes boring into her spine like electric drills.
“Well,” (Yoko’s voice), “it was a good try, babes.”
Enid makes a noise that’s halfway to a whimper.
—
Two thousand and four words into the chapter, if Wednesday’s math isn’t off, and the game is still going strong. She can tell because none of the players have reappeared on this side of the room, and because occasionally, presumably when a particularly raunchy dare or truth is successfully fulfilled, a loud chorus of cheers and whoops will echo out against the walls of the hall, drowning the synth-pop blaring from the speakers. She has no idea how it is possible to play one game for so long, especially one so utterly vapid, without someone putting a bullet in their skull, but perhaps the collective willpower of her classmates is stronger than she previously thought.
One thing she is certain of, all of them must, by now, be roaring drunk. This is confirmed when she hears a little, “Psst! Wednesday,” and Enid creeps around the corner into view of Wednesday’s alcove on all fours. She has a vacant grin on her face, the focus of her eyes hazy and slightly off, and her mouth smells like rubbing alcohol. Wednesday sighs.
“Yes, Enid?” she says.
Enid swallows, and her throat undulates showily. She shuffles over so she’s kneeling in front of Wednesday, her knees brushing the toes of Wednesday’s boots, Wednesday’s legs folded in half against her chest.
“Is the game over?” Wednesday asks, warily, as the glassy stare of Enid’s eyes fixed on hers is enough to make even her skin crawl, possibly due to how sheerly out of character it is for to be so stoic. Wednesday is certain that Enid has never gone so long without speaking, bar someone else talking over her.
Enid shakes her head no, breathes in, then outstretches her hands. It’s barely a movement. Wednesday might not have even caught it, had Enid’s hands not landed lightly on her ankles, encircling them where the leather of Wednesday’s boots cut off. Wednesday’s eyes flicker down, then back up.
“What are you doing?” she asks. Enid is tactile, but never like this — her touches are firm, boisterous, thoughtless. An arm over the shoulder, a wet kiss to the cheek. This featherlight touch, almost as if she is afraid of being pushed away, implies a depth behind it that Wednesday cannot fathom.
“Um,” Enid says, finally, and mumbles around the syllable. Her eyes still haven’t left Wednesday’s. “I got dared.”
Wednesday’s eyebrows raise, and Enid’s hands slip carefully up Wednesday’s shins until they are cupping Wednesday’s knees, thumbs stroking idly over the fabric of her maxi-skirt. Enid might even lean in a bit, but Wednesday isn’t sure.
“They…” Enid says, quietly. “They dared me to kiss you.”
Wednesday allows the words to hang in the air for a second, two. Enid hasn’t dared move since she spoke, but her face is inches from Wednesday’s, her nose so close that Wednesday can see it in high-definition. Wednesday swallows.
Then, she stands, dusting off her knees. She holds out a hand to Enid, who takes it dumbly, and pulls her to her feet. She stamps over to the group in a boiling rage.
Everyone is watching them as they come into view, most with unbearably smug looks on their faces. Wednesday’s hand tightens in Enid’s.
“You people are scum,” she says, seething. Enid teeters dangerously at her side. “What year is it? We are living in the twenty-first century, yes? I haven’t been subjected to spontaneous time travel?” She shakes her head. “I thought we left this behaviour in 90s stoner comedies. In what world is it ever acceptable to ask two women to kiss for your voyeuristic gratification? Lesbians are not on-demand pornographic actors.”
Yoko snorts. Divina elbows her, though she is clearly barely containing her amusement herself.
“Don’t you two start,” Wednesday says, pointing with her free hand. “I cannot believe that you, of all people, stood by and allowed this to happen. Now, assuming that you are all inebriated and not in full control of your mental faculties, I will allow this transgression to be forgotten — once! — and I will not ask who dared Enid to kiss me.”
Wednesday lets go of Enid’s hand and directs her to sit in the empty space next to Yoko. She’s almost catatonic, staring blankly at some spot on the carpet even as Yoko wraps an arm around her and leans their heads together.
“I suggest, for all of your sakes, that this game wraps up soon. You all have enough alcohol in you to last until New Years,” Wednesday adds, gesturing towards Enid. “Enid can barely sit up by herself.”
“It’s true,” Yoko says, patting Enid sympathetically on the back. “What do you think, Enid? Will I have to nurse you back to health?”
Enid puts her face in her hands and groans.
—
The game of Truth or Dare devolves into dancing, the players now working their buzz off on the floor, gyrating sloppily to 2010s trash hits. Wednesday is, naturally, not participating, having elected instead to lean against one of the tables and watch, perplexed and slightly afraid, as Enid screams the lyrics to TiK ToK in Yoko’s grinning face.
“Hey, Wednesday?”
Wednesday looks up. Eugene is standing over her, thumbing the hem of his T-shirt nervously, his eyes wide.
“Yes?” Wednesday says. Eugene gulps.
“So, I just wanted to say sorry,” he says.
Wednesday frowns. “Why?”
“Well, when I dared Enid to kiss you, I really didn’t mean it in the porn way or the voyeuristic way or whatever you said,” he says, in a rush. “I didn’t even want to see it. I mean, you know — my moms. They wouldn’t let me be that kind of guy.”
Wednesday stares, then nods. The tension in Eugene’s posture melts a little.
“I just thought—” he starts, cutting himself off. “I don’t know. I was just trying to help.”
Wednesday’s eyes slide from Eugene’s pinched face over to the dance floor, where Enid has now thrown her arms around the neck of some girl from their Study Hall. She’s still got that drunk, happy flush about her, grinning easily as they sway back and forth together. The girl’s hands come up to idly toy with the hair at Enid’s nape. They both laugh when they trip over each other’s feet.
“I’m not … upset with you,” Wednesday says, quietly. She looks over at him and shrugs. “You don’t need to help me. I am perfectly capable of handling myself.”
Eugene looks puzzled for a moment, and his mouth opens before closing again. “Yeah,” he croaks, eventually. “You’ll figure it out.”
Wednesday glances back at the floor, watching as Enid twirls the girl out and pulls her back against her chest, the both of them stumbling and giggling. Somehow, Wednesday does not share Eugene’s confidence.
—
“Dance with me.”
The words are hurled sloppily into Wednesday’s ear.
“How much more did you drink?” Wednesday asks, wrinkling her nose.
Enid whines. “God, that does not matter. Dance. With. Me.”
“It must have some bearing on your decision-making skills, at the very least, because you have come over here and begged me to be your dance partner despite knowing that I have never danced to pop, and do not plan on changing this any time soon,” Wednesday says.
At the barrage of words, Enid is left standing bereft in front of Wednesday, as well as somewhat puzzled. She has a hazy look in her eyes as if she is trying to parse Wednesday’s meaning. Wednesday sighs.
“You are rolling drunk, Enid,” Wednesday says.
Enid pouts, and reaches out to clutch both hands in the fabric of Wednesday’s jacket. “Come on,” she complains. “You’ve been sulking all. Night. I haven’t seen you since Truth or Dare.” She hiccups.
“Yes, and that went stellarly,” Wednesday deadpans, but Enid just nods vigorously.
“Yes! Yes. And we will have literally so much more fun if you just come and dance.” Enid reaches down and tangles her fingers with Wednesday, her grip surprisingly sure.
Wednesday hesitates, looking around the room. Everyone is wrapped up in their own world; no one is watching them. Then she looks back into Enid’s eyes, which are, as always, blue and far too large, imploring her with impossibly dilated pupils, paired with that infuriating pout.
“Fine,” Wednesday mutters. “But let it be known that I am only relenting because of the unlikelihood that you will remember this in the morning and set a precedent for any future gatherings to which you drag me. That, and the fact that this song is appropriate for slow-dancing.”
Enid’s mouth opens, just a touch.
Wednesday knew she would have to lead, but is shocked by how utterly useless Enid is in this entire process. She is almost ragdoll-like as Wednesday pulls her hands around her neck, and as Wednesday slips her own hands into the divots of her waist. As they start to sway, slowly, Wednesday painfully aware of the fact that anything faster or more technically challenging might cause in their mutual collapse, Enid shuffles closer, brushing their hips together, and making it so they are sharing breath.
The beat is synth-y, but slow, soft. It’s a pulse that rides through the soundwaves into their ears, down their spines, down to their feet which are knocking inexpertly together (through no fault of Wednesday’s own). Words that Wednesday doesn’t care to listen to croon underneath the spangly guitar.
“You know who got caught under the mistletoe?” Enid says. Her voice is quiet, almost a whisper, but it fills the space between them.
“Who?” Wednesday asks, not caring.
“Xavier and Ben.” Enid giggles. “Oh my God, it was so awkward. They, like, barely pecked. If Xavier wasn’t already kind of cool about the whole bi-curious thing, it probably would’ve gone so much worse.”
“Don’t be stupid, Enid. It’s parlor magic. It probably doesn’t work on people who are at all successful at hiding their feelings,” Wednesday says. Pauses. “Who is Ben?”
Enid groans. “He’s literally — he’s in, like, all our classes. You live under such a fucking rock, Wednesday. I hate you.”
Wednesday thumbs Enid’s waist through her shirt. She shivers.
“No, you don’t,” Wednesday says, barely audible.
A new song starts — low, with a heavy baseline. Underneath it trills a soft melody, dark and moody. Enid shifts against Wednesday, and Wednesday makes out the hint of a smile playing on Enid’s mouth.
“This sounds familiar,” Wednesday says.
“Oh?” Enid says.
Then Robert Smith begins to sing.
“...The Cure,” Wednesday says.
“Yeah.”
Enid looks inordinately pleased with herself. Wednesday can’t find it in herself to care — she tips their foreheads together, feeling the brush of Enid’s pruned eyebrows against her skin, the warmth emanating from every point of contact between them. Enid is so unbearably warm.
“I put it on the playlist,” she says. “‘It tortures me to move my hands, to try to move at all. And pulled my skin so tight it screams, and screams, and screams, and pulls some more.’”
One more treacherous night, Wednesday thinks. Another night with you.
“This song is about sex,” she says, not really sure what compels her.
“Yeah, and?” Enid says. “It sounds hot.”
She adjusts her hands so that both her arms are looped around Wednesday’s neck, lodged at the sweaty crooks of her elbows. She’s closer like this, their faces pressed together from their brows to the tips of their nose, their bodies from their chests to their knees.
“I thought you’d be harder to convince,” she says, like a confession. “This song was—” hiccup “—like my wild card, like if you kept not wanting to dance I’d be like, boom, The Cure. Now you’ve gotta.”
Wednesday shakes her head. She slides her hands from Enid’s waist to her lower back, fingertips peeking beneath the hem of her shirt, feeling the gooseflesh there.
“I cannot believe that you learned the lyrics,” she says, and hates the way her tone is almost reverent.
Enid huffs. “Well, I can’t help it. I thought of you when it—”
She’s abruptly cut off when someone knocks into her from behind and she stumbles against Wednesday’s chest, breaking her hold on Wednesday’s neck.
“Oh my God — sorry, I’m such an idiot,” Bianca says, rubbing at her forehead. She looks decidedly more sober than the people around her, but more inebriated than Wednesday had ever expected to see her.
“It’s fine,” Enid mumbles, sounding almost sleepy, and trying to wind herself back into Wednesday’s embrace. Wednesday lets her, gently, slipping one arm around her back, and attempting to guide them both back into a sway.
Only — she can’t. She can’t move her feet at all.
She looks up. Bianca looks similarly panicked.
Enid frowns up at her, then looks down at their feet, where Wednesday is still struggling futilely to break free. She looks up at Wednesday with large eyes, mouth soft and open, and for a moment, a smile overtakes her face — that is, until she unconsciously adjusts her position into something more comfortable, and seems to realize that her feet are not glued to the ground.
Slowly, she turns her head to look at Bianca, who is staring at the floor like she wants it to swallow her. Then Enid looks up to confirm what Wednesday has already seen — a piece of mistletoe floating in the air, equidistant from her and Bianca.
A beat. Two.
Then, Enid extricates herself silently, leaving the front of Wednesday’s body feeling sharply cold.
“Um,” she says. She’s looking resolutely at the ground, and her voice sounds thick. “Okay. Cool. So — I’ll give you guys some privacy, I guess.”
Her arms are hugged to her chest and Wednesday wishes she could catch a glimpse of her expression as she darts off, making for the bathroom as fast as her unsteady legs can carry her.
Bianca watches Enid go too, then snaps her gaze back to Wednesday.
“I am not kissing you, Wednesday Addams,” she says, resolutely, hands clenched at her sides.
Wednesday sighs.
—
After possibly the most painful five minutes of her life, consisting largely of spiteful back-and-forth bickering and culminating in an extremely awkward quarter-second contact in front of a rowdy gathered crowd, Wednesday makes for the bathroom. No one follows her.
When she opens the door, her dark-adjusted pupils are assaulted by the fluorescents. She blinks a few times, squinting, then closes the door behind her, shutting out the low hubbub of the party but not quite obscuring the thrum of the music, upbeat again.
She finds Enid curled under the piping of the sinks. Her knees are up to her chest and her chin is pillowed on them as she stares sullenly into one of the cubicles. She’s not crying now, but she obviously has been, tears streaking her red cheeks without marring her water-proof eye make-up.
Wednesday knocks on the ceramic of one of the protruding basins. Enid flinches.
“Oh,” she says, wiping her eyes. “Hey. How was it?”
“Terrible,” Wednesday says, honestly. “We got away with a corner-of-the-mouth kiss. Can I sit?”
Enid’s brow furrows, slightly, but she nods, and Wednesday slides onto the tile next to her, letting her head fall back against the wall and her feet press up against the divider between two stalls.
“This is disgusting,” she remarks.
Enid only shrugs. Wednesday is profoundly worried by the fact that she jumps neither to defend her choice nor to profusely agree, pointing out eight things wrong with the bathroom from hygiene to aesthetics that Wednesday had not thought to look for.
“Are you…” she says. She steels herself. “Are you okay?”
Enid laughs, wetly, but it doesn’t really sound happy. Wednesday stares resolutely at the toilet bowl opposite her, unsure what she would do if confronted with a technicolor image of Enid Sinclair in tears because of her.
“I don’t know,” Enid says, and there’s an ugly sniff. “I’m embarrassed.”
“Why?” Wednesday asks carefully.
“Ugh,” Enid groans. “God, it’s so stupid.”
“It’s not.”
“It is. It is, it is, it is. Stupid, and embarrassing. Fuck,” Enid says. “I shouldn’t even be talking right now. I am so going to regret this in the morning. You probably know everything now.”
Wednesday’s hands slide down from her knees to cup the toes of her boots, just for something to do. Her voice is uncharacteristically soft when she asks, “Everything?”
“You know! Don’t — make me say it,” Enid says. She starts off loud, almost angry, then trails off into something meek and so unlike her.
“I don’t,” Wednesday says. “I don’t know.”
Enid heaves a heavy sigh, then says, barely, “That I … like you.”
Wednesday doesn’t breathe. She doesn’t have to — once Enid’s faucet has been turned on, there is no blockading it.
“And I kind of thought tonight would be perfect, you know?” she says, voice a little ragged. “It’s so cliche. You’ll hate it. Just — mistletoe, and that song you like that reminds me of you, and dumb party games and getting drunk so I can touch you more and more and you won’t think it’s weird. But none of it worked.”
“Enid—”
“None of it worked! You didn’t wanna play games, and you didn’t wanna kiss me, and you got stuck under the mistletoe with Bianca—” Enid cuts herself off. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. I am … happy for you. I promise. It’ll just … take me some time to be happy happy, you know?”
Wednesday lets all the air out of her lungs, slowly. Then, she says: “Enid Sinclair, you are such a complete idiot sometimes that it is astounding.”
Silence. She turns to look, now, and finds Enid gaping, jaw almost hitting the floor. Then, her expression morphs into something affronted.
“Dude!” she says, wiping her face. “You can’t call me an idiot after I confess my feelings. That is such a dick move.”
The corner of Wednesday’s mouth twitches, but she suppresses it.
“Parlor magic,” she says. “Isn’t that what I just said?”
Enid frowns. “I don’t…”
“Spells are fickle. Love spells even more so. They’re strokes of luck, at best. Yoko said it herself — ‘strong feelings, mutual feelings,’” Wednesday says. She raises one eyebrow. “Do you really think a high school level witch’s spell is capable of distinguishing between a crush, and, say, an intense rivalry?”
Enid’s mouth falls open, and her cheeks go a pretty pink. “Oh.” She huffs, then looks down at her shoes. “Well, now I do feel stupid.”
The silence hangs between them for a moment. Something in the pipes hums, faintly, and the music still cushions their ears, bubblegum pop not so garish through the layer of the door. Almost sweet. Wednesday stares at Enid, who is folding in on herself like she might be able to make herself small enough to disappear.
“If you wanted to kiss me, Enid,” Wednesday says, voice low, and Enid looks up at her with wide eyes, “you only had to ask.”
Enid blinks. Then, “Oh.”
If she could go any redder at this point, she probably would. Wednesday mentally prepares herself to see the blood that has rushed to Enid’s cheeks start to leak out of her ears.
Then, Enid licks her lips almost subconsciously, and looks as if she might be preparing to lean in when Wednesday pulls sharply back. Enid’s brows furrow.
“Not now,” Wednesday says, feeling genuinely tempted. “I only want to kiss you when we’re both sober.”
Enid looks at her for a long moment, as if seeing her for the first time, and then, slowly, she smiles.
—
When Enid wakes up, she’s already groaning. Wednesday sits, unimpressed, at the foot of her bed, brandishing an iced water bottle and an aspirin like weapons.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Wednesday says.
Enid shuffles up onto her elbows. Her hair is smushed against one side of her face and her bleary eyes are raccoon-like from the make-up she never took off the night before.
“Isn’t it too early—” she tries, but cuts off, grimacing.
She gestures urgently for the bottle of water and Wednesday hands it over, rolling her eyes. Enid takes several long, grateful gulps, water dribbling messily out of the sides of her mouth and wetting the collar of her shirt. Wednesday looks on in mild interest.
Once Enid has drained almost half the bottle, she says, “Isn’t it too early for antagonistic flirting?”
It comes out a little croaky. Wednesday makes sure to look thoroughly unimpressed.
“Not if it’s not too early for words like ‘antagonistic,’ you little brainiac,” Wednesday says. She presses the aspirin to Enid’s lower lip. “Open up.”
Enid huffs but takes the pill without complaint, drinking the other half of the water bottle all at once. Then, she sits up fully in bed, and her brow furrows.
“Oh my God,” she says, and points accusingly at Wednesday. “You’re taking care of me.”
“I’m not making you chicken soup or anything so drastic, Enid,” Wednesday says. “Besides, you did infinitely more embarrassing things last night, including, but not limited to, making four misguided attempts to seduce me, and throwing breadcrumbs at Xavier and yelling for him to do a strip-tease.”
“It was nine attempts, actually, but thanks for noticing any of them,” Enid says, then grimaces. “And as for the other stuff — you ever seen Fight Club? You know the drill.”
Wednesday hasn’t seen Fight Club. She doesn’t know the drill. She doesn’t ask. Instead, she thumbs the bundle of leaves and berries in her lap, waiting for Enid to notice them. Sure enough, Enid’s eyes flicker down, following the movement. Then, they widen, still red-rimmed.
“Oh,” she says. She looks up at Wednesday with a grin. “Wednesday, you big softie.”
“Well, if you don’t want to…” Wednesday says, and makes as if she’s going to leave. Enid’s hand quickly shoots out to stop her, taking hold of Wednesday’s wrist. When Wednesday looks at her next, her wolfish grin has been reduced to a barely-there smile, her expression open and gentle.
“I didn’t say that,” she says.
Wednesday looks down, turning the mistletoe over, examining each pearlescent berry. When she was a child, before she had seen them, she imagined them as cherry red, like in bundles of thorny holly. This — it hadn’t looked like the kind of plant people should kiss under. But now, Wednesday feels Enid’s body heat radiating towards her, and thinks any more of it might kill her. Inhales the scent of her, even unshowered, and it tastes clean.
Wednesday throws the mistletoe up in the air, and it sticks in place a foot above their heads.
“Oh,” Enid says, frowning. She shuffles in place, trying to get either of her arms to move off the mattress. “I really should’ve thought about the fact that I’m lying down. You’re going to have to do literally all the work.”
“As per usual,” Wednesday says, idly, though her heart is thrumming in her sternum.
She leans down slowly, giving Enid ample time to pull her head back or tell her to stop. If Enid didn’t want this, Wednesday would rip the mistletoe from above their heads and rend it to shreds herself.
“Hey Wednesday?” Enid says.
Wednesday pauses, inches from Enid’s pink, chapped lips. “Yes?”
Enid smiles. “Merry Christmas.”
Wednesday stares. “It’s December eleventh.” She stares some more, then erupts, “And this isn’t Hallmark, Enid, what are you—”
Enid has to crane her neck up to close the gap. When she does, it’s dry and tastes like stale vodka and is, overall, not objectively spectacular. Wednesday doesn’t care. She feels it all the way down to her toes.
She can tell when the spell breaks. It’s different to her awkward cheek-kiss with Bianca, when it had burst apart and felt immediately freeing, like her limbs had been held in place by chains. Now, the magic washes over her, caressing her skin like the tips of downy feathers and leaving an unbearable softness in their wake. It doesn’t feel as if it leaves completely, still playing between their lips as they push and pull at each other, trying to get impossibly closer.
Possibly, though, this is simply the feeling of kissing Enid Sinclair.
Wednesday can tell when the spell breaks, and as soon as it does, she moves.