Chapter Text
Wednesday Adams was wholly unacquainted with indecisiveness.
All her life, stranded upon this vale of tears, she’d fancied herself above the monotony of it, thought of others who struggled with such things undeveloped at best, and inferior at worst. She never tried to conceal such an opinion, either: she wore her shroud of icy contempt as beautifully as the Nevermore uniform, dark and sharp, reminiscent of the pallbearer’s livery. Mother approved; she did always relish in the partaking of a good funeral. (Not Wednesday, however. She leaned towards the desolation of cinerariums. Urns did have such a pitiable charm to them.)
And now, day after day, uncertainty, restlessness, anxiety- such emotions would stir a storm in her stomach, generate a gyre in her gut. She was used to having steady ground beneath her feet, where the enemy was at least a bug-eyed Hyde who had the tendency to tear people into bloody ribbons. Now even that problem was gone, he was gone, and the school and effectively the town was saved, and there was nothing left in her life that could provide ample distraction from the horror that was Enid Sinclair.
Enid, with her rainbows and pastels and soft, cuddly sweaters. Enid, with her violently bright hair and her violently pink nails, with her violently bubbly personality and that infectious, indomitable vitality, as viral as the common flu that everyone seemed to catch as the months grew darker, colder, more attuned to an Adams’s lifestyle. Enid, her complete contrast. The sun to the moon. A body and its disembodied shadow.
I guess this is it, Enid had said to Wednesday. Don’t forget about me, roomie.
Ophelia Hall had been cast in the yolky glow of sundown, the emptied room bare exempting the made beds and the desks, stripped bare of the knickknacks that gave them their identity. The shimmer of it had caught the contours of Enid’s face. Maybe it was sentimentality that had gotten to Wednesday, a rare mushiness that had overtook her only twice. The first had been when her beloved scorpion Nero was interred in the family grounds. Understandable, she’d been seven. The second time, much more unforgivably, was when Enid had embraced her at the school gates, shivering and bloodied and wide-eyed with fear. Fear, from the thrill of the battle, the exhilaration of the hunt. Fear, all because of her.
Time will pass us by, Wednesday had said, after an uncharacteristic pause. We’ll be back in the thrall of Nevermore before we know it. And because looking at Enid’s hopeful face made something within her ache profoundly, she’d turned and started towards the door, Thing’s hardened nails clicking as it followed in tow.
Wednesday.
Enid’s plea had been so low, so soft, that Wednesday had almost missed it. But heard it she did, and by the time she was facing Enid again, her roommate was already standing before her, arms outstretched in offer.
Sorry, sorry, I know. Not a hugger, Enid said when she saw Wednesday’s face, laughing bashfully as she dropped her arms. Just thought I’d try my luck.
Well, you’ve hit the jackpot. And with an entirely new shyness- indecisiveness- that would keep Wednesday up thinking till the dead of night, Wednesday melted into Enid’s arms.
Wednesday was a girl blessed with many, many strengths. She was well versed in botany, masterful in fencing and archery, brilliant at the cello. She was an aspiring writer with an expansive mind for all things macabre, with eyes sharp enough to see beyond the surface, to dissect things for what they really were.
But each forte came with its foible. When Enid hugged her back, the musky, doggish scent of her wafting off of her sun-worn clothes, it was as if everything else in the world ceased to exist. In that moment, in the eternal stretch of time where Enid’s warmth bled into hers, Wednesday was neither a hero or a villain; not an outcast who was hated and feared and despised. She was only Wednesday, and before her was Enid, Enid, Enid. The only person in the world who could stare unflinchingly into the dark, and not even shudder when something unidentifiable stared back.
•••
“Wednesday, darling, you seem remarkably downcast,” stated Morticia Adams. A gastronomic spread lay on the black-laced table before them, dark and glorious, candelabras spilling silver candlelight that melted the gloomy shadows of the despondent house. “What has you in such a reflective mood?”
Morticia was a study in monochrome. Her ebony hair was long and beautiful, and her skin was faultless marble. She composed herself with a swan’s grace and timeless flair. An elegant arrangement of black chrysanthemums sat on a display table behind Morticia. Each petal was as slick and glossy as a raven’s feather. Wednesday kept her eyes on the vase, and traced the jigsaw intricacy of the pottery, unwilling to meet her mother’s porcelain gaze. Her plate sat before her, untouched, a serving of fried tarantula and tartar sauce, the animal’s body upturned, legs reaching for the sky.
Beside them, Pugsley was stuffing his face.
“Hunger is a fickle thing.” Gomez Adams wiped his greasy chin with an ashen napkin, corpulent and robust and invigorated, the final adjective seemingly inspired by his daughter’s returning to their bewitched household. His statement was accompanied by a full-bellied laugh. “Cara mia, our daughter has only just vanquished a great evil. Surely a waning appetite on her first night back is natural.”
As expected, her mother instantly softened.
“Go to bed, Wednesday,” said Morticia with the odd gentleness exclusive to her. “If you’re lucky, you might have your favourite nightmare tonight.”
“Yes! The one where you fall for an extensive amount of time into a pitch-black pit!” Her father bobbed his head encouragingly, and her mother, starry-eyed, reached out to lay a slender hand over his pudgy own.
Annoyance, disproportionately large, wholly misguided, swelled like a cyst in Wednesday. She quashed it immediately. The reason her parents were treating her like a child was because she was already acting like one. An outburst now would only make them more loving, more worried, more sympathetic.
She hated being pitied. It made her sick to her stomach.
“Excuse me, then,” she said curtly, and removed herself from the table and hence the room before her parents could begin to suck face for dessert.
“But it is odd,” said Morticia when Wednesday was out of earshot. “Her style of moping is strangely evocative of when you were trying to court me, darling. Wholly self-absorbed. Inconsolable.”
“Lamentation must hence run in our blood, which is a very good thing,” replied Gomez, and he bent his head to kiss Morticia on her third knuckle.
In Wednesday’s room, she dusted aside the freshly-spun cobwebs on her headrest and laid herself supine upon her bier, arms aligned with her sides. The gossamery sheets were thin and the temperature was deliciously sepulchral, just as she’d remembered, but she couldn’t help but think of Ophelia Hall and its other occupant. Something inexplicable was tethering her thoughts to Enid, and she didn’t understand what it was. And perhaps that was the most frustrating part.
There was a clicking of nails against the floor.
Thing, chalky and grey, scrambled up the side of her bed. Its stitches were thick and black, a contrast against the bluish-purple veins that ran light beneath its skin. She sighed irritably as it scrabbled towards her, gesturing as it did so.
“Don’t be a busybody.”
Thing rapped its knuckles against the iron frame.
Wednesday ignored it. She turned onto her side. Unwilling to give up, Thing tugged at her shirt.
“Get out.”
Thing clambered over her back. She made a sound of annoyance when it landed in the space between her arm and face, flapping like a dead fish.
Wednesday pushed Thing away. “It’s not him,” she snapped. Simply thinking of Tyler- of the way she’d let him hold her her, touch her, kiss her; the foolish way she’d trusted him, allowed the deceitful hellspawn space in her heart- it made her blood boil. “Never him.”
Thing rapped its knuckles again.
“It’s not Picasso, either.”
Thing twitched its index inquisitively.
“Ask again, and I’ll see that your favourite finger is hacked off with a saw and grounded into feed for Mother’s carnivorous menagerie.” Wednesday poked its wrist harshly. “Know that I do not take reconnaissance lightly. My conniving parents can do without the additional information.”
Thing tapped quickly.
“Swearing on your lavender-scented hand cream?” Wednesday snorted with derision. “Perhaps your words do hold some weight.”
Thing tapped again. It then crossed its fingers.
“I’ll confide in you when the sun extinguishes,” she replied.
The conversation was over when she shut her eyes.
•••
The dream came to her in the sleepy way a fog might drift over a forest, slow and heavy and unbidden. Instead of the pit, it was a pair of hands that her mind conjured, both tangible and intangible, tightroping the thin line between the astral realm and reality. The hands cupped her face. She leaned into them. She knew who the person before her was- in the irrevocable way one never unlearned the metallic tang of blood, its overbearing scent matted in hair, in clothes- and would have still loved her if she hadn’t.
Tenderly, Enid traced the curve of Wednesday’s eyelid with a thumb.
The yearning was present before she even woke. Moonlight, seeping from between the clouds, spilling through the cracks in the curtains. The ache she’d been afflicted with in Ophelia Hall had bloomed to life in her chest, cracking her ribcage wide, unfurling the bones in the way a butterfly might spread its wings, exposing her beating heart. Immediately, the absence of the hands was obvious. They had carved something integral from her; left her hollow in their wake.
She soaked in the feeling. The pure intensity of it left her feeling raw, unsteady. In the dream, she’d been content in a way she knew she would never feel again.
•••
The weeks seemed to drag on, aimless.
Deprived of the will to do anything more significant than exist, Wednesday took to reacquainting herself with the familial bloodhounds. When she was not in the mood to read, she went for hour-long walks with her favourite hound in the narrow forest situated behind the estate, trees dense and white like pillars of bone, sunlight dilute and milky from being foliage-filtered thrice. She was so distant and subdued that even the spirits in the attic began to bang on the windows, howling with the wind.
Her mother attempted interference, just the once.
“Wednesday,” said Morticia on a stormy Sunday, the black of her gown a reflection of the starless night. She had a way of walking that reminded Wednesday of parasails gliding over the sea. “We’ll be getting out the ouija board in the parlour after supper. Tonight’s theme is clairvoyance.” This last word was pronounced in such a way that, in the past, would have at least piqued Wednesday’s interest. But she was sick of seeing the future, sick of augurs and omens and foreboding visions.
“Stop blocking the corridor,” was all Wednesday said, before brushing past her mother.
•••
On one of her weekly excursions to the milky woods, Wednesday saw her first ghost.
It’d been five in the afternoon, pale sunbeams falling onto the sparse branches of the trees, splayed like the fingers of a witch’s hand. The trail, worn beneath her boots, herbaceous with humus, Fang her favourite hound (Doberman, tall as Wednesday’s knee, her coat like rippling night) beside her. A faint buzzing in the air. Lichen fuzzy on bark. Fungi, round and smooth in the damp.
Fang had been sniffing about the undergrowth, ribs contracting and expanding with great interest. Whenever Fang detected movement, she’d pounce, give chase to anything that came sprinting out of hiding. Nine out of ten times she’d return to lay a dead bird or field mouse at Wednesday’s feet.
“Oh, for me?” Wednesday would say each time, crouching and scratching Fang behind the ears. “What a nice gift.”
But now, Fang jumped. She did not give chase. Instead, she growled, her hackles rising. She began to slaver, ears flattened against her skull, and her dark lips pulled back to reveal sharp yellowed teeth.
Wednesday said, “Fang, down,” and Fang thoroughly ignored her.
She stepped forward. Fang’s entire body was taut, drawn as tight as a coiled muscle. Wednesday traced Fang’s line of sight to a narrow gap between the trees. Perhaps it was the shadows contributing to the illusion, the waning light of the gloaming, but she could make out a face just behind the overhanging foliage. A wide, gaping mouth, dislocated jaw, squirming maggots for a tongue. Blackened sockets for eyes. Hair like drain-clog, wet and filthy. Its body intangible, impermanent, a silver of shadow.
Wednesday stared at it. She sighed.
“I’m not that great a psychic,” said Wednesday. “I’m new to the game. If you have anything you want to tell anyone, some form of vengeful haunting for a messy breakup or anything relatively homicidal, then I’m not the one you should be asking for help.” She paused. “If you’re really desperate, however, there’s always my mother. She could use a good possession. It clears her sinuses.”
The ghost opened its mouth.
“Enid,” it whispered. It had an eerie voice, high-pitched, otherworldly. Childlike. It sent shivers up her spine. “I love you, Enid.” Its broken mouth tilted upwards on both ends. This, Wednesday realised, awash in a sudden cold, was meant to be a lovely, saccharine smile.
“Fang,” she called. Her own voice was strange to her ears. “We’re going back.” She turned and started walking briskly. Fang unleashed a final growl before bounding after Wednesday. She didn’t pause to check if the ghost was following her. She didn’t want to.
After she returned Fang to the kennels, she went into the house. In the family library, heavy curtains drawn to protect the aging books and their soft, leathery covers, she found it. The journal she’d read as a child, Strange Encounters, penned by a former occupant of the house before the woods. She remembered little about what she’d read, but it was enough to get her to where she needed to be.
Wraiths, the author had wrote. Manifestations of soul shedding that are unable to be broken down by natural processes. Found in tenebrous, isolated areas, such as graveyards, dilapidated buildings, and forests. They are usually idle- at most, they may take to goading and mimicry- but they can gain strength from acute exposure to traits such as pathos or bathos. Wraiths will only be a threat if such exposure is chronic. Look to Remedies for Strange Encounters by Liam A. Salt for further details.
If you have happened to awaken a wraith, simply avoid its territory for as long as reasonably possible. That is to say, months, or even years. Cut off from its energy source, it will return to being idle, and will disappear given some time.
Remember: wraiths are but reflections of your own heart.
Squashing the urge to defenestrate herself, she closed the journal, returned it to its shelf, and went to bed.
•••
The wraith was not the only anomaly to grace her that day.
She was awakened by the incessant buzz of the long-forgotten phone in her schoolbag, hanging by the door. She wasn’t an expert on those electronic devices, foreign contraptions she was convinced were manufactured as a way for people to melt their brains by consuming more slop than they already were, but she was sure that it should have ran out of charge by now.
Stepping over her to her bag where it lay on her drawer, she flipped it open.
The phone gleamed from within. Generic wallpaper, generic touchscreen. She took the phone out of the bag. An unknown person was calling her. But before she could figure out how to answer it, the buttons vanished.
A text message popped up, accompanied by the unfamiliar notification ring.
This was familiar territory. Xavier had taught her how to navigate to the app. This was exactly what she did, and she saw that the same unknown person had texted her.
Greetings, Wednesday.
*Wedneaday
*Wednesday
Damn this blasted technology.
I’ve got a little surprise for you…
Below, a photo. It was of a cabin built from logs in the woods. At first glance, it looked entirely ordinary, but Wednesday could see the streaks of dried blood smeared on the patio, winding up the battered stairs and trailing like an asp into the cabin. She could see the chalk drawings of protective sigils sketched upon the pot of each of the herbs that lined the base of the cabin, a fleshy parade. She could see the hazy outline of what looked to be two stick figures drawn in the dust of the window. One wore a black uniform and a frown. The other was cheerful, surrounded by a mandorla of rainbows and sparkles. Both appeared to be dead, if the knives lodged in their chests were any indication.
I’ll see you in you’re second semester.
Take car, Wednesday.
*Care
Wednesday scowled. She typed a message.
The aspect of your grammar is more horrendous than whatever threat you can besiege me with.
I’ll see you too, dickhead.
Hands trembling, Wednesday left the house, phone in her pocket. She collected the axe from where Lurch usually left it, having split enough logs for the hearth. Tossing the phone onto the chopping block, she raised the axe high, brought it down hard. The phone splintered upon contact. She repeated the process thrice, channelling her rage into the motion, showering black plastic and circuitry and technobabble over the moonlit grass.
When she was happy with her work, she tossed the axe aside, shoulders heaving from the effort. Right before she reentered the house, she noticed the warped figure of the wraith, hovering balefully by the shed in which they stored their fertilisers. It was watching her with those hollow, abyssal eyes.
“I didn’t know I had an audience,” she said dismissively, trusting the wind to carry her words across to the abhorrence. “You’re not welcome here, you… creature. Leave at once.”
It opened its mouth.
“I love you, Enid,” the wraith whispered. Its voice was soft and clear. It smiled. A maggot wriggled free of its rubbery lips, daintily white. “I will protect you from all harm. It is us against the world, and if need be, the latter can always burn.”
Wednesday stormed inside. She was not worried about an invasion; the spirits in the attic would tear any interloper apart, regardless of whether they were human or otherwise. She made sure to slam the door hard enough to rattle the knocker and the transept, undoubtedly waking Thing, leaving her truth to whisper sweet nothings into the night.
•••
Uncle Fergus came to visit over the holidays. He stayed in the guest room for three days and two nights. Wednesday did not speak to him for the duration of his visit; she avoided him, sequestering herself into the library with the excuse of preparing for her second semester. When it was finally time for his departure, she watched him get into the funeral car from the safety of her window, and remained long after the car had vanished into the distance.
•••
There was talk of Pugsley attending Nevermore alongside his sister, but Wednesday shut the idea down as quickly as it arose.
“The dust has not fully settled, Mother, Father,” she’d said to them. “If a second witch-hunter comes floating into Nevermore with glowing eyes and a book of nursery rhymes, I’ll have my hands full taking care of myself. I won’t allow myself to be further encumbered by deadweight.”
“I’m not deadweight,” Pugsley protested. His body was in the phase where it confused itself; he was awkward with longer limbs and a throatier voice and a hormonal disposition. “I can handle myself.”
“Puberty,” said Wednesday sadly. “It does heighten one’s propensity for delusion.“
•••
Before long, the holidays came to a stagnant conclusion. There was the by-now familiar hustle and bustle of luggage, of shutting trunks and flipping bags shut and loading them all into the hearse. She visited Fang one final time before the departure. Then they bundled themselves into the car and Lurch folded his hulking frame into the driver’s seat. Her father put the vinyl on, and a poignant voice floated up from the speakers, loud enough to rattle the undercarriage. The car sped off. She caught the silhouette of a grey, waifish figure watching from the house. Then it was gone.
Wednesday buried herself in a novel. When her parents began to perform an earnest duet, she wished she could actually be buried. Preferably in a bog, where the deoxygenated conditions were attuned to preserve a body so remarkably well that the facial features remained even after the first century. (She loved bogs; they were marvels of nature.)
When the hearse finally drew before the looming gates of Nevermore, her parents had moved onto another album, as well as each other. Amidst the stomach-churning sounds of her parents making out, she imagined herself spiked like kebab upon the finials of the gate. A far better fate than being living witness to parental affections. Soon the school was in sight- a towering mass of dark, harrowing cobblestone, a promise to meet the unseen, a sheen of ivy and climbing vines dripping down its walls- and the unease in her stomach swelled to the point where she felt as if she were going to choke.
Some of this discomfort must have broken through her stoic expression, because her father leaned forward to pat her hand.
“You’ll be fine, Wednesday,” he said. “You’re incredible at anything you do. Nothing will change that.”
Wednesday shot him a look. Her father was not blameless in concealing what she considered to be the truth from her, but unlike her mother, he’d always been the more biddable one. She met his gaze, held it briefly, before she exited the hearse.
Outside, the skies were an unimpressive blue. Lurch was already handling her luggage. Around them were kids in the Nevermore uniform, blazers of black and purple stripes. The four main cliches: scales and sirens and stoners and furs, all of them loud and boisterous and so unlike any other.
Someone called Wednesday’s name. It was familiar enough that her heart stuttered, that poor, woeful thing. She turned to the source of it, and she saw Enid flouncing towards her. She’d switched up her hair. It was shorter, bangs dyed rainbow. Like a Paddle Pop, Wednesday thought faintly, imagining the scale of the rash it’d give her.
“Roomie!” Enid exclaimed happily, seizing Wednesday by the arm. She was radiant. The difference in their dispositions was enormous. “How was the holidays? Where’s Thing? Did it get the nail polish it wanted? Oh, hi Mr and Mrs Adams! You both look as great as ever.”
“Hello, Enid,” Morticia said warmly. “The same goes for you.”
“If enough has been said, then I will take my leave,” said Wednesday stiffly. At the sound of Enid’s voice, Thing had dropped from beneath the car and clambered up Enid’s leg, where it now perched daintily on her shoulder. “Mother. Father. Take care.”
Her parents chorused their goodbyes. Right before the hearse drove off, she saw her father give her mother a meaningful look. They both watched the hearse drive off, disappearing beyond the gates and down the road.
“I feel like I was too much,” Enid said, notably quieter. “I think I got too excited. Sorry, Wednesday.”
“Save it.” Wednesday begun walking towards the dorms. There it was again- the spiteful feeling of indecisiveness. “Never apologise for adhering to your sense of individualism. Because that’s when you truly lose.”
“Hah! That’s such a you thing to say.” Grinning, Enid slunk to her side, hands behind her back, linked at the wrist. “God, I missed you and your snark.”
Wednesday focused on walking. One feet after the other. “I would miss me, too.”
“Aww, come on. You’re not gonna say it back?”
Wednesday snorted.
“Dream on, Sinclair,” she said, cuffing her best friend on the ear.
•••
Nevermore was the same as ever. The shaded stone halls were packed with the open day muster, handmade flags and painted banners fluttering and calling from every wall, dripping glitter into every alcove. The oversized face of the new principal, Darry Bort, was plastered over the main atrium. (He was a sapling of a man, weedy and pale.) Students hollered enticements for clubs, parents of every kind flitted about, and the teachers hurried about in droves. It was pandemonium, but it was the good, bustling kind.
“I need to tell you something,” said Enid, easily keeping up with Wednesday’s brisk pace. (Werewolves, also known as furs; they were blessed with superhuman athleticism.) They wove through the hustle and bustle with expert ease. “It’s nothing bad, just… yeah.”
“What is it?”
“I’ll tell you when we get back. Hmm, wait.” Enid frowned. “The thing that’s been bothering me…” She leaned in and sniffed at Wednesday’s clothes.
Wednesday seized Enid by her shoulders. Werewolves also had an acute sense of smell. She curtly reduced the proximity between them, but not before Enid deftly plucked a bit of fur from her lapel.
“I knew it. That’s dog fur!” Seemingly on reflex, Enid bared her canine teeth. The look was such an incongruent contrast to her usual cheeriness that it was startling. “Wednesday, you have a dog.”
“A bloodhound, to be exact.”
Enid was genuinely upset. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a pet?”
“Fang’s not a pet,” Wednesday said, mildly befuddled. To her, pets were animals that you shared an indefatigable bond with and dressed up in silly props like a ribbon or a tailored pinafore. She didn’t understand the reason for Enid’s disconsolateness. “She’s a dog we keep for the hunting season. Her best trick is snapping the necks and severing the jugulars of wild hares.”
“She has a name, too?”
“Enid, don’t be ridiculous. We’re not going to call them asinine things like Dog One and Dog Two.”
“You’re right, but that’s not the problem.” Enid shook her head, frustrated. “It’s fine. Given some time, her smell will go away.”
Wednesday wanted to further this line of questioning. But a rambunctious party of Nevermore kids swept past them- Wednesday recognised Ajax, Yoko, Divina and Kent- and from amidst their ranks, Bianca Barclay shot her a wide, dazzling smile.
“If it isn’t pigtails!” Bianca glided over to Wednesday. Her sea-green eyes were as glassy and captivating as marble, a direct counterpart to her swarthy skin. “How has life as Nevermore’s saviour been?”
“Swimmingly smooth,” said Wednesday flatly. Ajax was glancing over at Enid, who was pretending to study a dog-earred brochure tacked to the noticeboard. This was instantly alarming: they should have been rolling down the corridors in each other’s arms in a grotesque display of public affection the moment their eyes locked together. “Though I should have brought my fishing rod along. I’ve been dying to try some mythological seabass.”
Bianca laughed heartily. “You’re as prickly as ever,” she said warmly. “It’s good to have you back.” And then she was gone, reabsorbed into one of her many clichés.
Wednesday looked accusingly at Enid.
“That was one of the things I wanted to tell you,” Enid said meekly. “We kind of broke up during vacation.”
“Good thing I packed the iron maiden, then.”
“No, wait,” Enid said hastily. “I was the one who ended things.” She rocked back on her toes. There was a frazzled energy about Enid that Wednesday couldn’t quite place her finger on.
“Good.” Bianca’s presence had drew attention to the both of them. A couple of kids approached Wednesday, imploring her to sign their t-shirts. She ignored the supplication, and they huffed and stormed away. “You finally came to your senses. I always did think that you deserved better.”
That got a laugh out of Enid. “Really?”
Wednesday fixated a gaggle of incoming students with a glare. They backed off, giggling nervously. “Don’t make me repeat myself for the sake of your ego.”
“Ouch. But seriously, though.” Enid grinned, endlessly effulgent, endlessly charming. Sunbeam girl, with pink lips like sugar, freckled cheeks like caramel apples, eyes as sharply blue as the midsummer sky. There might as well have been an ocean between them: Wednesday had to look away, because of how much it felt like she was drowning. Because of how much it hurt. “You deserve better, too.”
“I don’t need your pity,” Wednesday said. Even thinking about Tyler enraged her. She noticed Thing observing her from Enid’s shoulder. She instantly schooled her face into its usual glower.
“It’s not pity. It’s empathy.” Enid waved personably at a passing group of students. As far as Wednesday was concerned, Enid’s network of mutuals was as complex as a spiderweb. She always seemed to know everyone.
“Semantics.”
“Well, everyone’s entitled to their opinion. I say we agree to disagree.”
“I accept. Smart girl.”
Enid beamed like the sun.
They made their way to the dorms. Ophelia Hall was just as Wednesday remembered. As Enid kicked the door shut, she was awash in a wave of vertigo. Had she ever left? Her luggage was already piled neatly onto her side of the room. She crossed to where her cello sat in its hard case. As always, Enid’s side of the room was a messy splash of every hue of the rainbow, items thrown about, suitcases gutted and spilling sartorial offal, laptop open to the webpage of her blog, where Thing was busily typing away.
There was a note on her pillow. She picked it up and unfolded it. The words on the note bobbed as she read them. Enchanted paper; this was the work of a psychic.
Hey, Wednesday. I’m sorry I couldn’t come greet you in person, but I had to attend an event today, and I think you lost the phone I gave you before vacation.
Mind if we catch up at the gardens later, around six? I’ve got something that you should see.
Wednesday frowned as the letters of each word begun to rearrange themselves into a picture, like hundreds of starlings blotting out the sky. A face- a woman’s face. Glacially impartial, bags beneath her eyes, lips as dark as a smear of blood. Her own portrait glared at her from the page.
“Fancy party trick,” Wednesday muttered, crumpling the note, glancing at her wristwatch. There was still half an hour to six. There was something exceedingly arrogant about the way he hadn’t even bothered introducing himself in the note. Almost as if he were saying, see this? It’s a talent exclusive to me, and only me.
She respected that.
“You wanted to tell me something,” said Wednesday aloud. Her voice echoed. (Fitting, the kids at her fourth school had called her a psychopathic narcissist.)
“Yeah.” Enid had flopped onto her bed starfish-style, and was unsheathing and retracting her colourful nails, pointing them at the rafters. “Wednesday, do you know what an alpha is?”
“No.”
“An alpha is a late bloomer who wolfs out during a blood moon. They’re crazy strong werewolves who can choose to transform whenever they want, but are kind of assholes about the whole thing, which is why everyone else either wants to kill them or hunt them down. They don’t have to wait for a full moon or whatever. But, if they shift during a full moon, they most likely won’t be able to turn back. They’ll be stuck in their wolf form until the other packs kill them.”
Wednesday waited. Enid sat up, a hand on her neck.
“So! Turns out, I’m an alpha,” said Enid. She laughed nervously. “Come on, Weds. I need to see your reaction.”
Wednesday leaned against her desk. “I’m assuming that based on your wishy-washy demeanour, this isn’t a discovery deserving celebration.”
“Yeah, it’s kind of bad. But being an alpha kind of has its perks? You’re really strong, and you can shift on command.”
“And if you lose control, you get hunted down by your own.”
Enid withered. “Spot on, Weds.”
“How did your family take it?” Wednesday asked.
“My family? Eh, they’ve been kind of vague.”
“At the prospect of having to slaughter their own flesh and blood like cattle at the abattoir, no doubt.”
“Come on,” said Enid. She sounded hurt. “You don’t think I’m that weak, do you?”
“You’re not weak,” said Wednesday neutrally. “Just young and inexperienced and mercurial.”
“You sound like a dad,” Enid grumbled. “A mean old dude who drives a forklift and hates the San Jose Sharks.”
“I fail to see the correlation between forklifts and ice hockey, but I rest my case.”
“Whatever. But I could transform right now,” said Enid, perking up. “Do you want to see?”
Wednesday scoffed. “I’ve seen your wolf form, Enid.”
“You’re still the only one who’s seen it. My family’s been begging me to show them for weeks. But I won’t change for them.” Enid tilted her head proudly. “I’ll do it on my own accord.”
Wednesday eyed Enid warily. Enid was sitting upright. Her back was straight. She was staring intently at Wednesday, awaiting her response.
“You’re serious,” said Wednesday at last.
“Oh, baby, I am so serious.”
“If this is because I insulted you, then forget it.”
“I don’t do things so I can prove myself to anyone anymore, Weds. You taught me that.”
“No,” said Wednesday.
“Yes,” said Enid.
“You’ll rip your uniform, you idiot.”
“That’s your concern? I can always just take it off.” Enid begun to shrug off her blazer.
“If I may interject. Have you thought about the size of the room? About Thing? About me?” Wednesday was aware that she was rambling, an entirely new concept borne of panic.
“It’s not like I’m going to go full wolf. I’ll just, I dunno, pop an arm and leg and then change back.”
Enid’s blazer was off. She’d seen her roommate undress hundreds of times, but that was prior to the epiphany the dream (and the wraith) had pushed her to have. Even though there was nothing explicit in Enid’s movements or appearance, the sight of her collarbones pressing against her shirt was apparently enough to fluster her. Wednesday instantly turned to her luggage, pretending to rifle through a duffel bag, ignoring the sensation of heat slowly seeping into her ears.
“Do you have any idea how ridiculous you’ll look?”
“Wednesday, what’s up with you? I thought you’d have loved seeing something as brutal as this.” Enid frowned at her. “Where did my I-have-a-favourite-execution-method-for-each-time-period girl go?”
“Back to hell, presumably along with the wretched soul of Joseph Crackstone.” She desperately needed to change the topic. “Earlier, we had a whole skirmish about me having a dog. What was up with that?”
Thankfully, Enid let the previous subject go.
“Oh. Uh, alphas are also sorta territorial.” Enid winced. “Much more than normal werewolves.”
Wednesday paused. Then she snickered.
“Are you saying that you see me as your property?”
“Now that you put it like that, it does kinda seem that way.” Enid laughed, embarrassed. She had turned a light, blushing pink. “You’ve made it weird. Listen, I can’t really help it. We’re friends. It’s a stupid alpha thing. The scent of other canines has been really pissing me off. Sometimes, I can’t even stand being near the lupin cages.”
Wednesday thought for a bit.
“Pass me your sweater,” she said. “Not that one. The grey one.” Enid made a face, but tossed it to Wednesday. Wednesday rubbed the sweater over her clothes sharply, catching a hint of Enid’s scented shampoo, before tossing it right back.
“Scent eradicated,” she said. “Anything else?”
Enid had the sweater in her lap. “Um, no.”
“If anything’s bothering you, don’t keep it hidden. It’ll just create issues in the long term.”
“Yeah, of course.” Enid’s voice was funny. “I’ll tell you.”
“Good.” Wednesday looked at her watch. She kicked off her desk and went to the door. “I’ll see you later, Sinclair.”
“Bye,” said Enid. It was only after the door closed behind Wednesday that she hugged the sweater to her chest.
###
Don’t be a wuss, her oldest brother had once told her, the night before her thirteenth birthday. The full moon hung in the sky like a diamond on velvet, and its quicksilver glow filtered in through the gaps in the drawn shades. He’d called out to her as he’d descended into the basement to be locked up. It’s easy, pup. When you feel the rush, the addictiveness of it, just hold on. Move into it, flow with it. And don’t fucking let go.
She’d tried, of course. In the dark, in each of their cages- the feeders stockpiled with bloody meat, the space just large enough to accommodate the average wolf- she listened to the pop of ligaments, the snapping of jaws, the growl of the emerging beast. She’d searched for the feeling within her. When her family howled, a cry that reverberated in the marrow of her bones, she’d howled along with them. And in the morning, she’d unlock their cages with the same sheepish grin. It’s fine, pup, her dad had reassured her, blearily ruffling her hair. She couldn’t remember a time when the basement hadn’t smelled like blood. It’s still April. There’s plenty of full moons to go.
April had turned to May, and May to June, and June to July. Her wolf’s a shy one, she’d heard her mon laugh on the phone, a lazy one! She just needs some time. Then our family will be complete.
Her human boyfriend at the time had broken up with her for that very reason. I can’t be with a girl who might animorph and eat me any moment, he’d told her firmly, while his friends had snickered behind him. Honestly, it’s pretty weird in general. You should be glad I even dated you, Enid. He’d walked off with them, then. One of them had sneered at her, mocked her as they left. I’m the whore from Twilight! Awoo! Awoo!
The bullying only stopped when she’d transitioned to being homeschooled. She badgered her mom for months on end about the tiresome humans, the toothless normies, the endless oppression. Maybe being around humans all the time is suppressing my ability to wolf out, she’d claimed. Anything to get away from that hellhole. Maybe I need like, deep immersion. Whatever it’s called. Then I can finally be one of you.
Her mom had pulled her out of school the next day.
But only days after she’d dropped out, her mom had sat her down. There’s this school that I think would be best for you, she’d said. It’s called Nevermore Academy. I heard that they accept wolves, and I thought- well, maybe being around other wolves your age will help you out.
So she’d went. Nevermore had been everything she could have ever dreamed of. She made new friends, met new wolves, experienced things a normie could only dream of. But the months went by, followed by one year, then two.
You’re joking, her uncle had said to her mom, during one of the family dinners. Kinid still hasn’t wolfed out? How old is she? Sixteen?
It’s Enid, her mom had said coolly. And she’s fifteen.
Her uncle had bitten into a bloody rib. You know what we have to do to those who can’t transform.
You think I don’t know?
Esther. Her uncle lowered his voice. We haven’t had to cast anyone out in three generations.
I know that, her mom had said shrilly, but there was a wavering quality to it now, a sadness that Enid had never heard before. Then, quieter: It’s not her fault.
You should talk to Meenid.
It’s Enid. Her mom had sighed. You’re right. I have to talk her into attending summer camp.
But what was there left to say?
In the end, Enid had ditched the cookout altogether. She’d went down to the convenience store, brought a bottle of soap with those bubble sticks for a dollar, had blew them into the evening on an overpass. Thought about what she’d say to her mom if she was as brave as she should be. She’d watched the bubbles drift over the cars rushing by, and had thought about how she’d never been enough. All her life, she’d straddled the line between human and wolf, a foot planted in each world. She was a failure in both. Too much girl. Too much teeth.
All of that changed the day Wednesday Adams arrived at Nevermore.
The first time Enid had seen her new roommate, she’d hated her. Midnight girl, with skin as smooth and pale as marble, eyes darker than a starless sky, prim and proper in a colourless version of the Nevermore uniform. She smelled like grave dirt and medicinal herbs and wax candles. She was a ritual of everything Enid couldn’t stand: she was arrogant, snappish, and contemptuous. She comported herself as if the entire world was beneath her.
And worst of all: she was perfect.
Fencing, archery, music. Old money, old history. Beauty, intelligence, guts. Wednesday Adams, named for a poem- oh, she had it all. But it was not what the other kids focused on.
That’s her, they whispered. They say she killed a kid in her previous school; that this is her fifth transfer. She went to my cousin’s school- people say that she’s fucked up in the head. That she doesn’t have a heart.
In response, all Wednesday had to say about it was this: it’s my sixth transfer, not the fifth. And since we’re on the subject of monikers, I’d like to propose ‘psychopath’. It’s my personal favourite.
But as Enid had gotten to know her roommate, she’d discovered that all of it wasn’t true. While Wednesday was at times cruel and insensitive, she certainly wasn’t heartless. When Wednesday played her cello on the balcony, Enid thought she could hear it: weaved into the dark and terrible music was an insurmountable loneliness. And afterwards, when Enid begun to pay attention, this loneliness became obvious. It was in everything Wednesday did. It radiated from her determination, her judgement, her hate. It crept into the pages of her novel. It bled from the way she’d looked at Enid when they’d first spoke on the balcony.
Despite everything, Wednesday had grown to care for her. Unlike her family, who loved only the parts of her they could control, Wednesday had accepted everything about Enid, from the very best to the very worst.
It was most likely why when Enid finally wolfed out, she hadn’t been thinking of anything but Wednesday. Beneath the swell of muscle and the elongation of her jaw, burning brightly through the pain was the need to protect. She’d done that. She’d saved her best friend. She’d survived.
And when she’d finally gathered enough of her strength to limp back to the gates of Nevermore, Wednesday had taken one look at her, the both of them bloodied and raw and alive, and they’d collided in a crushing hug. At the time, she’d had multiple broken ribs, and Wednesday was squeezing them all. But the pain hadn’t been enough to stop her from realising that she might be in love with her best friend.
###
Her belief had solidified when Ajax called her for the eighth time during their vacation. He’d talked on about his trip to the countryside, and she’d lain on her bed in her room, phone pressed to her ear, distracted by the blustery swirl of the ceiling fan, overly aware of the absence of a second heartbeat in the room. She hadn’t heard a word of what he was saying, which was to be expected.
Naturally, he’d been upset. It feels like you aren’t here with me anymore, he’d said, the hiss of his snakes audible through the receiver. You’re always distant. Like you’re somewhere else.
I’m not, she’d replied. The days were getting longer, the nights shorter. When she turned the lights off, the space between the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling reminded her of Wednesday’s eyes. I’m at home. You’re in the countryside.
You know what I mean, Enid.
She’d remained silent. He’d coughed, unable to withstand the quiet.
If you aren’t feeling us anymore, you should have just said so, he’d said, voice odd. I like you, Enid, but it doesn’t mean that you have to like me too. You can like someone else. We don’t have to waste each other’s time.
What? Enid had sat up, heart skipping in her chest. What are you trying to say?
I know, Enid, he’d said, and this time he sounded tired. It wasn’t obvious, not at first. Guess what they say about opposites attract is true. But fucking hell, dude. I’ve seen the way you look at her. He paused. You’ve never looked at me like that.
She’d panicked.
Ajax-
Am I right or not?
Enid couldn’t find it in herself to reply. But it hadn’t mattered. Her silence was answer enough.
It’s okay. It’s fine. He’d laughed, hollow. I’m not gonna tell on you. We can still be friends. I’m not like, lesbaphobic. Fuck, that’s not a word. Homophobic. Or the other one. Biphobic. But I’m rambling. There was the crackle of plastic. A sniff. When he spoke, his voice was thick with tears. Dude, I’m crying like a baby. I’m using my gran’s expensive double-ply tissues. This is so dumb.
It’s not dumb, Enid had said quietly. I’m sorry, Ajax.
Ajax blew his nose loudly.
It’s okay. But I should go. I’m like, a wreck right now.
Okay.
I’ll see you back at school, Enid.
Yeah. You too.
When she ended the call, she’d been struck with a peculiar mixture of grief and relief.
###
Home hadn’t been the same as it once was when she returned. Be careful around the other wolves, the Nevermore advisor had told her. As an alpha, you’re responsible for handling your new strength in a way that doesn’t affect everyone around you. Things will be different. You’re a brave girl, Enid. I hope you can understand that.
I do understand, she’d said, but she hadn’t, not really. At least not fully. But in her defence, there were just some things you can’t predict.
One of those things was her family’s newfound deference. At mealtimes, she noticed that until she took her seat at the table, no one else did. Her brothers, who she’d known to be greedy and ravenous her whole life, only begun to polish off their plates after she’d taken her first bite. In the living room, her dad would give up the cool seat on the couch if it was too hot, and they’d turn on the heater whenever she complained about it being too cold. It never took anyone more than a minute to leave the bathroom whenever she needed to shower.
Saturday night, three weeks into the holidays. She had a headache and was hence in a bad mood; a truculent one. She’d stormed out of her room and into her eldest brother’s room. You’re being too loud, she’d yelled at him. He’d been on call with his friends, shouting commands and gaming strategies into his mic for hours.
Sorry, he’d said simply. She’d stared.
You’re fucking joking, she’d said. The brother she knew would tell her to fuck off. They’d have a screaming match, slam doors, and that would be the end of it.
He took off his headset when it was obvious that she didn’t intend to leave. I’m not going to argue with you, Enid, he’d said. His head was lowered, his gaze fixated on the ground.
Enid? She’d been overwhelmed by an uncontrollable torrent of emotion. She’d wanted to tear her own hair out. You don’t call me by my name. You never used to do that.
Things have changed. Her brother shrugged. I’m proud of you.
A stupid title doesn’t change anything. She’d wanted to cry. All I wanted was to finally be a part of the family. You taught me how to transform. Find the rush, move into it, flow with it-
And don’t let go, he’d finished, smiling up at her. You’re an alpha, Enid. You are a Sinclair.
Not like this. This is stupid. Werewolf rules are stupid.
But it’s reality, he’d said, and she’d thrown a comic book at him and left.
So much had changed, and yet it felt as if nothing was different at all. She’d gotten with Ajax. She’d broken up with him. She was still the estranged one in her family, the lost pup, the black sheep. She was in love with someone unreachable again- mordant Wednesday Adams, who loved boys like she loved the esoteric, who would always be too good for anyone lesser.
Enid knew the sound of Wednesday’s heartbeat better than she knew her own. It was always begrudgingly slow, a pendulum’s oscillation, a lazy thud that at one point became an integral source of comfort. But it had been achingly fast when she’d located Wednesday from where she’d been interred underground, a pulse laced with adrenaline and fear. And she could have sworn that Wednesday’s heartbeat had been the same way as when she’d taken off her blazer in the sun-drenched confines of Ophelia Hall.
It felt good, to have something to believe in.
•••
She spotted Xavier in the courtyard on her way to the gardens, sketching furiously on a picnic bench. He had his headphones on, sneaker tapping to a beat only he could hear, and his long hair fell into his eyes. Her approach went entirely unnoticed. He flinched only when she slid into the seat directly before him, a spontaneous response that pleased her immensely.
“You have some nerve,” Wednesday said simply, tossing his crumbled portrait of her into the space between them. “I don’t take very kindly to being stood up. Even if I do look ravishing in this picture.”
Xavier grimaced. He’d slid his headphones around his neck.
“Sorry,” he said, after a beat. Half-moons darkened the skin beneath his eyes. “I was distracted.”
“I can see that.” Propping her arm onto the table, Wednesday rested her cheek in a palm. Granted, Xavier had an overpowering imagination- most artists did- but it wasn’t like him to be so absent-minded. “So?”
“I’ve been having visions again,” he said, and Wednesday straightened. “They’re nightmares. Real bad ones. Haven’t been able to sleep.”
“What did you see?”
“The woods.” Xavier handed her his sketchbook. She flipped through it. He’d used nearly all the pages, and each drawing was of a charcoal forest, swarmed in darkness and mist. But it was the final drawing that caught her eye. Xavier was indisputably talented, and his skilled hand had captured the minutiae of the cabin, its potted plants recognisable even as brushstrokes instead of pixels. The idiotic finger-sketches of stickmen in the dust of the window, representing both her and Enid. “You don’t look surprised. I’d thought you’d at least be shocked that your roommate is involved.”
“The phone you gave me. I received a picture of this cabin during vacation.” She tapped the sketchbook. “It was only a matter of time before something like this would occur.”
“Another nutcase, huh.” Xavier stared at his drawing. His shoulders were slouched, and his hair was slipping out of his manbun. “Homicides and mysteries seem to be the new norm at Nevermore. Guess that’s right up your alley.”
“I’m going to find out whoever this person is,” she said. “I want your sketchbook.”
“It’s all yours, detective.” He shut it, slid it across the table. “You know, my dad wanted to to pull me out of school. Said that with my current skillset, there wouldn’t be a single school in the nation who would reject me.”
“Humility was always your most redeeming trait.” Wednesday raised a brow. “I’m still waiting for the reason as to why you’re still in this clusterfuck.”
Xavier finally cracked a smile.
“You can’t get a private art studio just anywhere,” he said. “Besides. I can’t just up and leave you guys, can I? We’re all in this together.”
She scoffed. “That foolish mawkishness is going to get you killed.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He winked at her. His emerald eyes were watery from insomnia, dull from exhaustion.
“You’re a horrible flirt.” She stood, tucking Xavier’s sketchbook beneath her arm. He stood with her. “Well, I should be going.”
“Thanks for meeting with me.” He hesitated, and she could sense it. The incoming blow. “I was going to ask you out for parfaits as soon as the weekend, but it does feel a little tacky, seeing as we’ve just discussed our possible deaths.”
“Thorpe.” She looked at him. There he was, tall and lanky and reliable, his jacket well-worn but clean, the faint shadow of stubble beneath his chin. “You’re coming onto me. Is that correct?”
“Theoretically.”
“Even though I rejected you once.” And, unsaid: even though my ex-boyfriend was just recently parcelled to the loony bin in a straitjacket.
He shrugged, though the look in his eyes was anything but aloof.
“You’re someone I just can’t forget about,” he said truthfully. “I think you already know that.”
Wednesday shook her head at this quixotic flattery, but Xavier made a placating gesture with his hand.
“Sleep on it,” he said. “You don’t have to give me an answer right now. In return, I’ll help you with whatever you need.”
“You drive a hard bargain. But I accept.”
He laughed. “I’m surprised you haven’t shot me down, yet.”
“Me too.” There was something about the earnestness in his eyes that made it hard to produce any snippy remarks. And it wasn’t as if she hated the sense of fulfilment it gave her. Being on someone’s radar meant she was desirable, even if she was appealing to everyone but the one person she wanted. “But I suppose nearly dying can always change a person.”
“Change away,” he said. “Wednesday- I’ll like you regardless of who you become.”
Startled by his forthright speech, she nodded at him, collected herself, and walked away.
•••
That night, reposing on her mattress, an arm tucked beneath her head, Wednesday drifted in and out of consciousness to the soporific lullaby of Enid arguing with her family on the phone at the balcony.
“No, you listen to me,” snapped Enid, voice muffled, faraway. “Have you ever considered that maybe I don’t always want to do things as a pack? Yeah, I’ve been reading up about that. Individualism, it’s called. No, not buddhism, individualism. We’re not a hivemind, mom. I’m my own person. Can you at least try to understand that?”
Wednesday awoke only when Enid stormed back inside.
“Sorry,” said Enid apologetically when she noticed Wednesday stirring. “I would have went outside, but I really didn’t think that things would have turned out this way.”
“Misery loves company,” she said. “And I like to think that I’m always miserable.”
“Then I suppose I’m company.” Enid sat down on her bed. Her sleepwear consisted of the grey sweater from earlier over a t-shirt sporting a garishly green unicorn. She didn’t lie down or turn away. “If that matters.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Mmm.” The silence between them was ripe with inquiry, pregnant with intention. Wednesday knew the question before it was even voiced. “Do you ever feel suffocated by family?”
Wednesday closed her eyes. “Does Enid Sinclair like the colour pink?”
“Okay, fine, that was a dumb question.” Enid rubbed at her face.
“I know what you’re trying to say,” she said, amused. Enid was always so endearing. “Yes, I do feel suffocated by family. And I suppose you would like me to share the things that make me feel as such. My mother is obsessively overprotective, and my father is a yes-man who worships her every blink and breath. My brother is a weakling who fails to grasp even the cruder concept of retaliation. I feel encompassed by incompetency.” She sighed. She’d overshared. “Your turn.”
“My family expects me to be someone I’m not,” Enid said eventually. “Especially my mom. Even before I became an alpha.” She was quiet. “Do you remember the time I told you that us werewolves, we get exiled if we can’t wolf out?”
“It was so very melodramatic. If I’m honest, Shakespearean in nature.”
“Right? I never really believed that. But once, I heard my mom talking to my uncle. About me.” Enid paused.
“Cry if you want, Sinclair,” said Wednesday, when an appropriate amount of time had lapsed. “I’ll get my vial. I’m sure there’s an enchantment out there that makes use of werewolf salt.”
“You’re such a bully. I’m not,” Enid insisted, but her voice was odd enough that Wednesday knew she was on the verge of tears. “Anyways, um, my mom. She said that it wasn’t my fault, blah blah blah, that they hadn’t casted anyone out in ages. And”- she took in a deep breath- “it hurt. I know she loves me, and I love her too, but it’s hard to remember that when all it takes is tradition for her to fold. Tradition, Weds. My fucking mom would rather lose me than break a stupid rule.” Her voice broke on the final word.
Wednesday glanced at Enid. Enid was wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. Others might have thought her an ugly crier: her face became red and blotchy, her eyes swollen, nose running. But to Wednesday, she was still pretty, still beautiful, still unreachable.
“She- my mom didn’t even try to fight for me,” she said, and the sentence was garbled, so she cleared her throat. “Not once did she ever say ‘So hey, the code is bullshit, guys! Let’s not obey it! Let’s try to change how we’ve always done things, instead of forcing change on my daughter!’”
“But that would mean that your entire clan would be exiled,” said Wednesday.
“I don’t care,” Enid spat. “I know that. What I’m mad at is the fact is that she didn’t even try to accept me as I was.”
She’d put her foot in her mouth. Wednesday sat up. She went over to Enid, sat beside her, felt Enid’s excessive heat flood through her chillier skin. Werewolves were such warm-blooded creatures. Enid leaned against Wednesday, and Wednesday was enveloped by her strange, comforting warmth.
“My family advocates individualism,” said Wednesday, staring at the far wall. She could put an arm around Enid’s shoulder, but that would give too much away. Better not. “Favours it, in fact. My parents have always encouraged any Adams to stray from the designated path. Which is all and well, of course, but sometimes I can’t help but wonder if things would be better for Pugsley if he’d been raised normal. Sometimes I think that he would be happier as a normie.”
Enid lifted her head and laughed.
“Look, we’ve done it again,” she said. “Even our problems are total opposites.”
“We do have a duty to maintain the status quo.”
“Says who?”
“Says I.”
Enid snorted.
“You know, Weds, you’ve been so… different. The old you would have asked why I was crying. Then you would have told me to suck it up.”
“Everyone seems intent on telling me that I’m different today,” Wednesday said dryly, gaze drifting to where the sketchbook sat on her desk. “I’ve decided to become someone more tolerable, is all.”
“Heavens!” Enid pressed a hand to her chest with dramatic flair. “Wednesday Adams? Tolerable? Tis’ a paradox! It cannot be.” Wednesday rolled her eyes, and Enid laughed again. “But I like this new you, too. You’re mellower, and you spoil me.”
“Cherish it,” she said, matter-of-fact, even though her heart jumped. “I don’t spoil just anyone.”
Enid tilted her head. “I know,” she said after a moment. “And I will.” She smiled. “Thanks for letting me vent.”
“Sure. Night.” She went to stand, but Enid grabbed her wrist.
“So I want to be a little selfish,” said Enid imploringly, “and ask for a hug. It’s fine if you don’t want to-"
Wednesday pulled Enid into a hug. Enid instantly slipped her arms around Wednesday’s waist, burying her face in her shoulder.
“This is bad, you know,” Enid murmured. Her breath tickled Wednesday’s ear. “If you give me what I want so easily, then I’ll just want more. I’ll inconvenience you.”
Wednesday didn’t reply. She only breathed in Enid’s scent.
I’m fine with that, she didn’t say.