Chapter Text
When Wednesday Addams returned to Nevermore Academy for her third year, she expected certain things.
The courtyard would smell faintly of damp stone, arrogance, and adolescent misery.
Principal Hillary Rosin would be waiting near the entrance with the strained expression of a woman who had chosen education as a career and now regretted the lack of medieval weaponry in modern school governance.
Thing would immediately begin rifling through their shared dormitory for any changes made during the summer break.
And Enid Sinclair would be there.
Enid was always there.
Bright, loud, impossible to ignore. A collision of colour and optimism in the shape of a girl Wednesday had never successfully managed to stop missing.
Enid would usually throw herself across the room the moment Wednesday stepped inside, talking too quickly about summer, pack gossip, nails, new music, bad movies, and at least three things Wednesday would pretend not to care about while committing every detail to memory.
Instead, the room was empty.
Enid’s side looked untouched.
Her bed was made.
Her pillows were arranged too neatly.
Her stuffed animals sat in a row against the wall, bright little witnesses with vacant faces.
There were no discarded jumpers. No nail polish bottles. No brightly coloured hair ties abandoned on the desk. No scent of shampoo, strawberry lip balm, or werewolf warmth.
Wednesday stood in the doorway for longer than necessary.
Thing crawled past her shoes, paused, then tapped twice against the floorboards.
Where is she?
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed.
“I do not know.”
That was the problem.
Enid did not appear that night.
Nor the next morning.
Nor the day after that.
Wednesday endured classes with the composure of a condemned queen, answering questions, unpacking her stationery, and pretending not to notice every empty seat in every room where Enid should have been.
By the third day, she had begun compiling a mental list of possible causes.
Kidnapping.
Pack emergency.
Emotional breakdown.
Delayed transport.
Murder.
A prank gone wrong.
A prank gone right.
All options were unpleasant.
Some were survivable.
Barely.
When the dormitory door finally opened that evening, Wednesday was standing at her desk, arranging her typewriter with unnecessary precision.
She did not turn around immediately.
She heard the door close.
She heard a bag drop softly to the floor.
Then she heard Enid’s voice.
“Hey, Wednesday.”
Wednesday froze.
It was only two words.
They were wrong.
Not in content.
In construction.
There was no bounce. No rush. No sparkle of teeth behind it. No little laugh tucked into the corners. No “roomie” attached like an unwanted ribbon.
Wednesday turned.
Enid stood just inside the room wearing a large hoodie with the hood pulled up. Her hands were buried in the front pocket. Her shoulders were hunched inward, as if she were trying to fold herself into something small enough to disappear.
Wednesday’s gaze moved over her.
“Your greeting is defective.”
Enid gave a weak smile.
“Missed you too.”
Wednesday stared.
Enid did not move closer.
That was worse.
Usually, Enid invaded distance as though personal space was a myth invented by lonely people. Now she hovered near the door like a ghost who had forgotten which room she used to haunt.
Wednesday’s fingers curled at her sides.
“What happened?”
Enid’s face flickered.
“Nothing.”
“Your lie lacks structure.”
“Wednesday…”
“What happened?”
Enid looked down.
For one terrible moment, Wednesday thought she might refuse again.
Then Enid lifted shaking hands to her hood.
She hesitated.
Wednesday did not blink.
Slowly, Enid pulled the hood back.
The room went silent.
Enid’s hair was gone.
Not cut.
Not styled.
Gone.
The beautiful blonde waves that had once fallen around her face in soft chaos, threaded through with pink, blue, violet and every other colour Enid had ever used as armour, had vanished. In their place was a bare scalp, raw in patches, unevenly shadowed where the last fragile remnants had been shaved down.
Wednesday felt something inside her become very, very still.
It was not shock.
Shock was too fragile.
This was colder.
Older.
It crawled through her ribs and sharpened itself against her spine.
Enid’s eyes filled immediately.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
Wednesday’s voice came out quiet.
“Who did this?”
Enid pulled the hood back up with both hands.
“It was stupid.”
“Who?”
“My brothers.”
The word entered the room and ruined it.
Enid laughed once, but it broke halfway through.
“They didn’t mean to.”
Wednesday took one step forward.
Enid stepped back.
Wednesday stopped.
The movement was small.
Barely anything.
It still hit Wednesday like a blade between the ribs.
Enid Sinclair had flinched from her.
Wednesday’s hands closed into fists at her sides.
“Explain.”
Enid shook her head.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
That made Enid’s mouth tremble.
She looked toward her side of the room. Toward the bed she had not slept in for months. Toward the stuffed animals she had once arranged in dramatic family politics whenever Wednesday ignored her too long.
Then Enid sat on the edge of her mattress as if her bones had become too heavy to hold.
Wednesday remained standing.
Thing climbed onto Enid’s desk chair and went perfectly still.
For several seconds, Enid said nothing.
Then she whispered, “It was the last night before I was supposed to come back.”
Wednesday’s breath slowed.
Enid stared at her own hands.
“They were being annoying all day. You know, normal brother stuff. Loud. Stupid. Too much. They kept saying Nevermore had made me boring because I didn’t want to go out running with them after dinner.”
“You are many things,” Wednesday said. “Boring is not one of them.”
Enid tried to smile.
It failed.
“They kept messing with my stuff. Moving my bags. Taking my phone. Making comments about my hair because I’d redone the streaks the day before. Theo said I looked like a unicorn exploded on me.”
“An insult lacking both creativity and anatomical understanding.”
“Yeah.” Enid swallowed. “I told him I liked it. That it was mine.”
Wednesday watched her thumb rub again and again over the cuff of her sleeve.
“They kept laughing about it. Then one of them said they should fix it before I went back to school.” Enid’s voice thinned. “I thought they were joking.”
The dormitory seemed to shrink around them.
Enid’s eyes went distant.
Not looking at Wednesday anymore.
Not looking at Nevermore.
She was somewhere else.
Back in a house full of wolves.
Back beneath the wrong kind of laughter.
“They waited until I fell asleep,” Enid said.
Her fingers curled into her hoodie.
“I remember waking up because someone was holding my shoulders down. I thought it was just Theo being gross and annoying, so I yelled at him to get off me. Then I smelled chemicals.”
Wednesday did not move.
Her face became porcelain.
“They had towels under my head,” Enid continued. “One of them had gloves on. Another was laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe. They said it was only temporary. That it would wash out before I got to school if I really hated it.”
Her voice cracked.
“They were trying to dye it green.”
Wednesday’s eyes sharpened.
“Green.”
“Like swamp green. Ugly green. They thought it would be funny if I showed up looking ridiculous.” Enid’s mouth twisted. “They had this whole thing planned. Photos. A pack group chat. Theo said it would be iconic.”
Wednesday’s voice lowered.
“Where did they obtain the dye?”
“I don’t know. Some cheap thing one of them ordered online. Or something from a prank shop. Maybe they mixed it with something. I don’t know. Nobody knows because they started blaming each other the second Mom got involved.”
Enid pressed one hand against her covered head.
“At first I was just angry. Really angry. I was screaming at them, and they were still laughing because they thought I was being dramatic. Then my head started burning.”
Wednesday’s jaw tightened.
“Burning how?”
“Like fire ants under my skin.” Enid’s eyes filled. “Like my scalp was too tight. Like something was crawling into me. I told them it hurt. I told them to stop.”
Her breath hitched.
“They didn’t believe me.”
The room went very quiet.
Thing’s fingers curled around the edge of the chair.
Enid stared at the floor.
“They kept saying I was exaggerating. That I was trying to get them in trouble. Then I started crying, and I couldn’t stop. It got in my ears, down my neck, on my pillow. I tried to sit up, and one of them finally looked scared.”
Wednesday’s voice was almost too soft to hear.
“Which one?”
Enid did not answer.
Wednesday filed the silence away with all the care of a mortician preparing a body.
“Mom came in because I was screaming.”
Enid squeezed her eyes shut.
“She was so angry. Not at first. At first she didn’t understand what she was seeing. Then she saw my skin and started shouting at all of them. Dad came running. Someone called a healer. Someone called an actual doctor because the healer said it was chemical and allergic and they needed to wash it out immediately.”
She gave a small, terrible laugh.
“They put me in the shower with my clothes on.”
Wednesday’s stomach twisted.
It was an unfamiliar sensation.
She disliked it immensely.
“Mom kept telling me to hold still, but it hurt so much. The water made it worse. Everything made it worse. I was crying, and my brothers were standing outside the bathroom door, and none of them were laughing anymore.”
Enid’s hand shook.
“Then it started coming out.”
Wednesday looked at her hood.
Enid’s fingers clawed into the fabric.
“At first I thought it was the dye. I thought it was just streaks washing away. But then Mom went quiet. Completely quiet. I looked down and there were pieces of my hair in the drain. Whole pieces. Like it had just… given up.”
Her voice broke on the last word.
Wednesday could not speak.
“I tried to grab it,” Enid whispered. “Which is stupid. I know it’s stupid. But I tried. I kept picking it up out of the water like I could put it back if I was fast enough.”
A tear slid down her cheek.
Wednesday watched it fall.
“I kept saying no. That’s all. Just no, no, no, no. Over and over. Dad wrapped me in a towel, and Mom was crying by then, and I think that scared me more than anything because Mom doesn’t cry for things like that. Not for me.”
Wednesday’s face tightened.
Enid rubbed hard at her eyes.
“The doctor said it was an allergic reaction and chemical burns. They gave me stuff for the swelling and the pain. But my scalp was blistering in places, and my hair kept falling out in clumps. Every time I touched it, there was more in my hands.”
She swallowed.
“So they shaved the rest.”
The words collapsed into the room.
Wednesday felt them settle across her skin like ash.
Enid’s voice became smaller.
“I sat on a stool in the kitchen while Dad did it. Mom held my hands. My brothers were outside. I could hear them. Theo was crying. One of them was throwing up in the garden. They kept saying they were sorry.”
She looked up at Wednesday then.
Her eyes were red.
Exhausted.
Ruined.
“They didn’t mean for it to happen.”
Wednesday stared at her.
“That is not absolution.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Enid flinched.
Wednesday regretted the sharpness immediately.
A rare occurrence.
Enid looked away.
“They’re being punished.”
“Not sufficiently.”
“You don’t even know what the punishment is.”
“I know they still possess limbs.”
“Wednesday.”
“They removed something from you.”
Enid’s face crumpled.
“It’s just hair.”
The lie was worse than the first.
Wednesday could see it in the way Enid would not meet her eyes. The way her shoulders had shrunk. The way she touched the edge of the hood as though making sure it was still there.
Enid Sinclair, who had once entered rooms like sunrise with teeth, now looked afraid of being seen.
Wednesday hated it.
She hated the hoodie.
She hated the empty space around Enid’s face.
She hated Enid’s brothers with a purity that deserved its own chapel.
Most of all, she hated that Enid was sitting in front of her trying to make the wound smaller so no one else would feel guilty for bleeding her.
Wednesday stepped closer.
This time Enid did not move away.
Wednesday lowered herself to sit beside her.
Careful.
Measured.
Close enough that their sleeves touched.
Enid stared down at the place where black fabric met pink.
For several seconds, neither of them spoke.
Then Enid whispered, “I didn’t want you to see.”
Wednesday looked at her.
Enid’s eyes remained fixed on their sleeves.
“I kept thinking maybe if I waited a few days, I’d be able to act normal. Or find a wig. Or get used to it. Or stop crying every time I looked in a mirror.” Her laugh was brittle. “Turns out three days is not enough time to become emotionally evolved.”
“I have avoided it for seventeen years.”
Enid let out a sound that might have been a laugh if it had not been so wet.
Wednesday turned her hand slowly.
Her little finger rested against Enid’s.
Not holding.
Not demanding.
A question, disguised as contact.
Enid looked at it.
Then she hooked her finger around Wednesday’s.
Wednesday did not look down.
Her chest hurt.
She filed that away as well.
Over the next few days, Wednesday learned that grief could be loud without making a sound.
Enid went to classes with her hood up.
She stopped wearing bright earrings.
She stopped painting her nails.
She stopped correcting people when they looked too long.
She smiled when spoken to, but the smile never reached her eyes. She laughed when Ajax made a joke, but only after everyone else did, as though remembering laughter was expected. She sat with their friends at lunch, but she kept one hand near her hood the entire time.
Some students were kind.
Some pretended not to notice, which was its own form of kindness.
Some asked questions with soft voices and kinder eyes.
Others were not so evolved.
Wednesday heard whispers.
She collected names.
She created categories.
Minor offenders.
Moderate offenders.
Future corpses.
By the second day after Enid’s return, Bianca had started walking on Enid’s left during passing periods.
Yoko had threatened two vampires so sweetly that one of them apologised to a wall.
Ajax had begun hovering with the anxious loyalty of someone who wanted to help and had no idea where to place his hands.
Agnes, surprisingly, became one of the most effective.
She did not hover.
She simply appeared.
At breakfast, she slid into the seat opposite Enid and began talking about Pugsley’s latest mechanical experiment as if nothing in the world was strange. Between classes, she drifted near Enid with the quiet persistence of a small, determined ghost. She never stared. She never asked.
Wednesday approved of this.
Privately.
With restraint.
It was outside Ancient Civilisations that restraint became increasingly difficult.
Wednesday had been trapped inside the classroom listening to a dry lecture on burial customs, a subject she usually found mildly pleasant. Unfortunately, Enid had not been in that lesson. She had been in Advanced Pack Dynamics on the other side of the building.
Wednesday disliked separate timetables.
She disliked many things, but separate timetables were rapidly climbing the hierarchy.
The bell rang.
Students rose.
Wednesday packed her notebook with deliberate care, ignoring the slow crawl of irritation beneath her skin.
She stepped into the corridor and immediately saw Agnes.
The girl was standing by the archway, pale and rigid, her eyes searching the crowd with increasing panic.
When she saw Wednesday, she moved toward her so quickly several students stepped aside.
“Wednesday.”
Wednesday stopped.
Agnes’s voice was wrong.
Small.
Shaking.
Wednesday’s blood cooled.
“Where is Enid?”
Agnes swallowed.
“I don’t know.”
Wednesday became very still.
Agnes glanced around as if checking who might hear.
“She left.”
“Why?”
Agnes’s hands twisted together.
“There was a boy. A werewolf. From another pack. I don’t know his name. He was with two others.”
Wednesday’s voice dropped.
“What did he do?”
Agnes looked at her.
Her face was pale with anger and fear.
“He said something.”
Wednesday took one step closer.
“What?”
Agnes hesitated.
The hesitation was answer enough.
Wednesday’s eyes darkened.
“Repeat it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Agnes.”
The name was not loud.
It did not need to be.
Agnes flinched, then forced the words out.
“He asked if her wolf was hairless too.” Her voice cracked. “Then he said maybe it looked like it had mange.”
The corridor continued moving around them.
Students talked.
Lockers closed.
Somewhere nearby, someone laughed.
Wednesday heard none of it.
For one perfect second, the world became silent and red-edged.
Agnes stared at her.
“I tried to say something, but Enid just… she just went white. Then she walked away. I followed her for a bit, but she told me not to. She didn’t shout. She just sounded…”
Agnes swallowed hard.
“Gone.”
Wednesday turned her head slowly.
Across the corridor, Bianca appeared, already reading the situation from the shape of Wednesday’s face.
She moved toward them.
“What happened?”
Agnes repeated it.
Bianca’s expression sharpened into something lethal.
Wednesday said nothing.
That was worse.
Bianca grabbed her sleeve before she could move.
“Not here.”
Wednesday looked down at Bianca’s hand.
Then up at her face.
“Release me.”
“No.”
“Bianca.”
“Go after Enid.”
Wednesday’s eyes did not blink.
Bianca held firm.
“I mean it. I’ll get his name. I’ll get his room number. I’ll get his entire schedule if you want it. But right now, Enid is alone somewhere thinking that nobody came after her fast enough.”
That landed.
Cruelly.
Precisely.
Wednesday inhaled once through her nose.
Agnes looked close to tears.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know what to do.”
Wednesday looked at her.
For a moment, Agnes seemed to brace for punishment.
Instead, Wednesday said, “You came to me.”
Agnes blinked.
Wednesday turned away.
“That was correct.”
Then she went after Enid.
She searched the quad first.
Then the dormitory.
Then the greenhouse.
Then the old east stairwell Enid sometimes used when she wanted to cry without being found.
She was not there.
Wednesday’s thoughts sharpened into knives.
Enid avoided crowded places when upset.
She avoided mirrors now.
She avoided anywhere their friends would think to look first.
Wednesday turned toward the older part of campus.
The abandoned fencing shed crouched near the treeline like a guilty secret, half swallowed by ivy and damp shadow. It had been replaced years ago after an incident involving a cursed sabre, three broken windows, and a student who had temporarily believed himself to be a Napoleonic general.
Wednesday found Enid behind it.
She was tucked into the narrow space between the stone wall and the trees, sitting on the ground with her knees pulled to her chest. Her hood had fallen back. Both hands were pressed over her face.
Her shoulders shook.
Wednesday stopped several feet away.
The sight was intolerable.
Enid crying quietly was worse than any scream.
It was grief trying not to inconvenience the air.
Wednesday approached with care.
“Enid.”
Enid dragged her sleeves over her face, trying to scrub the tears away.
“Please don’t.”
“I have not said anything.”
“I know.” Enid’s voice broke. “That’s worse.”
Wednesday lowered herself to sit beside her.
Not touching.
Not yet.
“Agnes told me.”
Enid closed her eyes.
“Of course she did.”
“She was concerned.”
“She looked scared.”
“She was.”
Enid let out a miserable little laugh.
“Great. I’m scaring freshmen now.”
“You are not the frightening one in this story.”
Enid looked down at her hands.
For a moment, Wednesday thought she would say nothing.
Then Enid whispered, “I thought I could handle it.”
Wednesday turned her head.
Enid’s face was blotchy from crying. Her scalp was still tender-looking in places, the skin healing unevenly. Without her hair, every expression seemed unguarded. There was nowhere for her to hide.
“I thought if someone said something, I’d snap back. You know? Make a joke. Roll my eyes. Tell them their personality had mange.” Her mouth trembled. “But he said it, and I just… I couldn’t move.”
Wednesday’s fingers dug into the grass.
“I am going to remove his vocal cords.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I disagree.”
“Wednesday.”
“He made you cry.”
“I was already crying.”
“He contributed.”
Enid looked down at her hands.
“I hate it,” she whispered.
Wednesday’s throat tightened.
Enid pressed her palms to her bare head and closed her eyes.
“I hate it so much. I know it’s shallow. I know it’ll grow back. Everyone keeps telling me it’ll grow back. Like that makes it better right now.”
Her voice fractured.
“But it was mine. It was the only part of me I always liked. Even when I couldn’t wolf out properly, even when my mom looked at me like I was broken, even when everyone else had something I didn’t… I had my hair. I had colour. I had something that felt like me.”
Wednesday stared ahead.
The trees blurred into dark shapes.
Enid kept talking, as if once the wound had opened, it could not stop.
“And now everyone looks at me and I can see them trying not to. Or they feel sorry for me. Or they laugh. And I keep thinking maybe they’re right. Maybe I look ridiculous. Maybe I look sick. Maybe I look…”
She swallowed hard.
“Ugly.”
The word struck the ground between them like a blade.
Wednesday turned to her.
“No.”
Enid shook her head.
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I rarely say anything I do not mean.”
“You don’t get it.”
“No,” Wednesday said softly. “I do not.”
Enid looked at her then.
Wednesday’s face was pale and unreadable, but her eyes were dark with something Enid was too exhausted to name.
“I do not understand how to make you believe what is obvious,” Wednesday said. “I do not understand how to carve out the rot someone else placed inside your head. I do not understand why anyone would look at you and see anything except…”
She stopped.
Enid waited.
Wednesday’s fingers twitched against her skirt.
“Except Enid.”
Enid’s mouth trembled.
“That’s not enough.”
Wednesday went very still.
Then she stood.
Enid blinked up at her.
“Where are you going?”
Wednesday did not answer.
She walked back toward Ophelia Hall with the expression of a girl descending into the underworld with excellent posture.
Enid scrambled after her, wiping at her face.
“Wednesday?”
Wednesday entered their dormitory and crossed to her desk.
Thing lifted himself from the pillow where he had been sulking and froze.
Wednesday opened the drawer.
Enid stopped in the doorway.
“Wednesday, what are you doing?”
Wednesday removed a pair of scissors.
They were old, silver, and incredibly sharp.
Enid’s heart lurched.
“Wednesday?”
Wednesday gathered one of her black braids in her hand.
For the first time since Enid had known her, Wednesday’s hand was not entirely steady.
Then she lifted the scissors.
Enid’s eyes widened.
“No.”
The blades closed.
Shink.
The sound was clean and terrible.
One braid fell onto the desk.
Enid screamed.
“What are you doing?”
Wednesday reached for the second braid.
Enid launched herself across the room, but Wednesday was faster.
Shink.
The second braid dropped beside the first.
The silence after it was monstrous.
Enid stared at the desk.
At the two severed braids.
At Wednesday’s hair, now chopped brutally and unevenly around her face, black strands falling loose over her shoulders.
Thing slapped both hands over his eyes.
Enid’s voice came out strangled.
“Wednesday, why would you do that?”
Wednesday dropped the scissors.
They landed beside the braids with a metallic clatter.
Then she reached into her bedside table and withdrew a straight razor.
Enid went cold.
“No. No, no, no. Wednesday, stop.”
Wednesday flicked the razor open.
Enid grabbed her wrist.
Wednesday looked at her hand, then up into her face.
“Do not interfere.”
“You can’t just shave your head!”
“I am capable.”
“That’s not what I mean!”
“I know what you mean.”
“Then stop!”
Wednesday’s expression shifted.
Not anger.
Not annoyance.
Something far more devastating.
Resolve.
“You believe your hair was the part of you people loved.”
Enid’s grip loosened.
Wednesday’s voice was quiet.
“I find this unacceptable.”
Enid’s eyes filled again.
“Wednesday…”
Wednesday pulled her wrist free with surprising gentleness.
Then, without hesitation, she set the razor to the side of her head.
The first pass took the jagged remains down to the scalp.
Enid made a small wounded sound.
Wednesday continued.
Stroke after stroke.
Black hair fell around her shoulders, onto her dress, onto the floor. It gathered like spilled ink at her feet.
Thing crept forward, horrified and silent.
Enid stood frozen, one hand pressed against her mouth, tears slipping down her cheeks.
Wednesday shaved with grim precision, though the result was not perfect. A few uneven shadows remained. She corrected them. Then corrected them again.
When she was finished, Wednesday placed the razor on the desk.
The girl in front of Enid was changed.
Her braids were gone.
Her severe centre part was gone.
Her hair, the dark frame that had always made her look like a funeral portrait come reluctantly to life, was gone.
Only Wednesday remained.
Bare-headed.
Pale.
Unflinching.
Beautiful in a way that hurt to look at.
She lifted one hand and brushed loose strands from her shoulders.
“There,” Wednesday said.
Enid’s breath hitched.
“Why?”
Wednesday stepped closer.
“Now we match.”
Enid broke.
The sob that left her was small, but it tore straight through the room.
Wednesday came to stand in front of her, then reached down and took Enid’s hand.
Enid let her.
Wednesday lifted it slowly and placed Enid’s palm against her freshly shaved head.
The skin was warm.
Smooth.
Silky beneath Enid’s trembling fingers.
Enid cried harder.
Wednesday kept her hand there.
“It is not the hair that makes people love you, Enid.”
Enid shook her head, unable to speak.
“It is not the colour. Or the length. Or the way it moves when you laugh.” Wednesday’s voice lowered. “Though I have noticed.”
Enid looked at her through tears.
Wednesday swallowed.
“It is the person inside that people fall in love with.”
Her hand tightened around Enid’s.
“Even…”
The word caught.
Wednesday Addams, who could face monsters, murderers, ghosts, curses, and her own family without flinching, looked suddenly terrified.
Enid went still.
Wednesday forced the words out anyway.
“Even me.”
The room seemed to stop breathing.
Enid stared at her.
Wednesday stared back, bald and pale and furious with herself for having a heart at all.
“I did not intend to say that aloud,” she added.
A broken laugh slipped from Enid.
“You shaved your head before admitting you liked me?”
Wednesday considered this.
“Yes.”
“That is so messed up.”
“I prefer committed.”
Enid laughed again, even as tears continued to fall.
Then she stepped forward and wrapped both arms around Wednesday.
Wednesday stiffened for half a second.
Only half.
Then her arms rose and closed around Enid with careful, devastating certainty.
Enid pressed her face against Wednesday’s shoulder.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes,” Wednesday said. “I did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Wednesday tilted her head, resting her cheek lightly against Enid’s.
“You were alone in it.”
Enid’s breath caught.
Wednesday’s voice softened to something almost unbearable.
“Now you are not.”
Enid clung to her.
On the desk, the two black braids lay beside the scissors.
On the floor, Wednesday’s hair rested in dark pieces around their feet.
Thing, having recovered enough to move, dragged a small blanket from Enid’s bed and climbed onto the desk. He stared at the braids, then at Enid, then at Wednesday.
He patted one braid gently.
Then he patted Enid’s hand.
Enid laughed wetly.
Wednesday did not smile.
But her arms tightened.
Later, when Principal Rosin was informed that Wednesday Addams had shaved her own head in a display of emotional solidarity, she removed her glasses, placed them carefully on her desk, and stared at the ceiling for a long moment.
“I am going to need a stronger contract,” she said.
Bianca, standing beside Enid in the office, folded her arms.
“You should probably also know Wednesday has a list.”
Principal Rosin closed her eyes.
“Of course she does.”
“A punishment list.”
“Of course it is.”
“For the werewolf who made the mange comment.”
Rosin opened one eye.
“Is he still alive?”
“For now.”
Rosin looked across the office.
Wednesday sat perfectly upright in the chair beside Enid. Her freshly shaved head gleamed beneath the office lights. Her expression was calm enough to terrify entire governments.
Enid sat next to her, hood down.
Still nervous.
Still fragile.
But her hand was wrapped around Wednesday’s.
And Wednesday was holding on like she intended to become a permanent problem.
Principal Rosin sighed.
“Miss Addams.”
“Yes?”
“You may not murder, maim, poison, dismember, psychologically dismantle, or otherwise permanently damage another student.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed.
“Define permanently.”
“No.”
“Temporarily?”
“No.”
“Emotionally?”
Rosin pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Also no.”
Wednesday looked disappointed.
Enid squeezed her hand.
Wednesday glanced at her.
Enid gave her the smallest smile.
Wednesday’s face did not change.
But she stopped arguing.
For Enid, that was almost as loud as a confession.
Almost.