Chapter Text
Chapter One
Everything Happens for a Reason!
Mom Enid
My mom Enid says everything happens for a reason! Yeah, fucking right. So what possible reason is there for my cousin Cuthbert to ignore every single warning his dad has ever given us about not messing with his inventions?
Seriously.
Every. Single. Warning.
Uncle Pugsley hadn’t even been vague about it.
He hadn’t said, Perhaps don’t touch anything.
He hadn’t said, I’d rather you two stayed away from the equipment.
He had stood in the doorway of his private research room, pointed directly at both of us, and said, very slowly:
“Do not touch anything.”
Then he’d looked specifically at Cuthbert.
“That means you.”
Then he’d looked specifically at me.
“And don’t let him convince you he’s only looking.”
Which, frankly, I felt was unfair.
I’m not responsible for Cuthbert.
I’m sixteen.
He’s sixteen.
We’re cousins.
I’m not his keeper.
Also, in my defence, I did try.
“Cuthbert.”
“I’m only looking.”
Those were literally the first three words out of his mouth after his father left.
I stared at him.
He stared at me.
I pointed at the closed door.
“Did you somehow miss the entire conversation that happened twelve seconds ago?”
“No.”
“Great. Then we’re done.”
I went back to my phone.
Four seconds later there was a metallic click.
I closed my eyes.
“Cuthbert.”
“Still only looking.”
“Looking shouldn’t make clicking noises.”
“It was already loose.”
I turned around.
My cousin was standing in front of a machine I had never seen before.
That, in itself, was unusual.
I had seen a lot of Uncle Pugsley’s inventions.
Some of them were useful.
Some of them were horrifying.
Several were both.
One memorable Christmas involved an automated turkey carver that developed a personality halfway through dinner and spent twenty-three minutes chasing Grandpa Gomez around the dining room.
He called it invigorating.
Mother bought Uncle Pugsley a new set of tools.
Mom banned experimental machinery from Christmas dinner.
This machine wasn’t like any of those.
It stood almost as tall as Cuthbert, constructed from black metal, copper rings and several materials I couldn’t identify. There was a circular opening in the middle large enough for a person to walk through, although doing so would have required the kind of poor judgement generally associated with Cuthbert.
Which should have been my first clue.
“Cuthbert.”
“What?”
“Step away from it.”
“I’m not touching it.”
“You are holding a screwdriver.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Put it down.”
“You sound like Aunt Wednesday.”
That stopped me.
I narrowed my eyes.
“Take that back.”
He grinned.
“Make me.”
For the record, I could have.
Mother began teaching me self-defence when I was four.
Mom found out when I was five and made her add rules.
Apparently, “neutralise the threat before it develops into a larger inconvenience” was not adequate guidance for navigating primary school.
My parents have very different philosophies.
They’ve somehow been married for years without killing each other.
Although Mother says longevity is not proof of safety.
“Cuthbert,” I said, with all the patience I had inherited from neither of my parents, “your dad specifically told us not to touch anything.”
“I’m not touching anything important.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know what this is.”
I looked at the machine.
Then at him.
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
“What is it?”
He hesitated.
I folded my arms.
“That’s what I thought.”
“I know what it does.”
“Different question. What does it do?”
Another hesitation.
“Cuthbert.”
“It’s temporal.”
I stared at him.
He smiled.
I stared harder.
His smile faded.
“Temporal as in clocks?”
“Sort of.”
“Temporal as in time?”
“Technically.”
I immediately put my phone in my pocket.
“No.”
“I haven’t done anything!”
“No.”
“Agnes.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“You said the word temporal while standing beside one of Uncle Pugsley’s machines holding a screwdriver. There is nothing you can say after that which improves the situation.”
“I just want to see if I can get the interface working.”
“No.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“My mother is Wednesday Addams. You don’t know what dramatic means.”
“I thought Aunt Enid was the dramatic one.”
I pointed at him.
“Never say that where Mother can hear you.”
“Why?”
“Because I like having a cousin.”
He rolled his eyes.
Then he turned back to the machine.
I should have tackled him.
That’s the annoying thing about hindsight. It makes every stupid decision look incredibly obvious.
Mom says you shouldn’t beat yourself up over things you couldn’t have known at the time.
Mother says hindsight is simply foresight arriving too late to be useful.
At that exact moment, both of them would have agreed I should have tackled Cuthbert.
Instead, I said, “I’m getting Uncle Pugsley.”
Cuthbert spun around.
“Don’t!”
I smiled sweetly.
Mom taught me that.
Mother says it makes me look dangerous.
“Then step away from the machine.”
He stepped away.
I nodded.
“Thank you.”
Then a light came on behind him.
We both froze.
It was small.
Blue.
Then another appeared.
Then another.
They ran around the circular frame one after another.
Cuthbert looked at me.
I looked at Cuthbert.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Cuthbert.”
“Nothing!”
The copper rings began turning.
Slowly at first.
Then faster.
A low vibration passed through the floor.
I felt it through my shoes.
“Cuthbert.”
His face had gone pale.
“I may have connected something.”
“You MAY HAVE CONNECTED SOMETHING?”
“I didn’t think it had power!”
“You connected power to the time machine?”
“I didn’t know it was active!”
“THAT IS WHY YOUR DAD SAID DON’T TOUCH IT!”
The centre of the machine changed.
There is no better word for it.
It changed.
One second I could see the wall through the circular opening.
The next I couldn’t.
The air folded inwards.
Light stretched strangely across the room.
Every hair on my arms stood up.
Cuthbert lunged for the control panel.
I grabbed his jumper.
“No!”
“I can turn it off!”
“That sentence has never ended well for anyone in our family!”
Something exploded.
Not the machine.
Something above us.
Sparks rained down.
Cuthbert shouted.
The room tilted.
Except rooms don’t tilt.
People do.
Gravity disappeared.
For one horrible second I was weightless.
Then something pulled.
Hard.
“CUTHBERT!”
He grabbed my hand.
I grabbed his.
The machine screamed.
I don’t mean it made a high-pitched mechanical noise.
I mean it screamed.
There are some sounds your body understands before your brain does.
This was one of them.
Every instinct I had told me to get away.
Unfortunately, every law of physics had apparently resigned.
“Cuthbert!”
“I’ve got you!”
“TURN IT OFF!”
“I’M TRYING!”
“WITH WHAT HAND?”
That was when our fingers slipped.
I saw his face.
He saw mine.
And then the entire world became white.
My mom Enid says everything happens for a reason.
She also says swearing doesn’t make a bad situation better.
Mom is wrong about at least two things.
“Fuck.”
I was lying face-down in mud.
Cold mud.
Wet mud.
Mud which had somehow made its way into places mud had absolutely no business being.
I lifted my head.
Trees.
Fantastic.
I pushed myself onto my elbows.
More trees.
Even better.
My skull felt as though Cousin Itt had used it for percussion practice.
“Cuthbert?”
Nothing.
I sat up.
“Cuthbert!”
Silence.
Real silence too.
Not laboratory silence.
Forest silence.
Wind moving through leaves.
Birds.
Something small rustling in the undergrowth.
No machinery.
No alarms.
No panicking cousin.
I got to my feet too quickly and immediately had to grab the nearest tree.
“Okay.”
My stomach revolted.
“Not okay.”
I waited.
Breathing helped.
Mom says breathing helps with most things.
Mother says technically breathing prolongs most forms of suffering.
Again, different philosophies.
When the world stopped spinning, I looked down at myself.
Everything seemed attached.
Good start.
Jacket, torn.
Jeans, muddy.
Boots, filthy.
Phone.
I grabbed for my pocket.
Still there.
I nearly kissed it.
Then remembered Mother had once explained exactly how much bacteria lived on a phone screen and reconsidered.
The screen lit.
No signal.
Obviously.
Battery sixty-eight percent.
Less obviously.
Date…
I stared.
Then tapped the screen.
Locked it.
Unlocked it.
Checked again.
“No.”
The date remained unchanged.
I opened the calendar.
Same year.
I restarted the phone.
Same year.
I whispered, “No.”
- 2023.
“No.”
I checked every setting I could think of.
- 2023.
I laughed.
It didn’t sound sane.
“Very funny.”
Nobody answered.
“Seriously, Cuthbert. Very funny.”
The forest remained unmoved by my denial.
I started walking.
I had no idea where I was going.
That didn’t matter.
Movement felt preferable to standing still while contemplating the possibility that my cousin had accidentally fired me backwards through time.
Because that wasn’t possible.
Except I am an Addams.
Our family’s relationship with “possible” is complicated.
Mother keeps the ashes of a seventeenth-century ancestor who was executed three separate times.
Don’t ask.
I walked for maybe five minutes before I noticed something familiar.
A stone marker.
Old.
Weathered.
A raven carved into its surface.
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
I knew that raven.
Every Addams knew that raven.
I’d seen it in photographs.
Old family albums.
School records.
Mom’s reunion pictures.
Mother’s office, where an original nineteenth-century engraving hung beside her desk because apparently some people displayed photographs of their children and Mother preferred architectural morbidity.
I moved faster.
The trees thinned.
Stone appeared through them.
Towers.
Gargoyles.
Dark windows.
Nevermore Academy.
I stopped dead.
“No.”
This was getting repetitive.
Nevermore shouldn’t look like this.
Not to me.
It should have the new science wing.
The western tower should be rebuilt.
The greenhouse roof should be glass, not whatever ancient Victorian death trap I was looking at.
There should be a bronze memorial plaque beside the main entrance.
There should be…
“Oh, Cuthbert.”
I closed my eyes.
“I am going to kill you.”
“Get in line.”
I screamed.
Actually screamed.
Mother would have been appalled.
Mom would have screamed louder.
I spun around.
A woman stood three feet behind me.
Tall.
Blonde.
Elegant.
Immaculately dressed.
Also slightly transparent.
I stared at her.
She stared back.
I stared harder.
She sighed.
“Yes, I know.”
“You’re dead.”
“An astute observation.”
“You’re Larissa Weems.”
Her expression changed.
“How do you know my name?”
I took two steps backwards.
She followed me with her eyes.
I knew that face.
Everyone did.
There were photographs of her at Nevermore.
Portraits.
A memorial.
Gran Morticia had stories.
Mother had fewer stories, but hers were usually more revealing.
Mom once told me Principal Weems had been one of the first adults at Nevermore who genuinely wanted to protect every student in the school, even when those students made it extremely difficult.
Then Mother said Weems had suffered from an unfortunate addiction to institutional procedure.
Gran Morticia called her “my dearest old friend and rival.”
Grandpa Gomez called her “the magnificent blonde titan.”
I had never asked what that meant.
Some things should remain buried.
“You’re Gran’s old friendly rival.”
Weems stared at me.
“Your grandmother?”
I realised my mistake.
Too late.
“Forget I said that.”
“Who is your grandmother?”
“Nobody.”
“Your grandmother is nobody?”
“Metaphorically.”
“You just identified me by name.”
“I have a good memory.”
“You referred to me as your grandmother’s old rival.”
“Lots of people have grandmothers.”
Her eyes narrowed.
Wonderful.
I had been in 2023 for approximately twenty minutes and had already attracted suspicion from a dead principal.
Mother would be so proud.
No.
Actually, Mother would dissect every mistake I’d made so far and produce a written report.
Mom would hug me first.
The thought hit so suddenly I couldn’t breathe.
Mom.
Mother.
They weren’t here.
Well.
They were.
That was worse.
They were somewhere in this year.
Sixteen.
Teenagers.
They didn’t know me.
My throat tightened.
No.
Absolutely not.
I wasn’t doing that.
I was an Addams.
Addamses did not fall apart in forests.
Technically, I was also a Sinclair.
Sinclairs absolutely fell apart in forests.
Genetics are inconvenient.
The dead woman was still staring at me.
“Can anyone else see you?”
“No.”
“Great.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“That isn’t the usual reaction.”
“The usual reaction probably isn’t stranded time traveller.”
Silence.
Shit.
Weems blinked.
“I’m sorry?”
I closed my eyes.
Mother’s voice appeared in my head immediately.
Never volunteer information your interrogator hasn’t earned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said stranded time traveller.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I am dead, not deaf.”
“Are you sure?”
Her face did something impressive.
I understood immediately why Mother had found irritating her so entertaining.
Then Weems took a slow breath.
“What is your name?”
That should have been easy.
It wasn’t.
“Agnes.”
“Agnes what?”
“No.”
“No?”
“You get one name.”
“This is becoming tiresome.”
“Imagine how I feel.”
“Agnes.”
“Larissa.”
Her jaw tightened.
I liked her.
That was unfortunate.
She looked toward Nevermore.
Then back at me.
“I was somewhere else.”
“Cryptic.”
“Dead.”
“Less cryptic.”
“And then suddenly I was here.”
She gestured at me.
“With you.”
“Sorry.”
“You don’t sound sorry.”
“I’m going through a lot.”
“Apparently so am I.”
I looked toward the school.
“So you’re stuck with me?”
“It appears that way.”
“Spirit guide?”
Her expression became offended.
“I certainly hope not.”
“Mother hates hers.”
Weems went very still.
Fuck.
I was really bad at this.
“Your mother has a spirit guide?”
“Figure of speech.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Can we focus on the time travel?”
Weems stared at me for a long moment.
Then her expression changed.
Not understanding.
Not yet.
But calculation.
Mother made that face.
I hated that face.
“You’re an Addams.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“The evasions. The insolence. The complete lack of appropriate alarm regarding my being a ghost.”
“That could describe lots of people.”
“Not many.”
“You’re profiling me.”
“And you’re avoiding the question.”
“I wasn’t aware there was one.”
Weems stepped closer.
She couldn’t physically loom over me.
She managed anyway.
“What is your full name?”
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed.
I smiled.
Mom’s smile.
Mother’s refusal.
Worst possible combination.
Weems closed her eyes briefly.
“Wonderful.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You said wonderful like Mother does when she means horrifying.”
Her eyes opened.
I wanted to hit myself.
Repeatedly.
With something heavy.
“Your mother,” Weems said carefully, “appears to have made quite an impression.”
“She does that.”
“Would I know her?”
“Statistically?”
“Agnes.”
“We need to work out how I got here.”
“We need to work out who you are.”
“I know who I am.”
“Then we’re halfway there.”
“You’re annoying.”
A tiny smile appeared.
“So I’ve been told.”
I looked at Nevermore again.
Somewhere inside that building, or near it, depending on the date…
No.
I couldn’t think about it.
First problem.
Get home.
Second problem.
Murder Cuthbert.
Third problem.
Explain murder to Uncle Pugsley.
Fourth problem.
Let Mom talk me down from murder.
Fifth problem.
Avoid Mother until Mom succeeds.
Easy.
“We need to find out exactly when I am.”
Weems folded her arms.
“You have a date.”
“I need context.”
“And how do you propose obtaining that without revealing you’re apparently from the future?”
I looked at her.
She looked at me.
“You’re the adult.”
“I’m dead.”
“Still older.”
“Charming.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“I know.”
I started toward Nevermore.
“Where are you going?”
“The school.”
“That seems unwise.”
“Everything about this seems unwise.”
“Agnes.”
I turned.
For the first time, she looked genuinely concerned.
“You don’t know what interfering with the past could do.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
Because Mother loved paradoxes.
Not emotionally.
Academically.
We’d had entire dinner conversations about them.
Grandpa Gomez encouraged this because he thought temporal catastrophe sounded romantic.
Mom eventually banned discussions of self-erasing timelines while eating.
I knew the rules.
Don’t reveal future events.
Don’t change major decisions.
Don’t introduce knowledge before its time.
Don’t kill anyone who might be important.
That last one came from Mother.
Mom added “don’t kill anyone” afterwards.
I knew all of it.
I also knew something Weems didn’t.
If this really was 2023, the two people I wanted most in the universe were less than five minutes away.
And I could not let them know who I was.
Easy.
Absolutely easy.
I was going to throw up.
Nevermore looked smaller than I remembered.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Future Nevermore had always seemed ancient and enormous when we’d visited.
This version felt unfinished.
Like seeing someone halfway through becoming themselves.
Students crossed the quad.
Uniforms everywhere.
Purple stripes.
Black blazers.
Familiar species.
Familiar architecture.
Unfamiliar faces.
I kept my head down.
Weems walked beside me.
Nobody looked at her.
That was disconcerting.
“Stop staring,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“You’re translucent.”
“I’m aware.”
“You don’t cast a shadow.”
“Thank you for the update.”
“This is weird.”
“I’m the dead woman and you’re the time traveller.”
“Fair.”
I reached the edge of the quad.
Then stopped.
Weems almost walked through me.
“What now?”
I couldn’t answer.
Because I had seen her.
She was sitting on the fountain wall.
Blonde hair.
Colourful nails.
Purple uniform.
One leg bouncing while she talked.
My mom.
My actual mom.
Mom.
Every thought in my head vanished.
She was younger.
Of course she was younger.
I knew that.
Logically.
I’d seen photographs.
I’d watched old videos.
Mom loved photographs.
There were thousands.
But photographs hadn’t prepared me for this.
She was alive in a completely different way.
Sixteen.
Bright.
Animated.
Gesturing with both hands while she spoke to Yoko.
Aunt Yoko.
Except not Aunt Yoko yet.
My chest hurt.
Mom threw her head back and laughed.
I knew that laugh.
That exact laugh.
I had heard it when she burned pancakes.
When Mother pretended not to understand internet slang.
When Uncle Pugsley fell into the koi pond at my eighth birthday.
When I came home from school and told her I’d punched a boy for calling Cuthbert weird.
She’d laughed first.
Then told me punching people wasn’t the answer.
Mother had disagreed.
Mom.
I took one step forward.
Then another.
I didn’t decide to.
My body just moved.
Weems said something behind me.
I didn’t hear her.
Mom looked up.
Our eyes met.
She smiled.
At me.
A stranger’s smile.
Friendly.
Warm.
Automatic.
“Hi!”
I stopped.
That one word nearly destroyed me.
She didn’t know me.
Of course she didn’t know me.
She couldn’t.
I knew that.
I had known it since I saw the date.
Knowing something and surviving it are apparently different skills.
Mom frowned slightly.
“Are you okay?”
No.
No, I was absolutely not okay.
I wanted to run to her.
I wanted her arms around me.
I wanted to bury my face against her shoulder and tell her Cuthbert was an idiot and I’d told him not to touch it and I was scared and I wanted to go home.
I wanted her to kiss my forehead.
I wanted her to say, I’ve got you, baby girl.
She’d said that my whole life.
When I was six.
Ten.
Fourteen.
Last month when I’d had the worst argument I’d ever had with Mother and spent three hours pretending I didn’t care.
Mom had found me outside.
Wrapped both arms around me.
I’ve got you.
I swallowed.
“I’m fine.”
My voice cracked.
Mom’s frown deepened.
She stood.
Oh no.
No, no, no.
Protective Enid Sinclair had apparently existed long before motherhood.
She crossed the space between us.
“Are you sure? You look kinda…”
She stopped herself.
“Like I was just thrown through time?”
Her eyes widened.
I wanted to die.
“Jet lag,” I said quickly.
Weems covered her face with both hands.
Mom blinked.
“From…”
“Europe.”
We were in Vermont.
Mom glanced at Yoko.
Yoko lowered her sunglasses slightly.
I could practically hear her thinking, What the fuck?
Good question, Aunt Yoko.
“Right,” Mom said slowly. “From Europe.”
“Very long flight.”
“Obviously.”
I smiled.
She smiled back.
Then her expression softened.
That was worse.
“You really don’t look okay.”
“I am.”
“Do you need the infirmary?”
“No.”
“Water?”
“No.”
“Food?”
My eyes burned.
Mom always asked that.
Always.
Even when I was angry.
Even when she was angry.
Have you eaten?
I looked away.
“No.”
“Okay.”
There was a pause.
Then Mom said quietly, “Do you need a hug?”
That did it.
I couldn’t speak.
If I opened my mouth I was going to call her Mom.
I shook my head too quickly.
Her face fell just a little.
“That’s okay.”
I hated myself immediately.
Then another voice cut through the quad.
“Sinclair.”
My entire nervous system shut down.
No.
Absolutely not.
I knew that voice.
I had been grounded by that voice.
Comforted by that voice, although Mother would deny using the word comfort.
Interrogated by it.
Praised by it, rarely enough that every instance remained permanently carved into my brain.
Mom turned.
And there she was.
My mother.
Wednesday Addams.
Sixteen years old.
Braids.
Black uniform.
Expression of perpetual disappointment in humanity.
She was walking toward us.
Thing perched on her shoulder.
I forgot about crying.
I forgot about temporal displacement.
I forgot about Cuthbert.
Pure instinct took over.
I stepped backwards.
Mom glanced at me.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“No.”
At least that answer was honest.
Mother reached us.
Her eyes moved from Enid to Yoko.
Then to me.
And stopped.
Oh, shit.
I knew that look.
I had seen it across breakfast tables.
Parent-teacher meetings.
Police stations.
Once during an unfortunate incident involving a locked mausoleum and three stolen chickens.
Mother was analysing me.
Sixteen-year-old Wednesday Addams was analysing me.
This was significantly more terrifying than adult Wednesday Addams because adult Wednesday loved me.
This one had no reason not to dissect me.
Metaphorically.
Probably.
“Who’s this?”
Mom smiled.
“I don’t know yet.”
Mother’s eyes remained on me.
“How reassuring.”
“I was getting there.”
“No, you were offering food to a stranger.”
“She looked upset!”
“Predators frequently exploit visible sympathy.”
“She’s our age!”
“Teenagers commit a statistically impressive percentage of violent crime.”
Yoko sighed.
“Welcome back, Addams.”
Thing waved at me.
Without thinking, I waved back.
Mother noticed.
Of course she noticed.
Her gaze sharpened.
“You aren’t surprised by Thing.”
Fuck.
I looked at Thing.
Thing looked at me.
Traitor.
“I’ve seen stranger.”
“Where?”
“Europe.”
Weems made a choking noise despite technically not breathing.
Mother stared.
Mom looked between us.
“Wednesday, maybe don’t interrogate the random girl who looks like she’s about to cry?”
“I wasn’t interrogating her.”
“You asked two questions in twelve seconds.”
“That’s conversation.”
“Not when you do it.”
My heart did something painful.
They sounded exactly the same.
Not the same as later.
But close.
The rhythm was there.
The easy argument.
Mom pushing.
Mother resisting.
Neither actually leaving.
I looked between them.
Mom caught me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Mother tilted her head.
“You keep looking at us.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You do.”
“Maybe you’re visually interesting.”
Yoko snorted.
Mom’s lips twitched.
Mother did not appear amused.
Which meant she probably was.
“Name,” she said.
I froze.
Mom elbowed her.
“Could you at least make it sound like a question?”
Mother didn’t look away from me.
“What is your name?”
Better.
Marginally.
“Agnes.”
Mom brightened.
“Agnes! Cute.”
I nearly laughed.
Mother’s gaze stayed fixed.
“Agnes what?”
Here we go.
I had approximately half a second to decide whether telling teenage Wednesday Addams that my surname was Addams-Sinclair would cause a temporal collapse.
Probably.
“Just Agnes.”
Mother’s eyebrow moved.
One millimetre.
Danger.
Mom groaned.
“Oh my god, you’ve known her for thirty seconds and she’s already copying you.”
“I’m not copying her.”
“Good,” Mother said. “One of me is sufficient.”
“I’ve been saying that for years,” Yoko muttered.
Mother’s eyes flicked toward her.
Yoko smiled pleasantly.
I almost smiled too.
Then Mom touched my arm.
Barely.
Just fingertips.
I flinched anyway.
Not because I didn’t want her touching me.
Because I wanted it too much.
She pulled her hand back immediately.
“Sorry.”
“No.”
The word came out too fast.
Mom looked startled.
“I mean, it’s fine.”
There was an awful second where neither of us spoke.
Then she smiled again.
Smaller this time.
And I wanted to cry all over again.
Mother watched every second.
Of course she did.
“Why are you at Nevermore?”
I looked at Weems.
She shrugged.
Helpful.
“I…”
Fantastic.
I had survived temporal displacement only to be defeated by a basic question.
Mom rescued me.
“Did the new principal invite you?”
“I don’t know.”
Mother’s expression became almost predatory.
“You don’t know why you’re here.”
“I’ve had a difficult day.”
“Wednesday.”
“What?”
“Stop.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“Your face is doing the thing.”
“My face isn’t doing anything.”
“The suspicious thing.”
“This is my face.”
I almost said, She’s right.
I caught myself.
Barely.
Mom looked at me again.
“Come on.”
“Where?”
“Inside. We can figure out who you’re supposed to talk to.”
“No.”
She blinked.
“No?”
“I mean…”
I glanced at Mother.
She noticed that too.
“Do I frighten you?”
Yes.
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“Wednesday!”
“What? She is.”
“I’m not.”
Mother stepped closer.
I stayed still through sheer force of will.
Adult Mother had always been frightening.
But there was safety beneath it.
This version didn’t have that yet.
She didn’t know that I hated thunderstorms despite pretending otherwise.
She didn’t know I drank tea exactly like her but stole Mom’s marshmallows whenever we had hot chocolate.
She didn’t know I had a scar beneath my left knee from falling out of a tree when I was eight.
She didn’t know that when I was little, I climbed into her lap whenever I had nightmares because she never told me monsters weren’t real.
She just told me nothing was allowed to hurt me while she was there.
This Wednesday knew none of that.
To her, I was evidence.
A puzzle.
Potentially a threat.
And somehow that hurt almost as much as Mom smiling at me like a stranger.
Mother’s gaze shifted over my face.
Something flickered there.
Gone immediately.
“What?” I asked.
“I haven’t decided.”
“That’s comforting.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
Mom sighed.
“Okay, we’re definitely taking you inside before Wednesday scares you back to Europe.”
I choked.
Mother noticed.
“Interesting.”
“Nothing is interesting.”
“Your reaction suggests otherwise.”
“My reaction suggests you’re weird.”
Mom laughed.
Actually laughed.
I stared at her.
She smiled at me.
And for one tiny second, the universe didn’t feel completely hostile.
Then Mom looped her arm through Mother’s.
Casually.
Automatically.
My heart lifted.
There.
See?
Normal.
They were together.
Everything was fine.
Obviously.
This was them before marriage, but still them.
Maybe I had landed after they got together.
That would make things significantly easier.
I wouldn’t have to worry about accidentally preventing my own existence.
Mom tugged Mother toward the main building.
“Come on, roomie.”
My heart stopped.
Roomie?
Mother allowed herself to be dragged exactly three steps before saying, “Your continued use of that title is inaccurate.”
Mom looked at her.
“What?”
“We are no longer roommates.”
“I know, but you’ll always be my roomie.”
“Sentimentality does not alter housing arrangements.”
Yoko walked beside them.
“I’ve been telling her that.”
Mom stuck her tongue out at Yoko.
Then looked at Mother.
“Fine. Bestie.”
Mother looked genuinely pained.
“That’s worse.”
“Best friend?”
“Marginally less offensive.”
Something cold crawled into my stomach.
No.
Maybe they just didn’t tell people.
My parents weren’t exactly public.
Mother thought public displays of affection were evidence of psychological instability.
Mom had once pointed out that holding hands at the supermarket did not count as public indecency.
Mother said that depended on the supermarket.
So maybe…
Maybe this was normal.
I followed them.
Weems appeared beside me.
“You’ve gone pale.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve said that repeatedly.”
“I’m hoping eventually it becomes true.”
Ahead of us, Mom was telling Yoko something about Ajax.
Ajax.
I knew Uncle Ajax.
Well, not uncle uncle.
Family friend.
He sent terrible birthday cards and once accidentally petrified a clown at my ninth birthday party.
Best birthday ever.
“…and then Ajax said maybe we could go into Jericho Saturday,” Mom was saying.
I slowed.
Mother didn’t.
“Your romantic calendar is of no interest to me, Sinclair.”
Romantic.
Calendar.
Ajax.
No.
Mom rolled her eyes.
“You asked what I was doing.”
“I asked why you couldn’t assist with my investigation.”
“Because I have a date.”
A date.
With Ajax.
My mother had a date.
With someone who wasn’t my other mother.
I stopped walking.
Weems stopped too.
Mother took three more steps before noticing.
She turned.
“Agnes?”
Mom turned as well.
“Hey, you okay?”
No.
No, actually.
I was not.
Because suddenly several things became horribly, catastrophically clear.
Mom had called Mother her best friend.
Mother had referred to Mom’s date without the slightest hint that she had any right to object.
They weren’t holding hands.
They weren’t secretly together.
They weren’t pretending.
They weren’t anything.
My mothers.
My married, disgustingly devoted, still-arguing-over-the-correct-way-to-load-a-dishwasher mothers…
Were not together.
I looked from Mom to Mother.
Then back again.
They stared at me.
Weems followed my gaze.
Understanding dawned slowly across her face.
“Oh,” she said.
I didn’t answer.
“Oh, dear.”
I finally looked at her.
She looked almost sympathetic.
That was unacceptable.
“No.”
“Agnes.”
“No.”
Mom started toward me.
“What’s wrong?”
Everything.
Everything was wrong.
I had been flung backwards through time.
My cousin was possibly dead.
I had no idea how to get home.
A dead former principal was apparently my spirit guide.
My mother was suspicious of me.
My mom didn’t know who I was.
And apparently the two people responsible for my entire existence were wandering around Nevermore calling each other best friends while one of them went on dates with other people.
I stared at them.
At my terrifyingly intelligent mother.
At my relentlessly loving mom.
At the two most competent people I had ever known.
And reached the only possible conclusion.
They were idiots.
Actual idiots.
How?
How was this possible?
I’d spent my entire childhood listening to the story of how they’d met.
How they’d become friends.
How Mom brought colour into Mother’s life.
How Mother taught Mom never to apologise for being too much.
How they’d saved each other.
Repeatedly.
I’d assumed somewhere in those stories they had left out all the romantic parts because Mother considered discussing her own courtship “an unnecessary invasion of privacy.”
Apparently not.
Apparently they had genuinely looked at all of that and thought:
Friendship.
Excuse me?
What the actual fuck?
Weems leaned toward me.
“Whatever you’re considering, don’t.”
I looked at her.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You have Wednesday Addams’s expression.”
“Which one?”
“The one immediately preceding a terrible decision.”
I looked back at my mothers.
Mom was worried.
Mother was suspicious.
Neither of them was in love.
No.
Correction.
Neither of them knew they were in love.
Because I knew my mothers.
I knew the way Mother looked at Mom across breakfast.
I knew the way Mom reached for Mother’s hand without looking.
I knew the soft expression Mother got whenever Mom was laughing and didn’t realise she was being watched.
I knew Mom could identify Mother’s mood from the angle of her shoulders.
I knew their love.
I’d grown up inside it.
And standing here, watching their younger selves, I suddenly recognised it.
Smaller.
Unspoken.
Buried under friendship, fear and spectacular emotional incompetence.
But there.
Already there.
I looked at Weems.
She saw whatever was on my face and immediately shook her head.
“No.”
I smiled.
“No what?”
“Absolutely not.”
“I still haven’t said anything.”
“You don’t need to.”
Mom called, “Agnes?”
I turned toward her.
She smiled uncertainly.
Mother watched me like she was trying to peel my skin off with her eyes.
My chest ached.
I wanted to go home.
I wanted my moms.
But if everything happened for a reason…
No.
Absolutely not.
I refused to give Mom that satisfaction.
Still.
Maybe there was one tiny thing I could accomplish while I was trapped here.
Nothing major.
Nothing timeline-destroying.
Just…
A nudge.
A very small nudge.
Because apparently my mothers had once been this dense, and frankly, someone needed to intervene.
Weems closed her eyes.
“I already regret whatever you’re thinking.”
I smiled at her.
Mom’s smile.
Mother’s intentions.
“I’m not thinking anything.”
Weems opened her eyes.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“Mother says lying is an art form.”
Weems went completely still.
I realised what I’d said.
Again.
Then she looked from me…
to Wednesday…
to Enid…
and back to me.
Her eyes widened.
Very slowly.
Oh.
Oh, no.
I had the sudden, deeply unpleasant feeling that Larissa Weems had just solved a problem I very much needed her not to solve.
She whispered:
“Your mother…”
I grabbed her arm.
My hand passed straight through.
“Shut up.”
Wednesday’s head snapped toward me.
“Who are you talking to?”
Fuck.
Everything happens for a reason.
Yeah.
Fucking.
Right.