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Wednesday is twelve when she has her first crush.
She doesn’t understand what it means and at first she thinks she might hate the girl that is making all these moths swarm around in her tummy. But by not understanding those feelings, she lets them develop until they can’t be denied anymore.
It all starts at summer camp. Her parents decide to send her and Pugsley to Camp Chippewa for two months, in the hopes of helping them make friends and socialize.
From the moment the couple who runs it introduce themselves, Wednesday hates it.
But what she initially hates even more is the girl she shares a cabin with. She’s excitable and loud; a blonde-haired, blue-eyed hurricane of color that greets her with a “howdy, roomie!” as soon as she enters the door.
But somehow, within the span of a week, they’re inseparable.
Her name is Enid.
She tells Wednesday she likes her braids and her black, polka-dot dresses, talks her ear off and holds her hand without permission. She’s kind and optimistic, and teases Wednesday without fear, which almost no one does. Wednesday is inexplicably drawn to her.
But she also talks about boys a lot. At one point, she even asks Wednesday about them too. The only thing she can think to reply is “people don’t interest me, regardless of gender.” Enid gets quiet at that and then blushes up to her ears. Wednesday doesn’t understand why, but after that, Enid doesn’t ask again.
By the end of the first month, Enid is calling Wednesday her best friend.
Wednesday watches her sometimes, the way her smile can light up a room and the way the sun catches in her hair like a halo. It makes her stomach twist and flutter in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant but she absolutely despises.
She’s never met anyone like her in her twelve years of life and she’s pretty smart for her age—her teachers say she even might be a genius, a model student if her presence in the classroom wasn’t so unsettling—but there’s something about Enid that makes her feel different and she can’t quite put her finger on it.
By the end of the second month, there’s a certain apprehension that creeps around Wednesday’s heart at the idea of continuing her life without her friend around. So that morning at breakfast she presents Enid with her address written in her neat calligraphy on a piece of paper.
Enid holds it like it's a priceless, ancient manuscript and it makes something grow beneath Wednesday's ribs.
On their last night at camp, they sit at the docks by the lake and Enid clutches her tightly in a hug, dangerously close to tears.
“I’ll miss you so much, Wends,” she says, using the nickname Wednesday has asked her a hundred times not to use. And yet, it never fails to make her feel warm inside.
“You can write to me,” Wednesday reminds her. Her voice is soft, another thing she doesn’t quite know when or how it happened. She’s usually so monotone and dry, but not with Enid.
“I know! I’m excited to be your penpal, but I wish we lived closer. San Fran and New Jersey are, like, literally on different sides of the world.”
“America is not the world, Enid.”
“Ugh, you know what I mean.” Enid pouts, taking Wednesday’s hand in hers and playing with her fingers. That is another thing she does a lot and another Wednesday allows, for whatever reason.
“Maybe we can visit each other next summer,” Wednesday offers. The idea appeals to her greatly—maybe not so much visiting sunny San Francisco, but definitely the thought of Enid at the Addams state, getting to know her family and their many pets.
Enid gasps. “You mean it?”
“Of course.”
Enid grins, her spirits lifted. “Okay, sounds like a plan.”
Their final goodbye in the morning is emotional, which would be torture for Wednesday if she hadn’t gotten used to Enid crying over the last couple months with every movie they put up on the projector that had any sad scene.
“You’ll write to me,” Enid says, her voice shaky with tears.
“Yes.”
“And you’ll keep being my best friend.”
“That’ll never be in question, Enid.”
Enid nods and hugs her again. They’re waiting for their parents to pick them up, thankfully behind the cover of a line of trees that allows them a semblance of privacy, because Wednesday isn’t sure she could handle all these displays of affection in front of the rest of the campers.
Enid leaves first; a woman with gray hair comes to pick her up, fretting over her and scolding her at the same time for a reason Wednesday doesn’t understand. Enid waves goodbye through the window and for a moment it feels like something breaks inside Wednesday’s chest. She’ll have to visit her family’s physician since there’s been so much movement in that area lately.
Morticia and Gomez pick Wednesday up not long after, with Lurch driving the car. Wednesday is quiet on the way back, sitting beside her mother as Gomez sits in front of them. They ask her questions that Wednesday answers dryly. There is something on her mind, they can both tell, but pushing Wednesday has historically not been a good idea, so they simply wait.
When they’re about half an hour away from home, Wednesday finally speaks up.
“I might be getting some mail soon. Bring it to my room when you see it.”
“Mail?” Morticia asks.
“Letters. From an acquaintance.”
Gomez and Morticia look at each other. They can tell that this is Wednesday’s way of saying she made a friend. But the thing is, their daughter has never had a friend before in her twelve years of life.
“Of course, darling.” Morticia glances out the window, pretending to be uninterested. “What’s their name?”
“Enid Sinclair.”
“So… what is she like?” Gomez asks, trying to keep the conversation rolling.
“She’s excitable, loud, and painfully colorful.”
“Oh,” the man says, a little stunned. That doesn’t sound like something his daughter would enjoy at all.
“She’s also kind and brave and resilient. She attached herself to me on day one, for some unknown reason, and by day twenty-four she declared us best friends.”
“Darling, that is marvelous. A best friend? We must meet her!”
“Perhaps in the future, Mother. I wouldn’t want to overwhelm her.”
“Probably smart, my tormenta,” Gomez says. “You know how some people find our family a little strange.”
“She’s strange too, Father. She’d fit in just fine.”
Morticia and Gomez are delighted to hear.
In the following weeks, Wednesday keeps receiving and sending letters. Her parents ask Wednesday about Enid from time to time and, on the days when their child is feeling generous, they are gifted little nuggets of information.
There is one letter, however, that leaves Wednesday a little out of balance. They can tell by the way she reads and rereads it every morning and by how she doesn’t ask Lurch to take her reply back to the post office within twenty four hours.
One morning, Wednesday finds Morticia at the greenhouse. She’s carrying Enid’s last letter clutched in her fist, the paper wrinkly. Morticia drops her gardening shears and takes off her gloves.
“Dreadful morning, Wednesday.”
“To you as well, Mother. May we speak?”
“Of course.” Morticia sits on her stool to give her all her attention.
“The last letter I received from Enid has left me in somewhat of a state of distress.”
“Why, darling?”
“That’s the issue, I don’t know the reason.”
“Well, what did she talk about?”
Wednesday skims the letter. “Going to the beach, her brother being stung by a jellyfish, buying new clothes and meeting a boy.”
Morticia’s eyebrows fly up to her hairline. She observes her twelve year old daughter, so smart and so serious for her age and yet, so oblivious in social matters. As she watches Wednesday frown at this piece of paper she wonders: could this be? She prods gently.
“She made a new friend?”
“His name is Bruno. She described him as ‘cute and cool’.” The frown deepens. “I’ve been meaning to reply for days but every time I sit to write I find myself… unable.”
“Oh, my little scorpion,” Morticia coos. Wednesday glares at her, so she reins in the emotional response. “May I ask you a question?”
“Will it help my predicament?”
“I believe so.”
“Go ahead.”
“Does it feel like a heat in the pit of your stomach when you think of Enid meeting this boy, Bruno?”
Wednesday’s eyes squint. “How do you know?”
“It’s a more common feeling than you might imagine.”
“Well, what is it?”
“I believe you’re experiencing jealousy.”
Wednesday thinks about it for a moment. “I suppose I envy this boy for being able to spend time with Enid.”
“Would you want to spend more time with her?”
“Of course,” Wednesday scoffs. “She’s my best friend.”
“I thought you two were ‘aquaintances’.”
Wednesday’s cheeks flood with a faint color. “Semantics.”
“But, she won’t stop being your best friend just because she met a boy, will she?”
“I… suppose not.” Wednesday glances at the letter again. “But she said they went to the movies together and he held her hand. That makes me irrationally angry, Mother. What does this boy know about Enid? Why would he touch her?”
Ah, Morticia thinks. There it is.
“My darling, I do believe you have a crush on Enid.”
“A what?”
“It’s a… special kind of fascination. A crush is when someone catches your interest so thoroughly that your mind keeps returning to them of its own accord.”
Wednesday remains quiet.
“You needn’t think of it as anything particularly dramatic, Wednesday. But it would explain your feelings of jealousy.”
“Is this similar to what happens in the romance novels you write?”
Now it’s Morticia’s turn to blush. “Those… are not for you to read quite yet. But, in a way, I suppose. Every romance starts with a crush.”
“I see.” Wednesday stares at the paper one last time. “I don’t believe I’ll be informing Enid. She might believe it’s strange and withdraw. I’ll respond to the letter normally and wait for this affliction to pass. Thank you for your insight, Mother.”
And then she turns and leaves.
Morticia watches, stunned, her shoulders dropping in a sigh.
Leave it to her daughter to repress her first crush.