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It’s Outreach Day, just six days before Wednesday’s 17th birthday. Her early birthday gift is being forced to stand under a warmer-than-usual Vermont sun, in the middle of a grotesque and hideous petting zoo just outside of Pilgrim World. It’s a Saturday morning, far too early for her to be knee-deep in mud and animal feces. She usually doesn’t entertain the idea of getting herself dirty until after sundown.
She’s been paired with Enid, after they both drew a Popsicle stick with the word “zoo” written in Sharpie on it. Neither of them are really complaining—if Wednesday doesn’t count Enid’s whining about the smell of goat poop as “complaining.”
Yoko is here, too. The nice elderly man and woman who own the zoo gave her the task of slopping the pigs, while Wednesday was delegated the unfortunate job of scraping Meredith the Goat’s waste off the paved pathway visitors are meant to walk on. Enid was selected to help Mrs. Mosley bring pails of fresh cows milk from the barn to the truck so it can be transported to the local pasteurization plant and distributed to the community without killing everyone off.
Ophelia Hall’s new dorm mother, Ms. Price, is the chaperone for the petting zoo. She’s a tall, older woman with graying hair and sunglasses to protect her vampire eyes from the sunlight beaming overhead. Wednesday mistook her for an anemic the day she met her, not quite understanding that almost all vampires lack any sort of real liveliness to their flesh and eyes. She doesn’t know how Ms. Price doesn’t just disintegrate out here, even if there’s a nice breeze and jackets are a necessity.
Weems is off somewhere, likely scoping out the other outreach groups to see who she can rope into her office later. Wednesday knows she’s just grateful to have seen the light of day after the evening under the blood moon, but Weems is also no fool. Nevermore continues to function as it once did, and Weems, despite suffering some physiological ailments from the incident, doesn’t back down, which is the only reason Wednesday is at all behaving herself today.
“Wednesday, this is fucking disgusting,” Enid complains, standing over her roommate, wearing a pair of rubber gloves made for washing dishes. “The barn smells like ass, and I spilled milk all over my boots.”
Wednesday glances at Enid’s pink rain boots. The students who selected the petting zoo Popsicle sticks were exempt from having to wear their Nevermore uniform for a very specific reason, and while Enid was initially excited about that, she was quickly disgusted to find out why that is. She would rather wear the uniform and do just about anything else.
“Would you like my job?” Wednesday politely offers, holding up a scraper that’s been smeared with a fair amount of animal feces. “It’s not nearly as bad once you get used to the smell. It reminds me of exhuming my dead relatives during New Years Eve. There’s a hint of death and despair that accompanies the stench.”
Enid’s nose wrinkles. “Ew! No, I don’t wanna do that. I don’t wanna do any of this, actually. Divina and Bianca got Uriah’s Heap this year. I would rather touch creepy dead things than touch animal poop and cow nipples.”
“The zoo opens in an hour,” Wednesday says as she glances at her watch. “We have to complete our assignments by then. Just one hour, and then we can disperse for the ceremony, and then we’ll have lunch.”
“Yeah, and after that, we have to come back here and help clean out the barn for another hour,” Enid huffs, shaking milk droplets off her shoes. “I love animals, but this is disgusting. I’m pretty sure I stepped in some kind of shit awhile ago. I’m not sure what animal it was from.”
Wednesday returns to scraping the pavement, indifferent to Enid’s complaints. She’s rather used to it by now, having shared so much time with her. Sometimes Enid is on the intense end of neurotic, especially when forced to do something she thinks is beneath her, but Wednesday doesn’t mind her. In fact, they balance out quite nice.
“I’m considering ditching the ceremony in town square,” says Wednesday, wiping off goat poop in a trash bag she was given. She pauses and looks up at Enid. “If you tell anyone, I’ll pluck your claws from their cuticles and boast them as souvenirs after graduation.”
Enid shrugs. “Well, if you miss it, at least I know you won’t set the place on fire again.”
“That was Thing,” Wednesday corrects with an indignant sigh. “I have no plans to cause disaster today. I’m covered in filth and I’m growing agitated in this heat.”
“It’s barely sixty degrees out here,” Enid notes. “It’s not that warm. I’m wearing a jacket because I’m cold.”
“I don’t take too well to anything warmer than a refrigerator,” Wednesday reminds, somewhat bothered that Enid forgot that little fact about her. “It’s too warm, and the sound of the pigs snorting around is causing my ears to bleed.”
Enid pauses, watching her roommate wordlessly attend to her assignment. Wednesday makes the task of cleaning excrement off the sidewalk look easy. Her face is as stoic as ever, never once giving Enid a sign that she’s at all horrified by the fact that she likely has fecal matter on her clothes.
“So, you know your birthday is on Friday,” Enid reminds, toeing at the gravel. Her boots are drying, milk stains splattered all over the tops. “Have you decided what you want?”
Wednesday mutters something in Spanish. Enid has been nagging away at her about her birthday for days. She’s already made it abundantly clear that she expects nothing from anyone and would prefer if the day passed on in silence and with no announcements that she’s a year closer to death’s embrace.
“I’ve explained to you, Enid, that I do not want anything,” she says. “Birthdays are a waste of time and money.”
She briefly thinks of the cake that she couldn’t have been bothered to cut, and she winces before shaking away the dirty feeling and scraping up a large pile of feces from the pavement.
“But it’s your last one as a kid,” Enid says, gesturing at her. “Next year, you’ll get to vote in the election! You’ll be an adult! Come on, let me get you one thing. Just one thing and I’ll leave you alone.”
The offer is tempting, because all Wednesday really wants for her birthday is to be left alone to wallow in silence, but she would never request anything of Enid. They’ve known each other long enough to share mutual understanding of each other’s needs; Wednesday needs her solitude, and Enid needs to shower her roommate with all the unwanted affection in the world.
“I know what I would like,” she says, squinting up at Enid. She looks like a pink blob. “It’s free.”
Enid’s eyebrows furrow, and Wednesday finds that to be cute. “What is it?”
“Peace and quiet on my birthday. The entire day,” she replies with more snark than intended. “That will be fairly easy. It’s a Friday, and you typically spend Friday evenings with Ajax. Though I’ve noticed that you’ve not been doing so the past few weeks.”
There is a concerning look on Enid’s face. She seems dejected or upset, but Wednesday can’t decipher it for certain. She’s been told that she isn’t good with reading facial expressions, so she isn’t very confident that she’s gauging Enid very well.
“Did I say something wrong?” Wednesday finally asks. She doesn’t want to think about why that worries her. “I can’t imagine that I said something hurtful.”
“Ajax and I aren’t together anymore,” Enid tells her, keeping it short. “It’s been three weeks.”
The scraper Wednesday is holding suddenly clatters on the ground. She raises her head again and feels the corners of her mouth flicker. Still, she forces herself to frown.
“And you chose not to tell me this important information?” she accusatorially asks.
“I mean, I know you didn’t really care about it in the first place, so I didn’t think you would notice,” Enid says with a shrug. “I guess I should’ve told you. But it’s still kind of a sore spot for me, ya know? Too soon. It happened a little while after the semester started.”
Wednesday is a sadist—although she’s been leaning more towards masochism these days—and she knows she shouldn’t reap pleasure from this, but she does. She no longer has to share custody of Enid with Ajax. The days of her waiting up for Enid to return home from one of her cutesy, nauseating dates are long gone and she will never have to hear “Ajax this, Ajax that” again. Perhaps Enid might come home on time and not smell like a boy’s cheap cologne.
It sinks in just then that she has been jealous.
But that doesn’t matter. It can’t matter right now. All that matters is that it’s over and done with and she can rest easy knowing that part of Enid’s heart doesn’t belong to a gorgon.
“He’s a fool to discard you, Enid,” Wednesday says, but she doesn’t want to encourage reunification. The thought makes her sick.
“Actually, I broke up with him,” Enid awkwardly replies, kicking a rock across the field. It almost hits Yoko in the head; not that it would kill her or anything. “I don’t really wanna talk about it anymore, okay? I’ll tell you everything when I feel ready.”
Wednesday frowns. “Is there more to tell me?”
It’s quiet, except for a pig grunting somewhere nearby. Enid takes a deep breath.
“I guess so, but not now,” Enid says. She looks towards the barn, where Mrs. Mosley is dragging a full pail of milk in one hand and a cattle prod in the other. “I’m gonna go help her before Ms. Price starts yelling at us for being off task.”
Wednesday’s curiosity is more than just piqued. She watches Enid go, resisting the urge to chase after her and pry the rest of the truth from her mouth. She doesn’t want to be that person, the type of person who pries and pries to the point of driving others away from her, but she is that person. She cannot suppress her innate desires.
She shouldn’t care, but she does.
She cares up until the point when the sidewalk is as clean as it’s going to get. She gathers up the trash bag and drags it across the large stretch of grass before tossing it into one of the trash cans behind the barn. A goat stops by to muzzle her leg before it loudly bleats at her and runs away like it just saw a ghost. Wednesday snarls at it. She can’t be that horrible of a person.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” someone says from behind Wednesday.
Startling and pushing herself into the wall of the barn, Wednesday looks up to find Mrs. Mosley smiling fondly at her. Her brown eyes shine bright, nicely complimenting her brown skin, and her smile is so gentle, like she was placed on this earth to be a comfort to the suffering in this world, to balance out the evil and peril.
Wednesday visibly relaxes. This woman isn’t going to harm her. She isn’t Laurel, even if she’s a normie.
“No one likes doing that job,” Mrs. Mosley tells her. “My husband used to do it each morning, but after his liver transplant, he isn’t the same. It’s getting hard for him to even walk around. Our kids come by every other week to help tend to the zoo, but it’s the in-between we struggle with. Meredith makes a mess, and so do the pigs. Luckily you youngsters arrived on my kids’ off week. I have some extra hands to help out. The only complaint I ever get is that there’s animal poop on the pathway.”
“It’s a zoo, not the Vatican,” Wednesday blatantly observes. “You don’t visit a petting zoo and expect it to follow the sterilization standards of a hospital.”
Mrs. Mosley continues to smile. Wednesday has to wonder if it’s fake or if she’s on something. No sane person smiles this much, unless they’re Enid Sinclair. She’s the only exception.
“I agree, but I have to keep business going. I have two grandchildren and one on the way. I need money to spoil them,” Mrs. Mosley says. She looks like she wants to affectionately pat Wednesday’s head, but she probably knows it’s not in her best interest. “Now that you’re done there, I have something else you can do. Not to worry; it’s not as messy as that.”
Wednesday doesn’t want to roll her eyes at such a kind woman, but she will be damned if it has anything to do with feces and urine. She’s had enough bodily fluids for one miserable morning.
Still, she follows Mrs. Mosley into a small conservatory, where plants are growing like weeds and touching the ceiling. Wednesday halts in the middle of the room and takes stock of the sight ahead of her. It smells like a fresh spring day, like newborn flowers after a harsh winter, like Laurel Gates and her myriad of flora she used as medicine and murder weapons.
She doesn’t want to be here. Her eyes continue to shift about the room, and then they travel to the floor. Amidst the chaos of the animals and the chatter, she failed to notice that Mrs. Mosley is wearing a pair of red rubber boots.
She really doesn’t want to be here.
“I hear Ms. Price calling for me,” she immediately says, already halfway out of the conservatory. “Perhaps I wasn’t meant to follow you here.”
The woman seems confused but not quite offended. She tilts her head at Wednesday and reaches out a hand.
“Nonsense. It’s my zoo; if I invite you in, you are allowed to be here,” she insists.
Nausea overtakes Wednesday. She wants to curl into a ball and rock back and forth to self-regulate, but she’ll have to save that for when she’s alone in her dorm. Once Enid goes out to gallivant around town with Yoko, she can sit by the window and overthink until she’s blue in the face, but right now, in a strange conservatory, on a strange farm, she has to stand there and take it from this woman.
“What am I meant to do?” she finally asks.
Her lip quivers against her teeth. She squeezes her lips closed and blinks back what feel like tears. She isn’t going to cry over this. She’s being utterly ridiculous. Mrs. Mosley isn’t Laurel. Laurel is dead, killed by bees and crushed to death by the sole of Wednesday’s shoe. She’s just an old farm lady who happens to like the color red. That’s all it is and will ever be.
“Our family tarantula, Blair,” Mrs. Mosley says, guiding Wednesday over to a workbench. “Her enclosure needs to be cleaned. Have you ever handled a tarantula?”
Wednesday tentatively approaches the workbench. There’s a tarantula inside a plastic enclosure, surrounded by leaves and dirt. She’s viscously tapping at the glass, like she’s begging to be released. Wednesday frowns with worry, wondering what could have possibly happened to this little creature for her to become so hostile.
“I’ve handled tarantulas,” Wednesday replies. “I never had one of my own, but I’ve held one.”
“Well, she’s quite aggressive,” Mrs. Mosley tells her, undoing the latch on the enclosure. “Once she’s used to you, she calms down. But since I can’t guarantee she won’t attack you, I’ll remove her and you can clean her home. I have supplies in the cabinet.”
Mrs. Mosley lifts Blair from her enclosure. Wednesday notes the way her spider legs flail about against Mrs. Mosley’s hands. She lifts a hand to give her a pet, but when Mrs. Mosley’s eyes give her a look of warning, she decides against it.
“She isn’t allowed to be pet, which is why we keep her in here,” she says to Wednesday. Blair begins to relax, legs slowly easing. “She doesn’t even like my children. It’s taken her so long to get used to me. She was incredibly vociferous when I first brought her home. She demanded attention but wouldn’t let me show her any real affection. Nowadays she’s calmer, though she’s selective about being touched.”
Wednesday nods. She still wants to pet the tarantula. Maybe Blair will like her. Maybe she isn’t some horrible monster of a person. She can be gentle, too. Or at least, she can try to be.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Mrs. Mosley says as she places Blair in a plastic container with holes cut out on the top. “I’m going to check in with the other children and see what they’ve been up to. I’ll come back later this afternoon to put her back. She doesn’t like to be transferred so quickly. Just please, do not attempt to handle her. She’s a fragile girl.”
Red, squeaky boots fade as she leaves the conservatory. Wednesday remains frozen in the center of the room, looking between the supply cabinet and the empty enclosure. Blair sits quietly in her temporary container, suddenly docile and less cranky than before.
Finally, Wednesday works up enough courage to gather the supplies from the cabinet. She scatters them out onto the workbench and takes a look at the enclosure, surveying the dimensions and material.
“This is too small for her,” she mutters to herself. “No place for a tarantula. She has no room to play or burrow. This isn’t right.”
It is too small of a home. The dimensions aren’t right for a tarantula Blair’s size. She needs more space to spread out and climb, and there isn’t enough dirt for her to safely bury herself.
She turns to Blair and crouches down at eye level with the spider. Blair doesn’t make eye contact, and taps the side of the container, as if greeting Wednesday.
“I’m gonna get you out of here,” Wednesday whispers, throwing a look over her shoulder. “Your home is too small for you, and you seem unhappy here. Enid will be upset once she is made aware of your presence, but I’ll deal with that later. Your health is more important right now. I can get you a better enclosure, with higher quality materials and all the space you need to roam. I can provide for you.”
Blair taps the container again. Wednesday’s lips uptick into a smile. Perhaps she isn’t going to behave herself all that well after all.
—
Wednesday used up her lunch hour to visit the local Jericho pet store, where she found a larger enclosure and a few basic supplies. She managed to keep Blair tame in the large pocket of her hoodie, petting her whenever she began to fuss. She threatened to bite once or twice, but upon smelling Wednesday, she quieted down, and no one was any the wiser to her absence when Wednesday returned to the zoo to finish up her assignment. Mrs. Mosley never went to check on her in the conservatory, a sure sign that she doesn’t truly care for the poor thing and only uses her for show.
On the bus back to Nevermore, she sits next to Enid, with the sealed paper bag at her feet and Blair comfortably resting in her pocket. Enid is too busy texting to notice that Wednesday’s hoodie pocket is moving. Wednesday pats her stomach, settling Blair down enough to not make it so obvious that she abducted a tarantula.
“I need a shower really bad,” Enid tells her, finally putting her phone down. “I smell like literal shit. Or maybe it’s you. I can’t really tell.”
Wednesday glares at her. “Not only do you smell like shit, you smell like spoiled milk. It makes me wanna vomit, and not in the good way.”
“Aw, I know you’re just saying that because you like me,” Enid teases, picking up her phone again.
Visibly tensing, Wednesday looks out the window and keeps one hand on her pocket. She doesn’t know if Enid was being genuine. Sometimes she has an inflection in her voice that makes Wednesday assume she’s joking, but she can’t always be so certain of that.
“So what’s in the bag?” Enid asks. “I’m not surprised you missed lunch, considering you were cleaning up poop all morning and you also fell asleep on me during the ceremony, but I didn’t think you’d go shopping.”
“It’s nothing,” Wednesday replies.
She isn’t going to comment about falling asleep on Enid, because she hardly recalls that. She does remember sitting down next to her, and the next thing she knew, the ceremony was over and everyone was disbanded for lunch.
“You know, you’re lucky Weems didn’t notice that you fell asleep on me,” Enid says. “She would’ve had a heart attack. You know she hates when we embarrass her in front of the town.”
“The gorgons do that all on their own,” Wednesday mumbles, hoping Ajax can hear her from three rows ahead.
Enid giggles. “You really hate gorgons.”
“Not all,” she corrects. “Just some.”
Just one, she thinks.
“Well, whatever you’re hiding, I hope it was worth the lecture you’re gonna get from Weems and Price later,” Enid says. “They were asking me where you went. Apparently we weren’t allowed to use our lunch for anything else except eating. They wanted us all to sit in town square and enjoy the meal the city gave us or whatever.”
“That wasn’t specified in the list of rules they gave us,” Wednesday mumbles, still patting her pocket. Blair begins to crawl. “They should have made that clear. It’s not my fault they expected us to assume that.”
“Well, considering everyone else stayed and at least sat down, I’d say it was clear,” Enid says with a passive shrug. “But it’s okay. They won’t be too hard on you. Weems has a weird soft spot for you.”
Again, Wednesday doesn’t know what that implies. Weems has been more than forgiving and given her a world of chances to screw up, but she can’t imagine that the woman has any sort of special perspective on her.
The rest of the ride is quiet. Wednesday can’t help but to strain her eyes to look at Enid’s phone while she’s texting. She doesn’t see anything flirtatious or romantic, so she soothes herself and looks out the window again.
Blair nips her hand, but it isn’t a big deal. It won’t kill Wednesday, unfortunately.
—
Enid doesn’t stay in their room very long after returning and taking the hottest shower imaginable. Her hair is still wet when she tells Wednesday that she’s going to meet Yoko and Divina at the shuttle to take a ride into Jericho for some girl time. As always, Wednesday is invited and she politely declines, insisting that she also needs a shower and to soak up some much needed solitude.
Once Enid has left with the promise of returning soon, Wednesday sits at her desk and removes a squirmy Blair from her pocket. The spider takes a breather and crawls along Wednesday’s arm, inspecting her new environment.
“This is much better, isn’t it?” Wednesday softly asks, then looks at the swollen bite on her hand. “I need to attend to this. Will you be fine exploring on your own?”
Blair inches up towards Wednesday’s collarbone and hesitates. Wednesday carefully moves her to the floor on her side of the room, wheres it’s dark and cold. The creature’s eyes wildly shift around, like she’s anxiously awaiting death, and her legs violently tap the floor.
Wednesday frowns with concern as she’s grabbing her first aid kit from under her bed. “What’s the matter? This is much better than being in that horrid trap. I got you a nice enclosure. Twice the size of that shoebox. You’ll have much more room to play and move around. Enid might take some getting used to, but she won’t hurt you. She likes furry things. She’s a werewolf, after all.”
While she’s cleaning her wound, Wednesday keeps an eye on Blair, who crawls around her side of the room with timid curiosity. Wednesday is sure that she’ll become adjusted with some time and a lot of love.
There’s worry that Enid won’t take too well to having a slider in their room. Of course, Wednesday will keep Blair contained most of the day and only let her out with close supervision, but Enid isn’t always easy to reason with when it comes to arachnids. She once killed a harmless house spider with a shoe, and Wednesday almost burst into tears when she saw the mangled corpse squished to smithereens on the dole of her own boots.
It was easy to kill the imaginative spider that Xavier summoned to life that one day in class; it wasn’t real, and it was for a good cause. But to kill an innocent, breathing creature because it has multiple legs and eyes is just cruel. She was upset with Enid that evening but never desired to open up to her about it. Instead, she shut down and spent the rest of the night violently playing her cello to stop the tears from escaping.
She’ll have to cross that bridge when she gets to it, but in the meantime, she gives Blair a tour of the room and waits for the intense swelling in her hand to go down before Enid can notice and make a huge fuss over it.
It won’t kill Wednesday. Sometimes she wishes it would.
—
By the time Enid decides Wednesday is worth coming home to, Wednesday has already assembled the enclosure and placed it on her nightstand. She just won’t have a lamp at her bedside now, but it’s a necessary sacrifice to keep Blair calm.
“I had so much fun!” Enid exclaims, arms full of shopping bags as she kicks the door closed with her foot. “I still haven’t found a dress for the Rave’N this year, but I’ll figure it out soon. I saw a few dresses I think I like, but—Wednesday Addams, what the fuck is that thing?”
Wednesday looks up from the enclosure, where Blair is frantically tapping the glass. Enid drops her bags and immediately flocks to her roommate with her eyebrows all furrowed and her nose scrunches up in disgust.
“Our new pet,” Wednesday announces. “Her name is Blair. She’s a tarantula. She’s very nice.”
“And where exactly did you get our pet?” Enid asks, crossing her arms. “Is that what you spent your lunch doing today? At the pet store to get an animal that kills people daily?”
“They do not kill people,” Wednesday corrects, suddenly less enthusiastic about Enid’s response. She doesn’t think that Enid is going to ever appreciate Blair’s beauty. “In fact, while their bites may be painful, they are not known at all to cause fatalities in humans. Pet tarantulas are more docile, because they’re only handled by people they’re familiar with and not fighting for survival in the wild.”
“I don’t like spiders,” Enid says with an insulting cringe. “They make me itch.”
“That’s all in your head,” Wednesday replies. “You can be allergic to their venom, but you cannot suffer a reaction just by looking at one. Blair is not going to harm you. You don’t have to touch her, but you have to respect her presence. I will take care of her. You won’t even know she’s here.”
“I can literally see her!” Enid cries, gesturing to the spider, who’s still tapping the glass. “And why is she acting like that? She looks mad.”
“Because she’s just getting used to her new home. This is much better than her previous living conditions at that abusive zoo,” Wednesday spits with rage, thinking about how long Blair suffered before she rescued her from those conditions. “For a zoo, they sure don’t treat their most precious animals with enough kindness.”
Enid goes to word-vomit a long rant about why spiders are the most vile creatures on earth, but before she can get too red in the face, she stops herself and lets her jaw drop.
“The zoo?” she asks. “Wednesday, did you take her from the petting zoo today?”
Now Wednesday wants to burst into tears again, only because she made a stupid Freudian slip and couldn’t keep up with her lies quickly enough. She can’t do anything right as of late; even her novel is chapters behind because she can’t break free of her horrible writers’ block.
And Enid is looking at her with angry eyes. Wednesday hates when she does that—not that it ever happens too often, of course. She doesn’t like to be scrutinized by those pretty eyes that only ever show her kindness.
“Perhaps,” she finally mutters. “But you didn’t see the way she was forced to live there. A small enclosure, no room to move. How would you feel if you were trapped in a box without space to roam? How would you feel if you were left to sit alone in a conservatory, in full sunlight, watching the others move about around you? Mrs. Mosley tasked me with cleaning out her enclosure, and while I was cleaning it, she put Blair in a tiny container with holes in the top. She said she would transfer her later, but when I came back to take her, she was still in the container. It wasn’t fair, Enid.”
“Then you should’ve told Mrs. Mosley that,” Enid says. “You don’t have to resort to crime to get justice for everything in life. Sometimes all it takes is a conversation.”
Wednesday doesn’t know how to do that. It’s far easier to fix the problem by risking jail time than to argue with a brick wall. Blair is better for it and will thank her later.
“You can’t tell anyone about this, Enid,” she insists. “They’ll force me to return her to the zoo and risk her life and happiness. I can’t let that happen. She’s much more content here.”
Enid glances at Blair. “She doesn’t look too content.”
“It’s an adjustment,” Wednesday assures. “She’ll be just fine soon. But please, Enid, don’t make her go back there. She’ll never live a full life. She will die alone and cold and trapped, and as much as I’d love that for myself, she wouldn’t. She deserves much more.”
She’s being so genuine about it, and Enid can see the innate adoration in those big brown eyes of hers. Wednesday has so much love for certain creatures. Sometimes Enid wishes she would spare some of that love for her, too.
“Fine, Wednesday,” she caves in, but not because of those pretty eyes. “Whatever. Just don’t make me touch her and don’t let her touch me.”
Wednesday nods. “At least we are in agreement on something.”
“I never said I agree,” Enid quickly corrects. “I’m still ticked off. But I know that you did it because you care about her. At least I know your dead heart still works for something.”
Wednesday watches Enid move to her side of the room, wondering what she meant by that. She didn’t know that her heart wasn’t working before. It’s still beating, unfortunately. It’s difficult to find the urge to use it for anything, but it still works, and she’s determined to prove it.
—
The next morning, after breakfast, Wednesday is back in her room, alone with a book in her lap. Blair is running in circles in her enclosure, and Enid is out with the girls again, claiming she needs some retail therapy after having to look at Blair for so long. Thing is spending his free time out in the woods and hasn’t been around in days. Wednesday thinks Fester might’ve picked him up for a joyride along the way. He’ll return when he wants to.
She’s halfway through the resolution when someone knocks at the door. She ensured that Enid left with her key in hand, and no one likes Wednesday enough to drop by for a visit, so she’s both puzzled and worried. Still, she gets up and quietly walks to the door, careful about not opening it too wide. She doesn’t have a weapon on her person.
“Good morning, Miss Addams,” Weems greets. She smiles, but there’s a stern look in her eye that tells Wednesday this can’t be pleasant. “Mind if I come in?”
Wednesday’s dead heart beats quickly. “Actually, I do. This is also Enid’s space and I’m not going to violate her privacy without consent.”
Weems clenches her jaw. She expected Wednesday to be as every bit as stubborn as usual, but today is simply not a day to toy with her.
“I’m not here to concern myself with Miss Sinclair’s disastrous side of the room,” she insists, wedging a foot between the door and frame when Wednesday goes to close it. “I’m here for yours.”
“Are you accusing me of something, Ms. Weems?” Wednesday asks. “I haven’t done anything to warrant you barging into my dorm without probable cause.”
“I’m not going to stand here and have an entire argument with you when I have an entire school to worry about, Miss Addams, so I’m going to be cut and dry about it,” the older woman snaps, harsher than intended. She almost feels guilty when Wednesday flinches the slightest bit. “Mrs. Mosley’s tarantula, Blair, has gone missing, and as I understand it, you were cleaning her enclosure when she was last seen.”
“What are you implying?” Wednesday asks, palms beginning to sweat. “Are you implying that I had something to do with that?”
“I want you to tell me what happened,” says Weems. She’s practically seething with rage, and Wednesday doesn’t think it’s fair of her. “And I want the truth out of you. No lallygagging around the truth.”
“You’re accusing me of abducting a tarantula from a petting zoo,” Wednesday incredulously says. “Do you know how absurd that sounds? Perhaps the creature decided she deserved better than that treatment and ran away.”
Weems is shaking now, but it could be a side effect from the Nightshade poisoning. Still, Wednesday doesn’t want to get too close to her.
“How could she do that if she was contained?” Weems asks. “When Mrs. Mosley went to transfer her back into her home, the container was open on the workbench. How could a weightless creature push open a Tupperware lid and get out by itself? It is physically impossible.”
Wednesday swallows. She doesn’t have a real response to that, but she’s going to have to create one if she wants to see the light of day again.
“Have you considered the possibility that someone else might’ve taken or freed her from her shackles?” Wednesday challenges. She’s running out of excuses and it hurts.
“No one else was allowed in the conservatory yesterday because of all the chaos and people around,” Weems says, shaking her head in disappointment. “Mrs. Mosley allowed you in because she trusted you with her prized possession. She found your energy to be gloomy, which is something that Blair enjoys in a person. She trusted you, Wednesday, and if you did take that tarantula, I’m extremely disappointed but not surprised by your behavior.”
Before the blood moon, Wednesday would enjoy the fact that she’s just a huge, frustrating letdown to others, but after the blood moon, she finds herself attempting to avoid upsetting Weems. Of course, she didn’t make a real attempt this time, but it was an exception to the rule.
“You have no way of proving anything,” she finally says. “Baseless accusations.”
“I’m sure,” Weems practically scoffs. “Now if you’ll kindly step aside.”
Suddenly Weems is forcing her way into the room. Wednesday stumbles back, completely caught off guard by her principal’s strength. She doesn’t physically hurt Wednesday, but it’s a sharp blow to her chest.
“Wednesday Addams!” Weems exclaims. It’s reminiscent of Enid. She turns to Wednesday and looms over her, visibly infuriated. “Not only did you abduct an animal from a hardworking woman, you lied to me about it and did the one thing I said not to do; lallygagged around the truth.”
Wednesday takes note of the vein pulsating in Weems’s neck. She flinches and takes a step back.
“You don’t understand my reasoning,” she defends. “That spider was being abused by her owner. What was I meant to do?”
“If that was really the case, you should’ve brought it to someone’s attention, but considering the fact that Blair was not at all being harmed by Mrs. Mosley, you did all of those for no reason,” she explains. “I’m extremely disappointed by this, Wednesday. While I’m not exactly shocked, I was sincerely hoping that the days of petty crimes were past you. I was wrong.”
“You know nothing of tarantulas,” Wednesday says, once again skirting around the real issue. “She was being abused.”
“She was not,” Weems argues. “Mrs. Mosley rescued her from a shelter. Her previous owner neglected her and allowed her to roam free outside of an enclosure. One of his children stepped on her and broke two of her legs. She was forced to eat them and hobbled around on her remaining six until they could grow back during the molting process, which took several months. She hadn’t even completely recovered by the time they discarded her at the shelter because they thought she was useless without all of her limbs.”
Wednesday pauses, taking a look at Blair, who hasn’t stopped tapping at the glass since sunrise. She then looks to Weems, finding the woman to be relaxing at the sight of her pupil slowly coming to her senses.
“Do you see the way she’s tapping the glass?” Weems points out. “She’s doing that because the enclosure is too spacious for her. She needs a smaller home right now because she feels a loss of control being so out in the open.”
“Preposterous,” Wednesday snarks. “Did Mrs. Mosley tell you that?”
“She did, because she knows Blair best,” Weems says, voice becoming softer. “For the past few months, that spider has been her companion. The poor woman’s children have left home, her husband is ailing, her zoo is wrecked by children daily. Blair is a nice constant in her life, and you took that from her. She was worried all night and decided to give me a call this morning. I told her I would ask you but that I didn’t think you had anything to do with it. I had an inkling that I was wrong about that, but for once, Wednesday, I wanted you to prove me right.”
If Wednesday didn’t want to cry before, she certainly does now. But she holds it all in, taking in a few deep breaths, though her fists tremble at her sides and her jaw quivers. If Weems says anything else about Blair’s mistreatment, she’s going to crumble and humiliate herself even more than she already has.
Weems sighs, facial muscles finally easing. “Now that you understand, I’m going to bring you and Blair back to the zoo to return her. You’re going to apologize for what you did. Hopefully she isn’t too angry with you, but I understand if she’s furious. She was distraught on the phone. So gather her up and put on some shoes. You and I are going for a ride. A very long one, at that.”
There’s a huge lump in the back of Wednesday’s throat as she tugs on her hoodie with the pocket and puts on a pair of suitable shoes. She manages to ease Blair out of her enclosure without a struggle or bite, and gives her a very affectionate pet and a kiss to her head before silently sliding her into her pocket.
“Good, now come along,” Weems encourages, ghosting one hand over Wednesday’s back as she guides her out of the room. “And don’t you dare try to bolt ahead of me. I’m being respectful by not touching you, but I’m not afraid to grab you back by your scruff like a cat, Miss Addams.”
Wednesday has to suppress her flood of tears the entire way to the zoo as Weems prattles on about the consequences of her actions once they return to Nevermore.
—
Mrs. Mosley is slopping the pigs when Wednesday and Weems arrive. Wednesday is cradling Blair to her chest, almost tight enough to snap her little legs in half—again. They weave between goats and sheep on their way to the woman, whose face shows evidence of heavy crying.
“Go on, Wednesday,” Weems encourages in a whisper, carefully pushing the young Addams forward. “Apologize like you mean it.”
Wednesday jerks away from Weems, walking towards Mrs. Mosley with a sheen of tears in her eyes. She blinks them away once the woman takes notice of her. Mrs. Mosley quickly drops the basket she was holding and rushes to her, a flood of relief washing over her face
“Blair!” she cries, reaching out to take her from Wednesday. “My precious little spider!”
It’s almost a fight to get Wednesday to hand her over, but once Weems settles a hand on her shoulder and warns her with only her eyes, she surrenders her. Her hands immediately feel empty and lost without her, and there appears the lump again.
“What do you say, Wednesday?” Weems softly demands. “Remember what I said.”
Wednesday’s wet eyes meet Mrs. Mosley’s. “I apologize for abducting your pet. I felt that she was in danger because her enclosure was too small and she was showing signs of distress. I wasn’t aware that she has suffered trauma before and you were making special accommodations for her. I suppose that I jumped to conclusions about it because I may or may not have a weakness for creatures like her. I only took her because I thought she was being mistreated. I’m sorry.”
The entire apology is sincere but feels like yet another knife to the gut. Somehow this one is far more painful than the one she suffered in the crypt. At least with that one, she was soothed by death breaching her soul. But this time, she knows she’s definitely going to continue living.
“I accept your apology,” Mrs. Mosley says. “In fact, I’ll let you come by for visits during business hours. I know you didn’t mean to do this out of malice. You seemed to really care for her while you were here, and while I know I should be livid with you, I can’t find it in me. I forgive you. Have your principal give me a call ahead of time when you want to visit so I can set aside some time to help you handle her in the proper way she needs. She’s aggressive if mishandled. And I can see that she bit you.”
Weems looks down at Wednesday’s hand and sighs with frustration. The bite is cherry red around the center, swollen in the middle, and hideously deformed.
“It’s not going to kill me, sadly,” Wednesday remarks, then pauses. “I suppose I owe you a thank you for now persecuting me for my actions and still inviting me to visit.”
Mrs. Mosley nods with a smile. Wednesday can’t imagine how someone can be so kind despite having been wronged in such a personal way. She is nothing like Laurel was, despite her red boots, and that puts Wednesday’s mind at ease.
“Well,” Weems says, “I think we should be returning to Nevermore. I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on, thanks to this little incident.”
Wednesday can feel the glare piercing her head. She guesses that she’s the little incident.
“Of course,” Mrs. Mosley replies. “Give me a call any time, please. I’ll be happy to have Wednesday.”
That’s a first, Wednesday thinks.
Once Wednesday has nodded goodbye at Blair, Weems quickly whisks her back to Nevermore’s van that’s parked on the other side of the street and rushes her into the passenger side. She trusts that Wednesday won’t bolt, but only for the time it takes for her to get around to the drivers seat, and then she immediately locks the doors.
There’s uncomfortable silence for a full minute before Weems sighs.
“Why do you keep doing these things, Wednesday?” she asks, clearly beyond frustrated but attempting not to lash out too harshly on a young girl who’s clearly in a fragile state of being. “Do you understand how reckless you are?”
“I was doing it with good intention,” she defends, staring at the road ahead. There’s people walking and talking and laughing. Why do they get to feel so normal and she doesn’t? “I didn’t do it with intention to harm.”
“I can understand that much, but you really need to consider how your actions could be perceived by other people,” Weems stresses as she starts the van and lowers the temperature on Wednesday’s side. “You could have gotten into serious trouble. I know you do certain things with good intentions, but not everyone will see it that way. You know what they see? An outcast child with a bad temperament.”
“I don’t care what normies see,” she seethes, her hands clenching into fists. “Their opinions shouldn’t matter.”
“They shouldn’t, but that’s not reality, and I think you’re aware of that,” Weems reminds. “If we make waves and terrorize the town, we could lose some of our funding and be further shunned by everyone. Everything we have worked so hard to be achieve—breaking stereotypes, proving our worth to the outside world—could easily be destroyed by one incident. I don’t want that for any of us. Nevermore is a safe place for us all, and thanks to you, we get to see a new generation of outcasts flourish into adults who will have to live in a normie society. Do not ruin your sacrifice.”
Wednesday leans her head against the window and ruminates. She doesn’t care about her sacrifice. In fact, she would prefer it if no one remembered that night. The way the other outcasts look at her is different, and she doesn’t want to feel so different anymore. They stare at her and whisper amongst one another when she walks by, probably saying all sort of horrible things about her, that she’s actually a kind person who cares for her roommate. She doesn’t want that for herself.
The car begins to move, finally, but Wednesday doesn’t. She toys with her necklace, keeping her hands busy so they don’t scratch at her face or pull her hair from the roots.
“I suppose we’ll be discussing my punishment at Nevermore,” she assumes aloud.
Weems chuckles. “Oh, you can bet your ass we will.”
—
Staring at the empty enclosure should be punishment enough, but it’s not. Weems sentences Wednesday to six weeks of cleanup duty after dinner each evening, which is going to cut into her writing time by half an hour. The sudden shift in schedule has her brain spiraling out of control, and she wants to dig her fingernails into her skin and draw blood to lick off like a vampire, as a punishment to herself for being so stupid and careless.
When Enid comes back, she has even more shopping bags in her arms. She drops them on the floor and grabs a baby blue dress from one of them, bouncing over to Wednesday, who has yet to tear her sore eyes away from the enclosure.
“Look! I found the perfect dress for the Rave’N!” Enid exclaims, like a human golden retriever. She wiggles the dress in front of Wednesday, expecting a reaction that’s not a hateful scowl, but she gets nothing, which is even more worrisome. “Wednesday?”
“Hello, Enid,” Wednesday says, all empty and hollow, like everything has been sucked from her body. “I didn’t think you’d ever return.”
Enid frowns and lays her dress over Wednesday’s desk chair before moving back to the bed where Wednesday sits. She sits on her knees in front of her but doesn’t dare touch her. She respects Wednesday’s needs enough to resist the urge to physically comfort her.
“Of course I would. My stuff is here,” Enid says, and then pauses, thinking for a brief second. “You’re here.”
Wednesday’s lifts her head at that. Why would Enid ever take her presence into consideration when all she has done is cause chaos for everyone who comes into contact with her? She’s a curse of her own, a spell written in bold red letters with an attached hazard sign, a pharmaceutical medication with a black box warning.
“Weems discovered the truth about Blair,” she tells Enid, just to get the sappy part over with. “She forced me to return her to the zoo while you were out.”
“Oh.” Enid is almost happy about it, but then she sees the way Wednesday’s hands are twitching. She places one over both of hers, coaxing them into relaxing. “I’m sorry, Wednesday. I know you really cared about her.”
Enid seems to be genuine in her apology, but Wednesday doesn’t know why she’s apologizing. She wasn’t the one who forced her to return Blair to her owner. In fact, she was already beginning to get used to the idea, even if looking at the arachnid made her skin prickle.
“I have to clean up after dinner, every evening, for six weeks,” she cuts to the chase, trying not to think of Blair and her pretty shifty eyes. “I would have said that having to stare at this empty enclosure was punishment enough, but Weems is sadistic and reaps pleasure from my suffering.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” says Enid, shaking her head. “You do a lot of wild shit. She was just trying to show you that your actions have consequences, I guess. I knew she was gonna find out. I mean, I wasn’t gonna tell her, but someone would. Mrs. Mosley loves all her animals. She didn’t do it just because she wants to hurt you.”
Appalled by Enid siding with Weems, Wednesday wiggles away from her touch. She’s been touched far too much today. It’s so overwhelming, Enid touching Wednesday when Wednesday knows that nothing will ever flourish from that. Enid is only trying to comfort her in a time of distress. It doesn’t actually mean anything.
“Wednesday,” Enid quietly murmurs, one hand expertly gliding over her arm. She hardly feels the cold skin against hers, but their flesh buzzes when it meets. “It’s okay to cry.”
“I’m not going to cry,” she insists over the lump in her throat.
“But it’s okay if you do,” Enid assures.
Enid can feel the quiver under Wednesday’s skin. Her two fingertips caress over the blue veins lining Wednesday’s forearms, like she’s playing violin strings.
And Wednesday doesn’t protest with violent jolts or screams to leave her alone and never touch her again, that she shouldn’t have the audacity to assume she has the sacred privilege of touching her.
No, she doesn’t do that. Instead she leans forward, and then all of a sudden her face is buried in Enid’s neck. Her arms lay lifeless at her sides, not too convinced that it’s safe to wrap them around Enid.
“Oh,” Enid quietly gasps.
She gives into the instinct to wind her arms around Wednesday and draw her further into her body. Before long, she’s scooping the seer off her bed and into her lap as she maneuvers herself on the floor so she has a perfect Wednesday-shaped well between her legs for her to fit.
“This is. . .new,” she continues to speak to herself.
Wednesday scolds herself, tells herself to quit being a weak infant and stop this nonsense. She’s never needed comfort from anyone, much less Enid. The only person who’s ever seen her in such a vulnerable light is Uncle Fester, and that was only because he had the misfortune of finding her after Nero’s funeral.
But then she thinks of Crackstone. They hugged then, just like this, except then Wednesday’s eyes were dry and now they’re not. She recognizes that salty taste as tears flowing into her mouth as she cries into Enid’s pink sweater.
As much as she wants to just stop and pretend this never happened, just as they did after the blood moon turned into sunlight, she can’t. The tears continue to roll down her cheeks and are swiped away by her tongue once they reach her mouth. It’s the only hydration she’s had all day.
“I’m much better than this,” she finally mumbles between gasps for air, peeling herself from Enid. “I don’t succumb to the weakness that is human emotion. I’m far better than that, I think.”
Before she can wipe away the last of her tears, Enid’s thumb is already there, gently drying them up until they’re nothing but silver stains. Enid is so attentive to her, ensuring to use care against her swollen cheeks.
“I’m being ridiculous,” Wednesday sniffles, growing cold. “This isn’t who I am, Enid. I don’t sit here and sniffle like a young child. I don’t cry because I got an owie and need someone to make it better.” She’s being bitter about it, but maybe she does need someone to make it better.
“No, but it’s okay to cry sometimes,” says Enid, still holding her in her lap. She doesn’t want this to end just yet. “Even I cry. I’m a big, scary wolf, and I cry whenever I’m overwhelmed or hurt. It’s okay.”
“Well, I don’t know about the big or scary part,” Wednesday mumbles. “You’re more like a glorified dog.”
“Woof,” Enid teases with a sly grin.
Wednesday almost, just almost, smiles. Her tears have completely subsided, though her face aches with residual effort.
“I suppose I needed that,” she says. “The crying, I mean. I haven’t done that since. . .since Nero was murdered. I suppose it’s unhealthy to suppress eleven years worth of agony. For the past year, I’ve been questioning my sanity more than typical. There is a permanent tension in my throat, and at first I thought it was a tumor, but as time has progressed, I have come to the conclusion that it’s a direct result of the shameful emotions I’ve been suppressing. I wish it were a tumor.”
She’s being shockingly mature. Enid wants to dote on her and tell her just how proud of her she is for recognizing her feelings for what they are instead of finding harmful outlets, but she doesn’t want to scare Wednesday into silence. She’s made so much progress in the last five minutes than in the last five months.
“You got it out,” Enid tells her. “I’m proud of you.”
Wednesday hopes Enid doesn’t notice the excited chill that travels up her spine at those words. Instead of continuing to humiliate herself by sitting in her roommate’s lap like a child, she unravels herself from the wolf and uses the edge of her bed to help pull herself up. Her knees quake under her weight, but she doesn’t understand why.
“Now, what were you blubbering about when you found me in a state of crisis?” Wednesday asks, sinking back onto her bed and keeping her eyes away from the vacant enclosure. “I suppose it’s another hideously over-the-top outfit you will wear once and discard in the donation pile.”
“It’s for the Rave’N,” Enid says as she stands up and grabs her dress from Wednesday’s chair. She holds it up in front of herself and attempts to model it without wearing it. “Do you like it?”
Wednesday takes stock of it. It isn’t as much of an eyesore as she was expecting from Enid. It’s just a simple baby blue knee-length dress with bubble sleeves and white frills along the edges. It isn’t too flashy or overwhelming for Wednesday’s taste. Perhaps it’s one of the lesser hideous things in Enid’s closet.
“It doesn’t give me a headache just by the sight of it alone, so I suppose it’s nice,” she says, hesitant. “Though I’m very confused as to why you’ve decided to attend without a date. I’ve decided to forgo the dance altogether. I do not have a date, and I would just be making a mockery of myself by showing up alone in my black dress, especially considering that the entire school stares at me like I’m some sort of alien with two heads. I’m not going to waste one iota of energy on a dance to feel like I belong somewhere. I’d much rather catch up on my novel.”
Enid’s shoulders slump forward and the grin slides off her face. “Oh. Well, I had a solution to that problem, but I guess if you’re sure about not going. . .”
She goes to hang up her dress on the back of her closet door, running her fingers over the fabric with dejected eyes before turning back to Wednesday, who is still planted firmly in place, eyeing Enid’s every move as she’s unloading her shopping bags onto her bed.
The next time Enid turns around, she bumps right into a rigid, bony body. She stumbles back with a surprised gasp, finding Wednesday standing there with an expectant look in her eye.
“You move like a cat!” she exclaims.
“I’m interested in what you had in mind,” Wednesday curtly states, nodding at her. “Unfortunately, you’ve managed to pique my interest. That’s quite difficult to do, so I suggest you take me up on the offer.”
For a minute, Enid thinks she’s bluffing, but just as Wednesday turns to walk away from the conversation, she grabs onto her arm and gently spins her back around like they’re already dancing.
“Okay, I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to get all freaked out,” says Enid.
Pretty brown eyes light up like a Christmas tree. “Freaked out? Enid, I am a freak. Do tell.”
There’s hesitation in Enid’s face. She grabs onto Wednesday’s hands and isn’t immediately rejected by her. She holds them close to her chest, stroking over the scarred knuckles that tremble against her simple touch.
“I was thinking. . .since you don’t have a date and I’m freshly single, we could maybe. . .” she trails off, surveying Wednesday for any compulsory disgust. She proceeds with caution. “Maybe we could just go together.”
When she opens her eyes, Wednesday is staring at her. If it weren’t for the fact that she isn’t violently jerking away from Enid or running for the hills, Enid would think she’s just humiliated herself and ruined every last possible chance she had of calling Wednesday hers.
“As. . .a date?” Wednesday quietly asks.
Enid stutters. She didn’t think she would get this far.
“Well, if you want to consider it to be a date, yeah,” she finally says. “It’s not weird or anything. I just-well, I’ve been thinking about this all week, and I wanted to ask you earlier, but I kind of chickened out a few times. I get it if you don’t want to. I know you’re probably straight or whatever, or maybe you just don’t wanna be with anyone because Tyler turned out to be a monster, but I can promise you I’m not a monster, and I really, really like you and I broke up with Ajax because I couldn’t just be with him when I know—“
Her self-destructive rambling is interrupted by two soft lips against hers. They’re indecisive at first, but after a second of real adjustment, they fit with Enid’s just perfectly.
Enid is blindsided by the unusual taste of Wednesday’s lips but quickly becomes addicted. Her hands pave a perfect path down Wednesday’s sides and apply gentle pressure to her hips.
Wednesday’s eyes are crazed and unfocused when they separate. Enid blinks a few times, unsure if she made this all up or if Wednesday is really here, putty in her hands. She can’t imagine that something is going her way.
“So. . .is that a yes?” she timidly questions, hopeful that this isn’t some sort of cruel prank.
“Your hands are on my waist and I’m not considering severing them, so I would say so,” Wednesday agrees.
Enid can only draw her in for another kiss, this time much more certain of what she wants.
—
Wednesday’s 17th birthday is the day before the Rave’N. She insisted that Enid not get her anything or make a huge scene of it, because she doesn’t believe in happy birthdays, and Enid actually minded that request.
They went their separate ways to class this morning, had a quiet lunch together in the quad, and then Enid went to attend her photography club after last period, promising Wednesday that she would return home soon to help her fit into her dress and make sure it doesn’t need any altering before the dance. Before she went, she made sure to leave a pronouncing kiss to Wednesday’s cheek, which left Wednesday feeling abnormally warm to the touch.
The dorm is quiet when Wednesday enters. She immediately kicks off her shoes by the door and shrugs off her uncomfortable blazer. Whoever designed the uniforms was not autistic, she has to assume.
When she goes to put her backpack away and remove the rest of her uniform, she finds something sitting on her desk. She flocks to it, concerned that someone she doesn’t know intruded upon her private living space and tampered with her belongings. Nothing else seems to be out of place or missing, so she can’t assume that anyone was snooping or stealing from her.
Upon approaching her desk with careful footsteps, she finds that the thing in question is a plastic container, one from a pet store to transport a small animal to and from vet appointments, with a live, excited tarantula crawling up the side of the plastic. It’s quite small, presumably still just an infant, and seems very interested in its new environment.
There’s a slip of paper next to it. Wednesday picks it up with shaky fingers and tilts her head in confusion as she reads over the words scrawled in black ink.
Wednesday,
I know you said you didn’t want anything for your birthday and not to make a deal of it, but I felt really bad about what happened with Blair. I think you could use a friend who isn’t human or wolf. She’s very quiet and shy, just like you. I’ll learn to get used to her, even if she makes me itch. I hope you like her, and I can’t wait to see you in your dress tomorrow.
Happy 17th!
Love, Enid Sinclair