Wednesday Addams's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Wednesday Addams had carried the letter in her coat pocket for nine days. The paper was folded twice, sealed with black wax, and addressed to her roommate. She had written it at three in the morning, in a hand she barely recognized as her own. She was, by her own measure, the least likely person on earth to admit she had feelings for anyone. That had not stopped her from writing them down. It had only stopped her from delivering them. The problem was the dormitory. Enid Sinclair was always in it, or about to be, or returning from somewhere with wet boots and an opinion about lunch. The walls were thin. The hallway carried voices. Twice Wednesday had opened her mouth and twice a neighbor had knocked, or a phone had buzzed, or Enid had laughed at something on her screen and the moment had collapsed. Wednesday had decided that if she did not act before the week ended, she would lose her nerve entirely and burn the letter. She asked Enid to meet her in the woods behind the school. She said it was about an experiment. Enid raised one eyebrow and pulled on her boots without asking what kind. The forest pressed close around the path. Wednesday led the way past a stone well that marked the turn no one used. Beyond it stood a small wooden gazebo, half-swallowed by ivy, its lattice walls thick with leaves. No one came here. No window looked down on it. Wednesday stepped inside and waited until Enid climbed the two steps after her. Then she took the letter from her pocket and held it out. "Read it here," Wednesday said. "Not later." Enid looked at the wax seal. Her face did something Wednesday could not name. "You wrote me a letter." "Yes." "You couldn't say it out loud." "I am saying it now. I wrote it because I wanted the words to be exact." Wednesday's hand did not shake, which surprised her. "Open it." Enid broke the seal. She read standing up, one hand on the lattice. Wednesday watched her eyes move down the page and back to the top and down again. The ivy stirred. Somewhere past the well, a bird made a single sound and stopped. Enid lowered the letter. She did not smile. She did not cry. She looked at Wednesday for a long moment, and then she said, "I already wrote you one of these. Months ago. You read it at your front gate and you walked away." Wednesday had not expected that to be the first sentence. She had prepared for kindness. She had prepared for refusal. She had not prepared for a debt she did not know she owed. The letter in Enid's hand was suddenly the second letter, not the first, and Wednesday understood she had been answering a question she had pretended not to hear.