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Wednesday’s father calls her his little storm cloud. She never quite fully understands the eclipsed meaning behind the nickname as a child.
Because, as a child, Wednesday loves the rain. It’s a treat to wake up in the morning and spot droplets of water chasing each other down the windows of her room.
“It’s raining,” she’ll tell herself softly, and press her palms to the cool glass panes.
The rain brings muddy puddles in the backyard, which Wednesday finds endless fun with; she slips downstairs, pulls on her rain boots, and dawdles for hours.
Her parents find her outside all by herself, squatting next to a puddle to poke at worms or drawing faces on a dirtied picnic table. Her hands and knees are soaked with water. She barely notices.
(What in the world are you doing? Come inside where it’s warm.)
She goes inside, albeit reluctantly.
Wednesday likes the rain. Gloomy skies and dark clouds signify a breath of life that’s bound to come. Cumulonimbus clouds, she later learns they’re called, and when she repeats the name to her brother, he nods.
“They’re the worst ones. It means rain is coming.”
“I like rain,” Wednesday tells him.
Her younger brother, who knows less than her but often spouts insightful knowledge, just shrugs.
“You like the rain,” he says, “but you don’t like the clouds. They block out all the sunlight. They make everything cold. Nobody wants that.”
As she grows up, Wednesday finds that his words ring true.
It rains one afternoon when Wednesday’s school is in session, and her teacher’s mood turns sour. No recess today, she tells the class, and the class groans. Wednesday, whose desk is tucked away into the corner of the room, stares out the door at the water hitting the dusty pavement of the playground.
She wonders when it became a tradition to hide away indoors as soon as rain starts to fall. The class could be outside, stomping in puddles and watching birds dance through the sky in celebration.
Wednesday watches water run down the rusty metal bars of a merry-go-round, and she hopes the tradition doesn't stick.
A year later, she helps her father hang clean laundry on the line in the backyard. He squints at the sky mid-conversation, frowning.
“It’s going to rain,” he says. “I can tell.”
Wednesday shakes out a t-shirt. “So?”
“It might rain on our clothes.”
“They can always dry again.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “But it’s quite a nuisance, don’t you think?”
So Wednesday begins to find herself averse to the rain.
When she’s thirteen, she’s caught off-guard by a sudden downpour on her way walking home. She looks in the mirror an hour later, and resents the weather once she finds her makeup smeared below her eyes.
At fifteen, rain seeps through her windows one night, and she wakes up to find the piles of schoolwork on her desk soaked with runoff water. She slams the window shut in a wake of silent fury.
By seventeen, Wednesday hates the rain.
So, she hates the clouds that bring it.
Yet her father’s nickname sticks, and he greets her every day with a smile.
“Hello, my little storm cloud.”
He says it with love. Wednesday looks away each time.
—
Pugsley asks her one night why she doesn’t like the nickname.
“If I’m a storm cloud,” Wednesday reasons, her voice quiet, “it means I’m alone in the sky. It means I’m looking down on everyone, and everyone is looking up at me, wishing I didn’t exist.”
Her brother looks at her and shakes his head. “You’re not alone in the sky. The sun is there with you. We just can’t see it.”
Wednesday transfers to a boarding school. She goes willingly, and doesn’t mention that she does so because she read that the geographic location surrounding the school is rarely sunny.
She hates the rain, but she sees herself in every drop.
She goes to the school with hopes of finding a morsel of acceptance regarding the storm cloud that is herself.
It’s expensive and it’s private. Wednesday is one of a few hundred students that are each striving to find that missing piece of themselves—yet she still catches classmates staring, still hears hushed whispers when people think she’s not listening.
And, it’s true.
She is cold. She is ruthless. If needed, she fights with quick wits and a smart mouth, unafraid of the damage verbal assaults smear in her wake. Her clothes are dark and modest, clashing with her pallid complexion. She’s an empty black sky and a crescent moon, folded into one.
Wednesday wakes up each morning, and, each morning, storm clouds roll in.
It rains and it rains and it rains.
Until, one morning, the sun finally peeks through.
“A roommate?” Wednesday asks.
A girl steps into her room from behind the school’s headmistress. “Hi!” She pauses. “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”
Enid Sinclair arrives, and the storm settles.
They have a rocky start. Wednesday knows it’s her fault; even when she tries her hardest to bite her tongue, ill-intentioned phrases slip out.
“You look like you just stepped out of a Polly Pocket collection,” she tells Enid on her first morning spent at the school.
Enid gives her a look. “At least I have some colorful clothes.”
Wednesday follows her gaze to the half-open wardrobe on her own side of the room. She shifts her focus back to the book in her lap.
“I’m allergic to color.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You don’t seem to mind the window,” Enid notes, and points at the stained glass window that divides their halves of the room.
Wednesday looks up at it, expecting to see the circular pane of web-like gray glass that she’d grown used to. She blinks when she finds that the left half of it now shines bright with fractured shades of pink, blue, and yellow; it’s Enid’s work, and they both know it.
Enid’s smiling, admiring it like she constructed the window with her own two hands. “Pretty, right? Especially with the sun shining through.”
Wednesday frowns. “Sun? Certainly there’s no…”
She trails off when she glances back at Enid and sees the kaleidoscope of colors spilling across the girl’s face, pinks and blues catching on her lashes and warm yellows sloping over her chest.
Her breath gets caught in her throat.
In the two weeks that she's spent holed up in this exact room, not once has she seen the space light up like it is now.
She lets her eyes trace Enid’s face, watching her nose scrunch up with a smile, and she wonders.
How can one person be so bright?
“So tell me, Wednesday,” Enid ventures on her sixth day at campus, “what brought you to this school?”
It’s a loaded question. Wednesday is tempted to run her mouth with an excuse—bathroom, designated novel-writing time, kidney failure—but they’re sitting in their science class, and it would be a hassle to convince more than twenty-five people that she’s losing an organ.
“My parents sent me,” she answers.
Her tone is terse, similar to her overall uninviting atmosphere; unfortunately, Enid often fails to pick up on conversation cues.
Enid sighs. “I feel like that’s the case for a lot of us here. Which, y’know. Sucks.”
“Indeed.”
Enid is Wednesday’s lab partner. Wednesday is obviously thrilled about it.
“You don’t talk much.” Enid’s lab goggles are slipping down the bridge of her nose. “I think you’ve said thirty total words to me in the past week.”
Wednesday pushes Enid’s goggles up without sparing her a glance. “What, are you analyzing me now?”
Enid pokes at the experiment they’re both supposed to be conducting. “No. I just want to know you better.”
“Good luck with that,” an eavesdropping classmate sitting behind them jeers. “Wednesday’s a closed book. Believe me, we’ve tried.”
Wednesday ignores him. Enid bristles, enough to imply a confrontation on her part.
(Enid doesn’t know that Wednesday tore the same boy’s ego to shreds just two days prior. Wednesday doesn’t plan on telling her.)
When Enid opens her mouth to object to the boy’s remark, Wednesday reaches up again to adjust the girl’s goggles, conveniently quieting her worries.
“Leave it,” she says. “He’s not wrong.”
Enid frowns, shooting a glare over her shoulder at the boy, and turns her attention back to Wednesday.
“Are you sure?”
She asks Wednesday this with such earnest sincerity that Wednesday almost—almost—lets her resting expression slip into something softer.
Enid is good. She’s a breath of fresh air, and she’s unwaveringly loyal to someone she barely knows. Wednesday wants to tell her to find a new roommate; Enid is good, meaning she deserves better than Wednesday.
Wednesday trails her pen along the line of instructions she's reading. “I’m sure.”
“Okay,” Enid says. “I believe you. I guess.”
“Good.”
“Will I really never get to know you?”
“It depends what you want to know,” Wednesday replies, and the wall of open windows to her left catches her eye.
It’s overcast. Not a spot of blue is visible in the sky.
“Well…” Enid leans closer. “Let's start with the real reason you came to this school.” She places a hand over her heart. “I can tell you that I came here because my family didn’t know what to do with me.”
Wednesday looks away from the windows. “What does that mean?”
“It means we moved to this town, and I’m the youngest out of everyone, and they want to vacation around the world—so boarding school it is.”
“That sounds unfair.”
Enid shrugs. “I don’t mind, really. I’m used to this treatment. They’re always calling me a late bloomer, so it makes sense that I get the short end of every stick.”
There’s specks of rain flecking the windows now. Wednesday glances beside her to see a frown etched across Enid’s face.
“I would burn the sticks,” she tells her. “No sticks, no unfavorable outcomes.”
Enid laughs a little. “I’ll try that. What about you, then? Why are you here?”
Wednesday focuses on copying down the results of their experiment—or, rather, her experiment; the only form of participation on Enid’s part was when she elbowed over a stack of petri dishes.
“I came because of the weather.”
Enid’s chin is propped up on her knuckles. She stares at the rain-spattered window and hums.
“You like the rain?” she asks.
“I hate it,” Wednesday answers.
“Really?” Enid asks, then adds softly, more to herself than anyone else: “I love it.”
Wednesday doesn’t hear her.
Enid makes up a game to extract every bit of knowledge possible from Wednesday's life, claiming it’s a necessary step to bond as roommates. Wednesday tells her that the last time she bonded with a friend, said friend went on to require seven years of extensive therapy. Enid argues that she already loves her therapist anyway, and wouldn’t mind seeing her for another seven years.
The game Enid creates is hardly even a game in Wednesday's opinion—all Enid does is ask her a question each morning, and requests that Wednesday answers honestly.
(Wednesday doesn’t accept this rule without a reward, and, in turn, Enid bribes her with the promise that she will not force Wednesday to remember all thirty-two names of her stuffed animal collection.)
The first day Enid asks a question marks their first full week as roommates.
“Do you have any hobbies besides writing your novel?” Enid asks, covering the novel in her question after being sworn to silence during Wednesday’s designated writing time the night before.
“Spiders. Cello. Painting, occasionally. Zodiac Killer ciphers. Fencing. Edgar Allan Poe.”
The questions continue, and the school days slowly slip by with them.
Enid asks. Wednesday answers.
“Do you have any hidden talents?”
“Ballet.”
“What’s your favorite food?”
“Burnt toast with honey.”
“Favorite fruit?”
“Pomegranates.”
“Who’s your celebrity crush?”
“Satan.”
“How do you like your coffee? Two sugars? Extra cream? Shot of vanilla?”
“Black.”
“Favorite musical artist?”
“Camille Saint-Saëns.”
“Do you have any pet peeves?”
“Marriage.”
“What’s your dream vacation?”
“The Bermuda Triangle.”
Enid scoffs on the day she asks this one, pulling her striped school uniform on over her shoulders. “You’re joking. Why? Isn’t that place just a myth?”
“It’s a real location,” Wednesday answers, twisting strands of her hair around her fingers in the mirror to pull her braids taut. “Also known as the Devil’s Triangle. I was obsessed with it in middle school after watching a documentary in history class.”
“Isn’t it, like, a tropical island area?”
Wednesday fixes her bangs once she’s done with the braids. “Not exactly. But a plethora of Atlantic tropical storms pass through it. It’s dangerous. Shallow water, hurricanes, the works. That’s why so many unexplained disappearances have occurred there.”
“And you would want to go? As a vacation?”
Enid’s looking at her like she’s crazy. Wednesday shrugs.
“I want to witness it for myself.”
She wants to know if—in the case that she did go—a storm would follow her. She wonders if she would be able to navigate her way through it, and out the other side.
—
Pugsley calls Wednesday to tell her that the cypress trees growing in the backyard at home are dying.
“What happened?” Wednesday asks him.
“Not enough water,” he says, and pauses. “We miss you, by the way.”
Enid convinces Wednesday to pick up an art class after learning that she finds some peace in painting.
She also texts Wednesday pictures of each and every spider she spots, asking if she knows what species they are or Hey, is this poisonous? It bit me lol.
Wednesday wakes up a few times to Enid returning to the dorm, two coffees in her hands. Black for Wednesday. A caramel vanilla latte with extra whipped cream and chocolate shavings for herself. She hands Wednesday the coffee, and subsequently goes quiet to allow Wednesday twenty minutes of undisturbed writing time. Similarly, when Wednesday practices her cello, Enid likes to sprawl out on the balcony next to her with a book, listening with an idle smile.
Wednesday admits two months into their game of questions that, fine, they might be friends.
(“Can I hug you now?!”
“No.”
“Still not a hugger. Got it.”)
She also notices things about Enid, though she doesn’t say them out loud, and rather displays her observations through primarily unnoticeable acts. Oftentimes, she doesn’t even realize she’s executing said acts; they’ve become so ingrained within her routines that they’re only natural.
She checks their room’s thermostat in the hallway of the building each time they leave for classes, because Enid likes the room warm.
Enid’s favorite breakfast to have in the morning is a sugary cereal that happens to be quite popular among the other students. If Wednesday arrives at the mess hall first and finds the dispenser almost empty, she fills a bowl to be safe.
Enid’s clumsy. Wednesday walks half a step behind her to catch her in the rare case that she stumbles. If they venture off-campus, she walks along the curb of the sidewalk, forming a barrier between Enid and the road.
She DMs Enid posts about her favorite boy band when they pop up on her explore page, and endures it when Enid replies with five paragraphs of typos and emojis explaining how Joshua is a capricorn and, although Enid is a gemini, they could potentially be a good couple if they put in the work.
They go shopping, and Wednesday points at a baseball cap, saying Enid should try it on because it matches her blue eyes. Enid drags Wednesday with her to grab lunch with a few classmates, and Wednesday picks the pepperoni off of her pizza to place it on Enid’s plate. Enid stops to pet every single dog she sees off-campus, and Wednesday (begrudgingly) waits around for her, arms crossed, despite quietly being a die-hard cat lover.
And then, one day, they walk through the north end of the campus. It’s lush with vegetation, thick with trees; it borders the edge of a forest that the students are forbidden from wandering into.
“This is my favorite spot,” Enid discloses, spinning to face Wednesday and walking backwards as she talks. “There’s this old fountain here, I think you’ll really like it. You like old-timey stuff, don’t you? Anyway, the school never fixed it up, so now it’s just this haven for little creatures. Spiders included. Since it’s next to the storage sheds, when it rains the water runs off—”
Wednesday suddenly lurches forward to grab Enid’s arm, yanking her forward so quickly that they come face-to-face, mere inches apart.
Enid goes quiet, her eyes wide with surprise, and she’s so close, in fact, that Wednesday can spot tiny flecks of hazel within her irises.
“You have freckles,” Enid whispers softly, and Wednesday realizes that the up-close observations are happening on both ends.
Enid’s hand reaches up, perhaps with the intention of tracing Wednesday’s newly discovered freckles with her fingertips—so Wednesday catches her wrist before she gets any ideas.
She swallows the feeling that enticed her to intimately study her roommate’s eye color and nods over Enid’s shoulder. “You need to watch where you’re walking.”
Enid is clumsy. Rule number three in Wednesday’s guide to keeping Enid Sinclair alive and breathing.
Had Enid taken one more step in the wrong direction, she would’ve tripped backwards over a fallen tree, and, presumably, down the precarious slope of dead leaves and dirt hidden behind it.
Enid brings a hand to her mouth, flashing Wednesday a grateful look and guiltily taking in the sight of her nearly ill fate. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! Thanks for catching me. You practically saved my life.”
Wednesday takes a step back, putting more than three inches of space between them and rolling her eyes in response to Enid’s statement.
“You would’ve broken your arm at most.”
Enid mockingly taps a finger to her chin. “Nope, I think you saved my life.”
“And now I deeply regret it.”
Wednesday’s pulse is quick on her wrist, and it’s an unfamiliar feeling. She follows Enid to the antiquated fountain she initially wanted to explore, and she barely hears the girl rambling about the rainwater-filled basin, which somehow turns into a spiel about the cycle of life—whatever.
Wednesday listens, and then she doesn’t.
She watches Enid talk excitedly and animatedly as she always does, and she finds her attention wandering back to their interaction five minutes prior.
Enid has hazel in her eyes. Wednesday has freckles.
Something deep down in those realizations and the process with which they came to be known makes her pulse quicken all over again.
A faded banner hanging from an extravagant stone overpass cheerfully wishes all the students a Happy Parent’s Weekend!
Wednesday eyes it from her position beneath the entrance to the east hallway, facing the main square and watching a young sibling fall into the square’s shallow fountain.
She’s thoroughly enjoying the scene, but gets interrupted once Enid appears beside her.
“Happy Parent’s Weekend,” Enid greets unenthusiastically.
Wednesday’s arms stay crossed over her chest. “When do you plan on escaping this heinously phony gathering?”
Enid pretends to check a watch on her wrist that doesn’t exist. “Oh, let’s see… three minutes?”
Wednesday scans the crowd of families and students that are roaming the square in front of them. Enid turns to her with a hopeful smile.
“Why, do you plan on joining me?”
Wednesday almost says yes, which is quite unlike her usual self—but she spots three familiar faces striding through the crowd, and sighs when she knows has to turn Enid down.
“Incoming,” she mutters, and glances at her roommate. “It unfortunately appears that I have to socialize.”
Enid smiles. “Well, I wish you luck with that.” She points to the hallway that she came from. “I actually hear a three-hour video essay about Taylor Swift’s entire musical career calling my name, so…”
“Goodbye, Enid.”
“Bye!”
Exit, the confusing girl that’s wreaking havoc on Wednesday’s terrifically terrible disposition.
Enter, two headaches and Pugsley.
Pugsley hugs her for thirty seconds longer than the designated time he originally receives. Wednesday rephrases it.
Enter, two headaches and a migraine.
She endures an hour of following her mother around campus; both she and Wednesday’s father attended the same school when they were teenagers. Incidentally, she’s enthralled with the pristine preservation of the campus.
“Ah, this is the roof on which I stabbed—oh, darling, what was his name?”
“Garrett Gates, mi cariño. It was deserved.”
“And here!” Morticia Addams makes a sweeping gesture towards a neatly-kept garden. “My first kiss with the one and only Gomez Addams .” She gives her husband a sultry smile. “I was head over heels when you gifted me that taxidermied opossum.”
He returns the smile with just as much fervor. “Did it myself.”
“This is truly disgusting to witness,” Wednesday says, reminding them of her presence.
Pugsley nods from where he stands beside his older sister. “I second that.”
Their father kisses Morticia’s hand, then turns to them. “Alright, my little tormenta. Shall we see your room?”
“One half of it is nauseatingly jocose with color,” Wednesday answers, turning on her heel. “But I suppose so.”
Her parents occupy themselves with Wednesday’s grim side of the room, cooing over how desolate it is and singing their praises of how happy they are to have raised such a perfect daughter (“She takes after me,” Morticia sighs, admiring Wednesday’s wholly decimated collection of voodoo dolls).
Pugsley taps at the stained glass window, curious, and is surprised when Wednesday takes the initiative to push it fully forward, revealing a doorway to their own personal balcony.
“Hey,” Pugsley calls out to Wednesday when he ducks through the window. “Your roommate’s out here.”
Wednesday freezes. “Oh. Yes.” Quickly, she steps onto the ledge after Pugsley. “That would be Enid.”
Enid, currently wrapped in a fluffy pink blanket and poring over her computer screen, doesn’t look up at them.
“She has headphones on,” Wednesday says. “To analyze the music industry, or a trivial commodity within that concept."
Pugsley studies Enid thoughtfully. “She’s very…”
“Unendurable? Execrable? Futile?”
Wednesday lists several adjectives. Pugsley chooses none of them.
“Bright,” he says.
“There’s a dance,” Enid announces through a mouthful of caramel popcorn, “and it’s this weekend.”
Wednesday sits at her typewriter, fingers hovering over the keys. “Sounds awful.”
“It’s called the Rave’N.”
“Don’t make me laugh.”
“Please, you haven’t laughed since you were four years old and saw Pugsley fall down the stairs.”
Wednesday pauses her typing and looks over at Enid. “How do you know that?”
“He told me!” Enid crunches on a piece of popcorn. “We’re friends now.”
“I’d rather eat my foot than hear you say that again.”
“He said you’d say that.”
Wednesday scowls at the stained glass window. “Perhaps I should push him down the stairs again.”
“I—what?” Enid tilts her head. “Anyway, about the dance. Will you go?”
“To a social anomaly that only exists to distract us from the fact that the school drains ninety percent of our money towards fruitless projects?” Wednesday returns to her typewriter. “Maybe.”
If the right person asks her, maybe. Wednesday is, however, fairly certain that no such person exists within the school grounds.
“I’m so excited,” Enid announces, jumping up from her bed and twirling around to prove it. “We get to pick out dresses and dance and have good food…”
Wednesday considers the prospect of spiking the punch bowl, reminiscing of her days in second grade.
Enid points at her. “You have to come. I’m adding a new rule to our game of questions, and it’s that your attendance at the dance is mandatory.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Please? Wednesday! It’s called the Rave’N. It’s practically named after you!”
Wednesday arches a brow, her interest piqued; Enid seemed to know more and more about her by the minute. “How so?” she asks, just to see if her roommate knows the significance behind her words.
“Pugsley told me that—within the family, at least—you’re called a raven, and your mother is a dove.”
Pugsley always talks. Wednesday occasionally pays attention to him.
But, it seems, Enid listens.
Wednesday wonders if she listens because it’s simply who she is, or if she listens because the words leaving Pugsley’s mouth are nearly entirely anecdotes about his sister.
“I like it, personally,” Enid says, and comes to stand beside Wednesday, offering her the bag of popcorn. “Ravens are pretty.”
Of course you like it, Wednesday wants to say. You like everything.
She even likes Wednesday. Wednesday, who carries with her a biting cold gust of wind anywhere she goes. Wednesday, who darkens skies each time her boots hit the concrete.
(“I’ll see you in two months, my little storm cloud,” her father had promised before he left.)
Wednesday, a raging storm bottled up in the chest of a girl that nobody wants to approach.
She prefers it that way.
At least, she thinks she does.
She thought she did, and then sunlight spilled into the palms of her hands.
“I’ll think about it,” Wednesday deliberates. “The dance, that is.”
Enid smiles and feeds Wednesday a piece of caramel popcorn. “Amazing.”
—
“Do you still hate it?”
Pugsley’s voice is fuzzy over the line.
“Hate what, exactly?” Wednesday asks.
“Father’s nickname for you.”
Wednesday pauses, then says, “Yes. Why?”
“I just thought it might be different now,” Pugsley answers. “You know, with your roommate and all.”
“Why would it be different?”
“Because you finally found the sun.”
Dressing rooms are far too cramped. They’re boring, and they’re faulty—a person can easily see into one by simply angling their sight according to a specific crack in the door.
Wednesday sits in the corner of one, her arms crossed and her mind alive as she quietly drafts an aggressive email to send to every clothing business within a twenty-mile radius.
Enid has dragged her along on the quest to find a perfectly fabulous outfit for the dance, and Wednesday wishes she hadn’t let herself get coerced into the outing.
“What about this one?” Enid holds up a sixth dress to the mirror beside Wednesday.
She hasn’t even tried one on yet, and Wednesday already feels her limbs becoming deadweights in the flimsy metal chair she’s impatiently sitting on. Enid glances at her for an opinion.
Wednesday’s voice is monotone when she answers, as it has been for the last five dresses. “Mediocre.”
Enid frowns, swaying side to side, getting a feel for the garment. “Okay. Okay, yeah. You’re right. We can do better.”
She hangs the dress up next to the previous ones and reaches for the last one, running her fingers over the lacy material. It’s mid-thigh length and a floral pink, with intricate lace details and puffy sleeves at the shoulders.
Enid holds it up to her chest in the mirror. There’s a modest v-neckline, and Enid smiles when she spots a tiny pink bow at its center.
“What do you think?”
Wednesday likes it. “Adequate.”
Enid bounces on the balls of her feet. “I like it, too! I should try this one on, don’t you think?” Wednesday can barely mull over an answer before Enid turns away from her. “Just really quick. I’m wearing shorts anyway, so it’ll only take a second.”
She pulls her shirt up over her head, and Wednesday doesn’t look away fast enough, and she is suddenly stuck in six square feet of space with her topless roommate. The straps of Enid’s undergarment are black, bold against her skin, and Wednesday unintentionally lets her gaze travel up Enid’s spine, settling on the way her hair is tucked behind her ears, hanging at the base of her neck. There’s a birthmark beneath her left shoulder blade, and a scar on the curve of her hip.
Wednesday swallows, watching the muscles work in Enid’s back as she slowly draws the dress up to her waist, sliding her arms into the sleeves.
Enid seems to hesitate, then glances at her over her shoulder. “Um, could you…?”
Wednesday’s eyes fall on the dress’s zipper.
Oh.
She stands up to reach for the zipper and frowns when she notices that her hands are shaking. Carefully, she zips up the fabric, pretending that it’s completely normal for her to be holding her breath.
Enid meets her gaze in the mirror and smiles. “Thanks.”
Wednesday steps back, and her heart is in her throat, and now she’s thinking about the hazel in Enid’s eyes, and why are her hands still shaking, and—
Oh.
Enid turns around to face both the mirror and Wednesday, practically glowing with happiness. “Okay! What do you think?”
Wednesday thinks she wants to trace the scar on her hip and kiss the birthmark below her shoulder blade. Wednesday thinks she wants to brush blonde hair away from hazel-flecked eyes and study the reaction that comes with it.
Wednesday thinks she’s liked her roommate for months now, and only just came to terms with it thirty seconds ago.
“It’s a requisite choice,” she tells Enid.
Enid bites down the corner of her lip, examining the dress in the mirror. “Are you sure?”
“Extremely.”
Enid smiles. “Wow. Wow! Oh my god, I’m so excited to wear this tomorrow.”
She’s buzzing with excitement, and Wednesday is reeling with guilt when she provides the service of unzipping the dress.
“Do you have something to wear? A dress or anything?”
Wednesday is far too preoccupied to inform her of the hauntingly gorgeous black dress she’d been drawn to in a vintage shop’s display window, and instead scoops up the rack of Enid’s discarded dresses.
She tells her she’s returning the dresses to the counter outside, and exits the space before Enid can slip back into her original top.
She drops the dresses off, then walks out to the front of the store, all trembling hands and swirling feelings in the pit of her stomach.
Enid emerges a few minutes later, cheerfully suggesting that they stop for coffee on the way back to school.
Outside, it’s started raining.
Wednesday writes. Her fingers cramp. Her hands ache.
She writes anyway.
Enid:
Due to an unforeseen circumstance of our rooming arrangement, I will be submitting a request to the headmistress asking for a timely change of room—
No. Not enough information.
She replaces the paper and starts fresh.
Enid–
Unfortunately, conflicts have risen, and I have taken it upon myself to request a room in which I am alone on campus. I do hope you understand this altercation. It is a personal matter, one that does not concern you in the slight—
Wednesday stares at the boldfaced lie typed out in front of her. Too formal, she decides; it’s her roommate she’s addressing.
She replaces the paper and starts fresh.
Enid,
I like you.
Wednesday yanks the paper out of the typewriter and crumples it up.
That evening, the weather clears up.
“Wednesday!” Enid yells from the balcony, and Wednesday pauses, mid-reach for a change of clothes; she’s on her way out the door to shower.
She silently grabs her folded clothes and moves towards the door.
“Wednesday!” Enid tries again, and Wednesday inhales sharply. “Come look at this! It’s cool, I promise!”
Wednesday drops her clothes on her bed and reluctantly ducks out the window to locate Enid, finding her leaning over the ledge of the building, head tipped up to the night sky.
“It’s completely clear,” she muses. “Like, I can see Pleiades and Capella and everything, I’ve never—whoa.”
Wednesday looks away from the constellations in the sky and over at Enid, who’s stopped spouting astronomy knowledge and is now staring at Wednesday like it’s the first time she’s ever seen her.
“Your hair,” she says softly.
Wednesday’s hair is draped over one shoulder, loose and wavy. “I was about to shower. Did you need me for something?”
Enid is quiet for a moment, her fingers fidgeting on the balcony's stone railing. She studies Wednesday, opening her mouth to speak, but then presses her lips together with a brief frown.
“Um. Nothing.” She shakes her head. “Never mind. I mean, the stars are just super bright tonight. I’m kind of nerding out.”
Wednesday stares back up at the sky. “It’s… pretty.”
“Yeah,” Enid says, mostly looking at the girl beside her. “It is.”
Wednesday’s never taken the time to study the stars before.
How fitting, she thinks, to gaze at them with the brightest one she knows.
“The dance is tomorrow,” Enid reminds Wednesday, dropping her chin to rest on her hands. “You’re coming, right? I saw you bought that amazing dress.”
Wednesday did buy the dress. She hopes she won’t regret the decision.
Wednesday avoids Enid’s eyes. “Yes. You can expect my attendance.”
“I will,” Enid answers playfully. Then, when her attention returns to the sky: “The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?”
Wednesday says nothing, and only nods. She prefers the sun.
Wednesday is late to the dance.
She doesn’t mean for it to happen; she loses track of time in her painting class, and, upon arriving back at the room and finding a note from Enid letting her know she’s already headed over with a few friends, she wastes entirely too much time fussing over her hair and makeup.
So, Wednesday is late.
Two hours late, to be more exact.
The building hosting the Rave’N brims with students. Wednesday finds it appalling, but still snakes around a crowd of white sequin dresses and dodges several boys in periwinkle suit jackets, fully aware that each person she passes by stops to stare at her.
Her dark hair is pinned up and braided in an intricate knot at the nape of her neck. The dress she bought is layer after layer of sheer black material, and hangs delicately on her frame, reaching the tops of her shiny boots.
Everyone looks at her.
She’s looking for a certain pink dress.
And when she finds it, she stops dead.
Enid is standing beside a table of drinks, engaged in an enthusiastic conversation with several friends of hers. She’s woven pink tinsel through the front layers of her hair and pinned those pieces back. The tinsel matches her rosy lip gloss. The lipgloss matches the dress, and the dress fits her phenomenally. Her smile is radiant, and when she laughs, her nose scrunches up in the way Wednesday has learned to adore.
She’s absolutely breathtaking, and Wednesday is falling to pieces.
Her feet are rooted to the floor.
She can’t move.
Enid is smiling, and she’s lighting up the room, and why would she want Wednesday to ruin that?
Enid is a brilliant star in a sea of darkness. Wednesday is terrified that Enid is bound to drown in that sea.
Wednesday can’t approach her.
Wednesday won’t approach her.
She slowly takes a step backwards.
Enid hasn’t seen her, and Wednesday hates that she wants to keep it that way.
She turns on her heel and leaves, a bitter storm twisting in her chest.
When she hurriedly exits the building, stepping out into the night and stumbling down the stairs, she finds that the concrete is soaked beneath her boots, precariously slick with water.
She extends a hand out in front of her. It’s pouring down rain.
(A letter, unsent.)
Enid,
I like you the way the clouds like the sun: always close, but never touching.
I’m afraid to touch you; you’re so bright that it’s blinding, and I am the outright opposite. If I touch you, I’m afraid you may shatter. I’m afraid my touch might taint you indefinitely, and you will forever live your life with the woeful imprint of my hand on your soul.
You rise with the sun but you don’t set with it. I see you scattered across the sky in the stars when night falls.
If you rise with the sun, then I rise with the moon—chasing you endlessly, and coming up short every time.
I crave touch I’ve yet to feel: the press of your fingers along my jaw, your hand slotted with mine. Your skin is lightning that shocks the thunder in my chest, and your eyes electrify me.
All my life, I’ve rejected affection. Now, it’s within reach.
I’m tempted to thread my fingers through your hair and give in.
The sun rises, and so do you, because you are the sun. I can never look directly at you.
But, just once, I think I would like to.
Yours, and only yours,
Wednesday
Wednesday sits with her back to the stained glass window, the stone wall beneath it cold against her spine. Her knees are drawn in close to her chest, and her arms wrap around them. She rests her head on her forearms, hands clasped together, and she loathes herself.
Her dress is uncomfortably wet. Her bangs are plastered to her forehead. She knows that, by now, her makeup is smudged around her eyes.
She’s a wreck.
(It’s raining.)
She left Enid at the dance.
(It’s raining.)
The room is eerily quiet. Empty, Wednesday realizes, especially in the absence of the one who throws the windows open wide and lets the light spill in.
The door is pushed open, and Wednesday looks up.
“What the hell are you doing?” Enid demands, but she doesn’t sound angry.
Instead, a quiet sadness makes her voice waver.
Wednesday looks away. “Sitting. Alone.”
“You didn’t come.”
“I…”
“You didn’t come, Wednesday! I’ve been bugging you about tonight for days now, and you didn’t come. Why?”
Wednesday swallows any pride she has left.
“I told you. I’m not interested in attending such frivolous arrangements.” She smooths over the ruffles of her dress. “And I was reminded of this notion when I arrived at the venue.”
Enid’s hair is wet and free of the previous updo she’d styled it in. She must’ve walked back through the rain.
“You’re all dressed up,” she counters, gesturing to Wednesday’s outfit. “You got ready, but you didn’t come? How messed up is that? Were you trying to—to bait me or something?”
Wednesday stares at the floor beside her boots. “I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know, Wednesday?” Enid is frustrated, and she rakes a hand through her hair. “I mean, are you sick? Are you okay? I don’t understand why you wouldn’t come.”
“I’m fine.”
Enid steps closer to her. “Then you just decided to be a shitty friend? Is that it?”
“No,” Wednesday answers, and stands up.
“No? Because that’s what it looks like. Honestly, I’ve dealt with—with all your stinging insults and backhanded comments for months now, Wednesday. I’ve vouched for you, over and over.” Enid looks on the verge of tears, but she holds Wednesday's gaze. “I’ve tried really hard to be your friend—and we are friends. We’re—we’re good, Wednesday. But this? This just feels like we’re back at day one.”
Wednesday recalls the first few days she spent with Enid, and cringes as soon as she recalls the cutting remarks she constantly spat at the other girl. The shoulder Enid had received from her was somehow colder than her usual one.
“We’re not back at day one,” Wednesday snaps.
“It kinda seems like it,” Enid argues. “What, with the way you iced me out this morning.”
Wednesday may have plainly avoided her following the dressing room incident.
“That’s not what it looks like.”
“So what does it look like?”
Wednesday edges closer to her, maintaining their eye contact. “We’re not back at day one.”
“Then what’s happening?” Enid demands, her voice rising, and she’s borderline pleading. “Have the months we’ve spent together meant nothing to you? I mean, do you even care about anything or anyone at all, Wednesday?”
“I care about you!” Wednesday almost shouts.
She doesn’t mean to say it, and Enid isn’t expecting to hear it.
Her blue eyes go wide. Wednesday takes half a step back.
“I care about you,” she repeats quietly, and takes a shaky breath. “I’ve never—felt this much for anyone, and it’s terrifying. I look at you, and everything I know crumbles in my hands. Enid, you…”
Enid stays silent, listening, and Wednesday finally glances up at her to see that her expression has gone soft.
“You have shown me colors I’ve never seen with any other person in my life, and that is positively frightening. I had no idea how to embrace a version of myself that I’d never met.” Wednesday pauses. “Yet, somehow you did it for me. Because when I look at you, I see everything I want to become. When I look at you, I feel like myself.”
“Wednesday,” Enid starts, but Wednesday holds up a hand.
“I like you, Enid.”
“Wednesday—”
“I don’t expect you to reciprocate these nonsensical ramblings.”
“Wednesday—”
Wednesday swallows hard and catches her lip between her teeth. “I’ll be discussing room arrangements with the headmistress first thing tomorrow morning. I apologize for—”
Enid grabs her by the shoulders and holds her steady. “Wednesday! Why do you think I wanted you to come to the dance in the first place?”
Wednesday blinks. Enid’s hands are warm on her shoulders, yet the mere thought that they’re touching her sends goosebumps down Wednesday's arms.
“What?”
“Do you honestly think I don’t like you back?”
Wednesday thinks she might faint.
“You—” Her skin is cold from the rain outside. “You’re serious?”
Enid is leaning close, close enough that Wednesday can count the number of freckles on her nose.
“I was going to tell you,” she confesses softly. “Tonight. And when you didn’t come, I… I lost hope. I thought you wouldn’t—thought you didn’t—feel the same way.” Her touch trails down Wednesday’s arms until she gently finds her hands, holding them. “I’m sorry I raised my voice. I didn’t mean it.”
Wednesday’s hands are trembling where Enid now cradles them in her own. She’s cracking, breaking down, melting—she feels everything, all at once, with this girl’s devout gaze swallowing her whole.
“I apologize as well,” she whispers, and Enid laughs a little.
“Not happening. Accept mine first.”
Wednesday almost smiles. She pulls Enid forward, mockingly solemn. “I refuse.”
“What?” Enid protests, pouting. “Come on. What do I have to do?”
“Kiss me.”
Enid fumbles for an answer, flushing at the sudden request. “Oh, um. Really?”
“Kiss me, and I’ll consider attending next semester’s absurd school event with you.”
Enid smiles, her nose scrunching up with it. She’s beautiful. Wednesday struggles to fathom how such beauty can even consider the prospect of liking a girl who’s never even smiled at her. But Enid seems to read her mind, and she closes the space between them, fingers dancing along Wednesday’s jaw.
“Are you sure?” she asks, her voice barely audible.
Wednesday’s eyes drop to her mouth. “I’m sure.”
Enid leans down, her hands cupping Wednesday’s face, and she kisses her.
—
Enid Sinclair brings the stormy Wednesday Addams down to earth, bathing her in golden sunlight.
—
Morning comes. It’s hazy with confessions and wrinkled dresses.
Wednesday wakes up to spots of sunlight spilling in through her room’s window. The light strains her eyes, and she holds a hand up to block it.
In doing so, her gaze drops to the girl beside her.
Enid shifts at the movement Wednesday causes by sitting up.
Wednesday studies her, remembering how her lips taste like cherry punch, how her hair is silky soft to the touch.
She remembers how Enid had broken away from her last night and grabbed her hand, how she’d pulled her out onto the balcony and twirled Wednesday around in the pouring rain, catching her in her arms with a breathless laugh.
“I love the rain. Don’t you?”
And at this, Wednesday kisses her and kisses her and kisses her.