The Junior Novel

by Calliope Glass

  The racket of the vacuum cleaner roared through the west wing of the house, but on the second story, in the east wing, everything was quiet and peaceful. Two children slept snug in their beds. Ten-year-old Pugsley was huddled under his covers, his head shoved under his pillow. Nearby, in her own room, his thirteen-year-old sister Wednesday slept sweetly in a bed rigged under a guillotine, her bare neck stretched out under the razor-sharp blade.

  First the window to Pugsley’s room slid open, then the window to Wednesday’s. As the two children slept, wooden tentacles slipped into their rooms through the open windows. Smooth, grasping vines crept across the floor and hovered for a moment over the children’s sleeping forms.

  Then, with a mighty SNAP, the branches sprang into action. They twined around the kids and tore them out of their beds, pulling them out of their windows and dangling them in the air twenty feet over the ground!

  “AAAAAHHHH!” shrieked Wednesday and Pugsley. The tree—whose branches were holding the children like rag dolls—quaked in silent laughter.

  Wednesday recovered first. “All right, Ichabod,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’m awake.”

  The tree—Ichabod—gave her a gentle shake, as though to say “Good morning!”

  “Not for long,” Pugsley commented, flinging a hatchet at his sister cheerfully. Wednesday snatched it out of the air before it hit her and twirled it in her fingers. “Real mature, Pugsley,” she said scornfully. She sighed, bored. The Addams family had a proud tradition of doing their best to kill each other. They never succeeded, of course, but it was fun to try, and a healthy spirit of competition (and mortal peril) kept the days lively. But Pugsley’s attempt with the hatchet had been lackluster. It took more than a badly thrown axe to really wake Wednesday up.

  “How I wish something would liven up this already tedious day,” she said, and yawned.

  Ichabod gave a tree-ish shrug and threw Pugsley through the air back toward the house. Pugsley sailed through his open window and landed on his bed with an “Oof!”

  Wednesday tilted her head. “Thanks for trying, Ichabod,” she said. She patted the branch that was still holding her. The tree gently let her down, and she wandered toward the house.

  But before Wednesday could make it very far, a strange noise caught her attention.

  Brrring! Brrring!

  It sounded like . . . a bicycle bell? And it was coming from down the hill, where the driveway gate separated the house grounds from the local road.

  Wednesday wandered down through the permanent bank of fog toward the gate. She’d never heard anything other than the occasional noisy car motor, and she was curious. Who was there? Had someone stopped at the gate? Why? The fog thickened as she got closer to the gate—soon it was impossible to see farther than five feet in front of her.

  Brrring! Brrring!

  The bicycle bell sounded again. Someone was hidden in the fog on the other side of the gate and was ringing their bell—in a strange way, it felt like someone was saying hello.

  Reaching through the dense fog, Wednesday knocked on the gate in reply.

  Clang. Clang.

  Wednesday held her breath and listened as closely as she could. A soft gasp sounded from the fog on the other side of the gate. Someone was there! Then Wednesday heard the sound of pedals turning, a bicycle chain going taut, and the low hiss of rubber bicycle wheels against the pavement—

  Whoever it was was riding away.

  Disappointed, Wednesday turned and headed back up through the moat of fog to the towering house on the hill, where breakfast was waiting.

  Back up at the house, Pugsley was hiding in the top room of the tallest tower of the house. He had a trunk full of explosives next to him, and a telescope in his hand. He peered through the telescope, seeking, seeking—aha! There he was.

  “Pugsley! Pugsley!” Below, in the garden, Gomez Addams wandered around the house grounds looking for his son. “Pugsley!”

  Up in the tower, Pugsley smiled. “Let the games begin,” he murmured.

  “Pugsley!” Gomez called as he rounded the side of the house and headed toward the hedge. “It’s time for sword practice!”

  Flooom!

  Behind Gomez, a great plume of smoke and fire emerged from the house as a rocket launched from the tower. Pugsley, riding the rocket like a bronco, gave a great “Yee-haw!” as it tore into the sky. The rocket shot straight up, then slowed and reached the top of its trajectory. For one breathless moment, it hung perfectly still in the air. Pugsley held on tight as the rocket began to fall. Faster, faster, it sped down to earth, aimed straight at Gomez.

  “Death to the oppressor!” Pugsley screeched as the missile neared his father.

  At the last moment, Gomez dodged backward. Pugsley yanked the rocket’s nose up so it wouldn’t crash into the ground and rode it into the sky for another dive. His father stumbled, recovering from his first dodge, as Pugsley drove the rocket at him again. Gomez ducked again—another near miss. He sprang back to his feet and shook his head impatiently.

  “All right, son, that’s enough,” Gomez said sternly.

  But Pugsley couldn’t hear him. The rocket was sailing up, up, up, spiraling out of control as it tore into the clouds. Gomez watched with some curiosity as the rocket disappeared into the clouds, and then—

  Boom!

  A distant explosion flashed high in the sky as the rocket finally exploded. Gomez squinted into the sunlight, scanning the sky for his son.

  “YeaaaaaAAAAAGH!” Pugsley appeared, his scream getting louder and louder as he fell closer and closer to earth. When he was only about a hundred feet above the ground, Pugsley yanked the cord on his emergency parachute vest, and a large silk parachute popped open above him. He dangled from the parachute, gliding gently and slowly downward.

  Not wasting a moment, Pugsley pulled out his slingshot and a handful of small explosive mines and began hurling the mines at his father. Blam! Blam! Blam! The mines landed around Gomez as he danced and dodged and, finally, fled.

  “Don’t make me come up there!” Gomez shouted up at Pugsley, who sailed through the sky hanging from his parachute, shooting down more mines at his father.

  “This is your last warning!” Gomez called, still running.

  Pugsley rummaged in his pocket. Only one mine left. He fitted it into the strap of his slingshot and pulled it back, taking aim carefully. As Pugsley released the mine, Gomez pulled a baseball bat out of nowhere and turned to face the incoming explosive. He waggled the bat, took a batting stance, and waited.

  Bam! Gomez hit the mine straight back at Pugsley, and it detonated in the parachute, sending Pugsley spinning down into the greenhouse, where he landed with a crash.

  Gomez gave him a hand up.

  “Morning,” he said.

  “Morning,” Pugsley replied cheerfully.

  Gomez took his son by the shoulders and stared seriously into his eyes. “Pugsley,” he said. “We’re supposed to be working on your swordplay every morning before breakfast. Your Sabre Mazurka is in two weeks, and you’ve barely practiced at all!”

  Pugsley pouted and shrugged. “So I missed one practice. What’s the big deal?”

  Gomez’s eyes went wide. “The big deal?!” he cried. “Why, the Sabre Mazurka is the most important day in the life of a young Addams man! It’s what makes you an Addams! It’s the day your entire family gathers around you and judges your worth as a human being.”

  “It’s basically Thanksgiving,” Wednesday offered as she trooped by them on her way into the house.

  “There!” Gomez agreed. “Thanksgiving! Whatever that is.”

  Pugsley squirmed. “But swords are so old-fashioned,” he whined. “I’m more of a demolitions man.”

  Gomez frowned sternly. “Explosives have no place in a Mazurka,” he said. “Hand them over.”

  Pugsley sighed and handed his father a stick of TNT.

  “All of it,” Gomez prompted, and Pugsley rummaged through his clothes and produced another
stick of TNT, a handful of M-80s, several roman candles, some bang-snaps, a holy hand grenade, and a small pile of other miscellaneous explosives.

  “Is that all of it?” Gomez asked sternly.

  Pugsley nodded. “I swear on my honor as an Addams,” he said.

  Gomez nodded his head, satisfied. He knelt down and took Pugsley by the shoulders. “Son,” he said gently, “our family hasn’t been all together in thirteen years. Not since your mother and I got married. They’re all coming from all over the world to see you on your special day.”

  Pugsley stared up at his father, his eyes wide.

  “I just want it to go perfectly,” Gomez said.

  “Okay, Pop,” Pugsley said softly. “I’ll practice.”

  “That’s my boy,” Gomez replied, and gave him a hearty pat on the back. It knocked a stick of TNT out of Pugsley’s pocket.

  “Oops,” Pugsley said insincerely.

  Chapter 2

  Morticia sat down at the breakfast table with a happy sigh. Family breakfast—her favorite time of day. Gomez snapped open a hundred-year-old newspaper, releasing a cloud of moths, and began to read. Wednesday and Pugsley kicked each other under the table. And Lurch slumped in and swept the silver cover off the breakfast platter with a flourish.

  A fetid, horrible smell emerged from the platter.

  “Putrid,” Morticia said approvingly. Lurch smiled and nodded his thanks.

  “Horrifying,” Gomez agreed. Morticia smiled at him. Truly, they were so lucky to have a cook as talented as Lurch tending to their meals. Today’s breakfast smelled like it had spent a few weeks in an overheated funeral home.

  As they ate, Morticia began sorting through the mail that had arrived over the past week.

  “Gomez,” she said, “everyone we’ve invited to Pugsley’s Mazurka has threatened to come.”

  Gomez beamed. “Wonderful!” he said. “All the Addamses and Frumps under one roof again!” He ducked as Pugsley flung a hatchet at his head. It hit the back of Gomez’s chair with a twang.

  “Yes,” Morticia replied, “but where will everyone sleep?”

  Gomez grinned. “We’ll have Lurch fix up the mausoleum,” he suggested. “It’ll be like sleep-away camp!”

  Morticia plucked a beeping time bomb out of the pile of envelopes and tossed it casually over her shoulder. It flew out the open window and detonated outside with an earth-shaking BANG.

  Grass and dirt flew everywhere, a few rocks pelted into the sky, and a man’s body flew through the window—glass exploding into the breakfast nook—and landed on the ground in a heap.

  Whump.

  The man sprang to his feet and brushed glass out of his clothing. “It’s okay!” he said. “I’m okay; the plate glass window broke my fall.”

  “Uncle Fester!” Pugsley cried, and leapt out of his chair to greet his uncle.

  “Brother!” Gomez said, standing and hugging Fester. “I’m thrilled you’re here!”

  “I’m not late, am I?” Fester asked.

  “Actually,” Morticia said a little tartly, “we weren’t expecting you for another two weeks.” She shot a sharp look at Gomez, who winced.

  “I apologize, darling,” he said. “I asked Fester to come early to help Pugsley with his Mazurka practice.”

  Morticia sighed impatiently. Men. They never thought of the ways they inconvenienced their wives. They knew nothing about the rules of hospitality.

  “If I’d known you were coming,” she said apologetically to Fester, “I would have prepared the dungeon.”

  “Please,” Fester said hurriedly, “don’t worry about that. I’ll just sleep in the attic. You won’t even know I’m here. I mean, you’ll have no idea.” He grinned. “I’ve practiced that move in a lot of people’s homes. Most of them never caught on—not even after years.”

  Fester turned to greet the Addams children. “I can’t believe it!” he said. “The last time I saw you, you were this tall.” He measured off about a foot with his hands.

  “That’s because you buried us up to our necks,” Pugsley reminded him.

  “Ooh, riiiiight,” Fester said, staring off into space sentimentally. “And then those spiders came and laid eggs in your mouths!”

  Wednesday nodded.

  “Isn’t family special?” Fester said.

  “Uncle,” Wednesday said thoughtfully, “can you tell us what’s beyond the gate?”

  Lurch, who was on his way out of the room with the breakfast tray, stopped in his tracks and dropped it. Morticia set her fork down on her plate with a sharp clang. She turned to Wednesday.

  “Why would you ask that, dear?” Morticia asked in a voice that was trying—and failing—to sound casual.

  Wednesday shrugged. “I heard a strange noise in the fog earlier,” she said. “I want to investigate.”

  Morticia shook her head sharply. “There’s nothing out there but boring marshland,” she said.

  Wednesday knew she was pushing it. But she kept going. “But there must be something,” she said. “We never go anywhere. Who knows what untold horrors we’re missing out on!”

  Morticia laid a hand on her daughter’s hand. “We have all the horror we need right here, my love,” she said.

  Wednesday scowled. “Uncle Fester gets to go wherever he wants,” she said rebelliously.

  “Now, now,” Fester broke in. “That’s not quite true. There are some legal restrictions. For example, I can’t go to a mall. Or a school. Or a public park. Or—”

  Morticia broke in. “When you’re older, Wednesday,” she said firmly, “you can travel to your heart’s content. But for now, it’s safer for you here.”

  Wednesday knew when she was beat.

  “Socrates,” she said, calling over her pet octopus, “come.”

  With the octopus slinking along behind her, Wednesday slouched out of the dining room and went back up to her room.

  MEANWHILE . . .

  What Morticia referred to as “boring marshland” was actually a suburban neighborhood called Eastfield Estates, not far from the mist-shrouded hill the Addamses’ house stood on. Eastfield Estates was a peaceful, safe, and adorable neighborhood. So, to be fair, Morticia’s description of it as a “boring marshland” was fairly accurate . . . from the point of view of an Addams.

  At that very moment, a reality television show was being shot right there in that boring marshland, in an incredibly boring house.

  Design Intervention.

  The host, Margaux Needler, patted her blow-dried hair into place, checked her cardigan sweater for lint, straightened her tool belt, turned to the camera, and pasted a big, fake smile onto her face.

  “I’m here to help,” she announced, her smile never wavering. “I take your uninspired living space and turn it into the perfect palace of your dreams. No matter how outdated your design sense, I can help you.”

  She strode through the house, and the camera crew followed her. Her frozen smile grew bigger with each step she took.

  “My only flaw?” She paused, and amped up her smile even further. “Sometimes I care too much.”

  Margaux left the house and began walking through the adorable little town. As she talked, the cameras passed parks, sweet little pastel houses, neatly trimmed lawns, and a wide variety of songbirds singing in the perfectly pruned trees.

  “I’m Margaux Needler,” she said, “and I’m about to stage a Design Intervention.” She winked at the camera. “You’re welcome in advance.”

  Margaux—and the cameras—walked through a cute little “downtown” area, with a yoga-clothing shop, an old-fashioned soda fountain, and seven different storefront banks. “Today,” she continued, “we’re putting the finishing touches on our biggest project yet. Eastfield Estates.” She waved her arm, gesturing to the entire neighborhood. “We didn’t just make over a house—we made over a whole town! Eastfield is here to show what a great neighborhood looks like. It’s as flawless as my hair! And who wouldn’t like to live in my hair?”

 
The cameramen looked at each other, wincing. Sometimes Margaux went a little too far.

  She led the cameras into the town square.

  “In just two weeks, on our live season finale,” she continued, “you will be able to buy your very own piece of Eastfield. That’s right—in a Design Intervention first, we are putting a whole neighborhood up for sale. This will be your chance to purchase the house of your dreams . . . in the town of your dreams.”

  Margaux slowed to a stop in front of a group of townsfolk who just “happened” to have gathered at the town square. They all waved hello to the cameras.

  “Sound good?” Margaux said to the cameras. “I thought so. Welcome to Eastfield—neighbor.”

  The crowd gave a big cheer. Confetti flew through the air, and hundreds of balloons flew into the sky.

  “Aaaaaand . . . we’re out!” Glenn, the producer, yelled.

  Margaux let the smile drop off her face. It was immediately replaced with a sour scowl.

  Glenn hurried up to her as the crew began putting the cameras and equipment away. “Love it,” he said, “Love it, love it. Perfect. Margaux, did that feel good to you?”

  Margaux narrowed her eyes. “Must we with the balloons and confetti, Glenn?” she asked. “It’s a bit much.”

  “They’re great!” he protested. “You’re great. It’s all great!”

  Margaux glared at him. “They better be great, because if we don’t sell all these houses, you and I are finished.”

  Glenn gulped nervously. They’d invested a lot of money in redoing the houses in Eastfield Estates, it was true. If people didn’t buy those houses right away, it would be very, very bad. But they had done everything right! The houses all had glossy tile in the bathrooms and granite countertops in the kitchens. They all had recessed lighting in the living rooms and cheerful throw blankets on the couches. The yards were green and smooth, and they’d even drained the nearby marsh to make room for a golf course. How could it fail?

  Margaux’s phone rang, and she eagerly answered it, her big fake smile lighting up her face.