The Junior Novel

by Calliope Glass

  Margaux felt pretty good about the whole situation. Either the Addamses would be furious at her for defacing their living room, or they’d be stupid enough to actually take her advice. And if they did, that would be the end of their house. The second they removed any wall from this room, the entire house would collapse. Margaux had been in the renovation business long enough to know that.

  Either way, the family was going to have to move out. Even if they didn’t take her advice, there was no way they were going to stay in the area. Nobody sane would stay in a neighborhood where their most powerful neighbor was a spray-paint-wielding maniac.

  Margaux grinned and raised her can of spray paint once more.

  “Stop right there!” Morticia’s voice rang out with such urgency that Margaux did stop, in spite of herself.

  Morticia glided over to Margaux and took her wrist in one surprisingly strong little hand. “Don’t touch another thing,” she said.

  Gomez hurried over. “It’s perfect,” Morticia said breathlessly, staring around her with starry eyes. Gomez nodded eagerly. “Ms. Needler,” he said, “you have a gift.”

  Margaux shrugged modestly. That answered that. So they were morons and they were going to actually take her rubbish advice. That was okay with her.

  “I’m so glad we agree,” she said cheerfully. “I can have my makeover crew up here and swinging hammers first thing in the morning. We’ll get rid of these pesky walls . . . and ceilings . . . and floors . . . for you, pronto!” She grinned at the Addamses. “What do you say?”

  Gomez and Morticia exchanged confused looks. “No, no,” Gomez said. He gestured at the defaced walls. “We thought you were finished!”

  “We love it just the way it is,” Morticia said serenely. “You’re as good as they say.”

  Margaux fought the urge to scream.

  “I’m so glad you like it,” she said tightly. “But I really think you—”

  “Our whole family is coming in two weeks,” Gomez went on obliviously. “It’s our son’s Mazurka—you understand how it is.”

  Margaux’s blood ran cold. “I’m sorry,” she said slowly, “two weeks, you say?”

  Glenn hissed at her from behind the wall of camera operators. “Our finale is in two weeks!”

  Margaux glared at him. “Thank you, Glenn,” she hissed back.

  “It’s a gracious offer, Ms. Needler,” Morticia said firmly. “But you really have done enough. We’re so grateful.”

  Morticia and Gomez escorted Margaux and her crew out of the house. Margaux’s head was spinning . . . and now, finally, she was really panicking.

  “Gomez,” she said, clutching at his suit sleeve. “I can call you Gomez, right? I feel like we have a connection. Anyway,” she hurried on, not waiting for him to respond, “Gomez, I’ll be blunt: I have fifty houses to sell down there in Eastfield Estates.” She pointed down the hill toward the little burgh, where even now a brand-new golf course was being installed. “And the view those houses have of your property, well . . .”

  Gomez smiled widely at her. Margaux hurried on. “Well, Gomez, it’s off-brand for my . . . uh, brand.”

  “Fifty houses, you say?” Gomez asked.

  “Yes,” Margaux said urgently, “And you need to understand that—”

  But Gomez interrupted her with a misty look in his eye. “You should know, Ms. Needler,” he said gently, “that ever since my family was chased from the old country, my one dream has been to find a place we could call home. Once they see Eastfield Estates, I think they’ll want to stay for good. This is a lovely opportunity. The best. You’re a dream come true. Thank you so much for coming by. Please don’t let the gate eat you on your way out.”

  “Thanks, you too,” Margaux said automatically, her head spinning, as Gomez gently hurried her down the path toward the gate at the bottom of the grounds. “Wait, what?”

  “Run!” Gomez called. “Run, Margaux, run! I’ll distract it! Run!”

  Gomez threw a raw steak at the wrought iron gate, which greedily chomped down on the treat. Margaux and her team fled through while it was distracted and came to a stop at a safe distance. Margaux watched the gate finish eating the steak, her eyes wide with horror. She’d never seen a gate eat anything before.

  Parker was leaning against a tree nearby, looking at her phone.

  “That Wednesday girl is a freak,” Parker said, not looking up. “I like her.”

  Glenn turned to Margaux. “We’re about to be invaded by a whole army of freaks,” he said urgently. “What are we gonna do about the finale, Margaux?!”

  Margaux had caught her breath by now. She wasn’t beat. Not by a long shot. She looked back up at the hideous house looming at the top of the hill.

  “It’s tragic when people can’t accept the help they so badly need,” she said. “And when that happens . . .”

  She locked eyes with Glenn. “Another kind of intervention is needed,” she finished ominously.

  Chapter 6

  Back in the house, Gomez and Morticia discussed the situation.

  “I agree, Gomez,” Morticia said as she knitted. “The whole family moving here would be a dream come true. But,” she added, looking up, “I don’t trust that Margaux woman.”

  Gomez was poking through the welcome basket that Margaux had brought. “She’s an eccentric, darling,” he said. “Give her a chance.” He pulled a jar of something out of the basket. “Raspberry preserves,” he read, puzzled. “Never heard of it. Must be some kind of scented embalming fluid.”

  Morticia raised an eyebrow. That was a very neighborly gift. Maybe she’d been wrong about Margaux.

  “Gah!” Gomez said, starting violently. Wednesday had appeared behind him, apparently out of nowhere.

  “Wednesday,” Morticia scolded gently. “I’ve told you a thousand times. Practice your lurking on someone other than your father. He’s just too easy.”

  “Yes, Mother,” a voice in Morticia’s ear said softly. She did not jump, but it took some willpower. “Better,” Morticia said approvingly. She looked up at Wednesday—who was now standing behind the couch—and smiled. Wednesday smiled back and climbed over the couch to sit down next to her mother.

  Gomez came over as well. “What’s on your mind, my little nightcrawler?” he asked.

  Wednesday looked down at her hands, which were clasped in her lap. “Well,” she said, “I spoke with Parker this afternoon. She’s the daughter of that talking mannequin who came to visit.”

  Morticia looked up from her knitting. “I wasn’t aware that Margaux had a daughter,” she said. “What did you talk about?”

  “She told me about a communal school all the neighborhood children attend,” Wednesday said. “It’s called . . . junior high.”

  Morticia shivered. It sounded awful to her.

  Gomez nodded. “Junior high,” he repeated, his voice grave. “I’ve read about those in my abnormal psychology books.”

  Wednesday went on, her voice small but determined. “Anyone of age can enroll,” she said. Morticia felt her heart sinking. But she didn’t let anything show on her face. “I think,” Wednesday added, “that it would be . . . good for me.”

  A long, long, silent moment went by. Morticia knitted and knitted and did not look at Wednesday.

  Gomez cleared his throat. “I think it’s a capital idea!” he said.

  Morticia came to the end of one row of stitches and began the next. “And what of your studies here?” she asked calmly, still not looking up. “Your taxidermy is coming along so well.”

  Wednesday sighed impatiently. “Mother,” she said, “would you really deprive me of the opportunity to torment children my own age?”

  “She makes a point,” Gomez chimed in. “What’s more, with Wednesday in school, we’d get to know the people here even better!”

  “Well, Mother?” Wednesday asked eagerly.

  Morticia looked up at last. She looked at her husband, his eager, cheerful face. She looked at her daughter, her anxious,
pinched, sweet little snout.

  She was outnumbered.

  Eastfield Estates Middle School was a tidy, cheerful building. It had an Olympic-sized swimming pool and an award-winning science club. The cafeteria served quinoa on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was everything a devoted parent could want for their child.

  Gomez stared at the building with profound disappointment. “I’ve heard public schools are filthy, dangerous places,” he muttered, “but I’m just not seeing it.” He’d had such high hopes, but they were all dashed by the reality. It was so tidy. So cheerful. Gomez sighed.

  But Wednesday seemed unfazed. She strode confidently into the building, not even pausing to wave goodbye to her family.

  What neither Gomez nor Wednesday noticed was that the crossing guard waving kids across the street was staring intently at Wednesday. He spoke into a radio in a hushed voice. “The snail is on the turtle’s back,” he said. “I repeat, the snail is on the turtle’s back.”

  Margaux Needler’s voice replied over the radio, tinny and staticky. “Glenn, what the heck are you talking about?”

  Glenn (the crossing guard was indeed Glenn in disguise) sighed. So much for the cloak-and-dagger approach. “Wednesday Addams is entering the school,” he translated.

  “Looks like the game is on,” Margaux murmured. She clipped her walkie-talkie back onto her belt and strode into her “craft room.” It was a glorified closet lined with tidy shelves of crafting gear. Margaux pulled a wrapping-paper tube away from the wall, and the floor began to lower slowly into a secret basement lair.

  This was Margaux’s secret office and base of operations.

  She sat down in front of a computer and pulled up the Neighborhood Peeps website. It was a social media site for neighborhood busybodies, and it was the cornerstone of Margaux’s new anti-Addams plan.

  She cracked her knuckles and started typing. “Let’s see,” Margaux muttered. “Who shall I be today?” She scrolled through all the fake accounts she’d set up for the site. “How about Shelly Longbottom, on Sugar Ridge Lane?”

  She clicked into “Shelly’s” account and typed furiously.

  Did you hear about those Addams people? Someone told me they’re wanted in thirty states.

  She hit “post.” Then Margaux clicked into another fake account. “And from Robert Gently on Gigglemountain Way . . .” she murmured.

  . . . I hear they’re training wild animals to steal our children.

  Margaux hit “post” and giggled happily. On to the next one.

  Throughout Eastfield Estates, townspeople’s smartphones started chiming.

  “Those Addams people are growing a garden of man-eating plants?” one villager said, staring at the message that had popped up on her phone.

  “Their butler broke a man in half?” another whispered.

  “Where are they from, anyway?” a waitress in a café demanded, staring at her phone while she refilled a cup of coffee.

  “Doesn’t matter,” the cook replied, staring at his own phone while he flipped a frypan full of flapjacks. “It’s obvious they don’t belong here.”

  “We need to talk to Margaux!” several of the patrons in the café all cried, staring at their phones in dismay.

  Wednesday looked around thoughtfully as she entered the building. So this was a “school.” As she entered the lobby, all the kids went silent and stared. They’d never seen anyone like Wednesday before in their entire lives.

  “Ah,” Wednesday said, looking around and taking everything in. The security guard at the door. The bars on the windows. The closed-circuit cameras. “Now I understand. This is a children’s prison.”

  She spotted Parker talking to some other girls their age by the lockers and walked over to join them.

  “Oh boy,” Parker said. “Guys, this is Wednesday.”

  Wednesday smiled. It was her best middle-school-girl smile. But that doesn’t mean it was any good.

  “Hello,” she said, smiling and smiling.

  The girls took a nervous step back.

  Another girl, this one with a mean look on her face, walked by the group of girls. She grabbed Parker’s backpack and shoved something into it. “Hey, Parker,” she said, sneering, “I got something for you.” She handed the backpack back to Parker, who peered inside. She sighed.

  “A moldy sandwich, Bethany?” Parker said. “You’re slipping.”

  “You know what, you’re right,” Bethany replied nastily. “Let’s kick it up a notch.”

  She grabbed a big cup of soda from one of Parker’s friends and poured it into the backpack. Then she closed the backpack and shook it up. It started foaming alarmingly as Bethany handed it back to Parker.

  “Can’t you take a joke, Parker?” Bethany asked. “You have no sense of humor.” She smiled sweetly and turned to go.

  “Bethany, is it?” Wednesday said. Bethany stopped in her tracks and turned around. “Don’t cut your eyes on my crew unless you’re ready to dance,” Wednesday said coldly.

  Bethany paused, and then turned again and walked away. “Whatever,” she said as she left.

  “What did you do?” one of Parker’s friends said anxiously.

  “You shouldn’t have said that,” another added.

  “There’s nothing you can do,” Parker told Wednesday gloomily. “Bethany is way too popular.”

  “Popularity is fleeting,” Wednesday said. “I prefer to set my sights on something a little more challenging.”

  All three girls stared at Wednesday in fascination. “Like what?” they said in unison.

  Wednesday reached into Parker’s backpack, grabbed the moldy (and soda-soaked) sandwich, and took a bite.

  “Vigilante justice,” she said.

  Wednesday wasn’t sure about this whole school thing until she got to fourth period. Fourth period was science class. And apparently science class meant—

  “Ew,” Parker’s friend Layla said. “Dead frogs.”

  “I don’t think I can do this,” Parker’s friend Kayla said.

  “Yuck,” Parker said.

  Each student had a dead frog on a little plastic tray in front of them.

  “Oh,” Wednesday said. Finally, she knew what was going on. “I’ve done this thousands of times.”

  All the kids stopped what they were doing and watched as Wednesday went to work. She pulled parts and equipment from all corners of the room until she had a complicated battery system rigged up.

  Wednesday held the two electrodes and carefully touched them to either side of her dead frog’s chest. “Flip the switch!” she commanded Parker. Parker shoved her goggles down over her eyes and obeyed.

  Electricity pulsed. There was a loud hum, and lightning arced across the room.

  “Give my creature life!” Wednesday yelled, struggling to hold the electrodes steady as the frog’s body twitched and jumped. “Live! Live, I tell you! LIVE!”

  The frog gasped, and its eyes flew open.

  “It’s alive!” Parker shrieked.

  Wednesday whooped with excitement, and then—

  Electricity arced from her frog to the one next to it, and from that frog to the next, and soon every dead frog in the science classroom was a living zombie frog.

  They all turned and looked to Wednesday for instructions. She silently pointed at Bethany, who stood, stunned, surrounded by frogs. Then, all at once the frogs leapt at her face.

  Bethany fled, screaming, covered in frogs.

  Wednesday watched her go. Then she turned to her new friends. “Bethany’s really changed her look,” she observed. “It suits her.”

  Parker burst out laughing.

  “It’s an honor,” Layla started.

  “And a privilege,” Kayla continued.

  “To watch you work,” they finished in unison.

  “Hey, you wanna go to the mall?” Parker asked, slinging an arm around Wednesday.

  “Sure,” Wednesday said. “Why not? I haven’t seen a good mauling in ages.”

  Morticia s
tared anxiously out the window. The sun had nearly set, and Wednesday was still not home.

  “It’s late,” she said to Gomez. “I’m worried.”

  “Darling,” Gomez said soothingly. “Wednesday will be fine. She can take care of herself.”

  Morticia shook her head. “Oh, no,” she said, “it’s not Wednesday I’m worried about. It’s the rest of them.” She looked out the window again. “We may need to provide an alibi.”

  “My love,” Gomez said. He was standing on his head in the parlor. “It’s game night. Wednesday will be home soon, so why don’t you come and join us?”

  Morticia sighed and sat down. She examined the game board.

  “Oh, very well,” she said. “F-6?”

  Gomez chortled. “Pugsley!” he cried. “You heard your mother! Blow F-6!”

  Pugsley sat at a naval sonar control panel, fiddling with various dials. He straightened up and turned a key to unlock a bulletproof plastic dome over a big red button.

  “Fire in the hole!” he yelled, and punched the button as hard as he could.

  Upstairs, Uncle Fester was in the bathtub, playing with a toy battleship floatie.

  “I’m the king of the world!” he said cheerfully.

  KABLAMMO!

  The battleship toy blew up in a massive explosion. The floor of the bathroom gave way, and the bathtub—with Uncle Fester in it—fell straight through the floor, slamming into the parlor. Water sloshed out onto the Persian carpet.

  “Yes!” Pugsley said, throwing his hands in the air triumphantly.

  “You sunk my ship!” Fester chirped.

  “Well done, Pugsley!” Gomez said approvingly. Pugsley blushed happily.

  Just then, a rumbling sounded from the fireplace. A crystal ball fell from the chimney and rolled across the carpet. Then a carpet bag fell into the fire grate with a thump, followed by something large that landed in an explosion of ash. When the ash finally cleared, Morticia made out a grimy figure climbing to her feet in front of the fireplace.

  “Hello, my uglies!” the figure croaked. She shook herself hard, and another layer of ash fell away.