The Junior Novel

by Calliope Glass

  “Oh goodness,” Morticia said softly. It was Grandma.

  “Mother!” Gomez exclaimed, springing up from his armchair. “I thought I felt my skin crawling!” He hurried over and embraced her.

  “Grandma,” Morticia said carefully. “What a surprise. The Mazurka isn’t until next week. Why are you here so early?”

  Grandma shrugged. “Gomez said you needed help with the party,” she said.

  Morticia glared at Gomez. “It’s true!” he said cheerfully. “I sent for her!”

  “I can’t believe,” Morticia said, smiling through her teeth, “that you bothered your mother with that, darling.”

  Gomez looked up, hearing the fury behind her smile. He gulped nervously. “Neither . . . can I?” he said. He clearly recognized his mistake now, when it was too late to do anything about it.

  “He said you were in over your head,” Grandma said, cheerfully patting Morticia’s arm.

  “Thank you, Mother!” Gomez said, making a “please stop talking” motion with his hand. She didn’t notice.

  “He said he wasn’t sure if you were up to the challenge,” she went on. Morticia’s eyes went wide with fury.

  “I didn’t say that, exactly,” Gomez said weakly.

  “You did!” Grandma said earnestly. “That’s exactly what you said! And you also said—”

  “You know what?” Gomez said, interrupting her. “I’m starving. Let’s eat!”

  Morticia shook her head. “Not until Wednesday gets home.”

  Grandma perked up. “Where is that granddaughter of mine?” she asked. “I’ve got something for her!” She held up a bear trap.

  Bang! The front door slammed open. Wednesday strode straight through the foyer toward the stairs without even looking at her parents.

  “Wednesday?” Morticia called. “Where have you been?”

  “Elsewhere,” Wednesday said shortly. She turned to face her mother.

  Morticia gasped.

  There was a brightly colored barrette in Wednesday’s hair.

  Shakily, Morticia made her way over to Wednesday.

  “What,” Morticia said, reaching a trembling hand up to the piece of plastic clipped into Wednesday’s hair, “is that.”

  “Parker calls it a ‘pop of color,’” Wednesday said casually.

  Morticia swallowed hard and did her best to keep her voice level. “I see,” she said.

  “She says it brings out my smile,” Wednesday went on.

  “Wednesday,” Morticia said evenly, “you don’t have a smile.”

  “Turns out I have lots of things you don’t know about,” Wednesday said tartly. She marched upstairs without another word. Morticia watched her go in stunned silence.

  “I see I got here just in time,” Grandma said. “You were right to call, Gomez.”

  Morticia whirled around. “Thank you, Grandma,” she said. “But I’ll handle this myself.”

  She glided up the stairs and entered Wednesday’s room.

  “Wednesday?” she said, sitting down on the bed and watching as Wednesday chopped the heads off a row of dolls. At least she is engaging in normal, healthy play, Morticia thought. Perhaps this barrette business is a red herring. Still . . .

  “How would you like to join me tomorrow after your ‘school,’ for tea and a séance in the cemetery?” she asked.

  Wednesday glowered and didn’t look up. “If you like, Mother,” she said sullenly. She pulled out a stiletto blade and threw it in Morticia’s direction. It whizzed just past Morticia’s ear and hit the light switch, turning it off.

  Morticia knew when she wasn’t welcome.

  “Sleep well, dear,” she said. She closed the door behind her and heaved a big sigh.

  Her little girl was growing up and discovering things like . . . wholesomeness. And fun.

  Morticia had always known this day would come.

  But that didn’t make it any easier.

  The next afternoon, Morticia boiled water for tea and set up a charming little table in the cemetery. She put out the Ouija board and a small bowl of sugar cubes. A crystal ball went next to the teapot, and Morticia settled in with a hot cup of pekoe.

  Right on time, the crystal ball gave a cheery ring like a telephone. Morticia carefully moved the piece across the Ouija board to the “yes” space, and a ghostly face appeared in the surface of the crystal ball.

  “Hello, Mother,” Morticia said, smiling.

  “Where’s my little wraith?” Grandma Frump said, peering left and right.

  Morticia sighed. “Wednesday still hasn’t arrived,” she said. “It seems she’s stood us up.”

  “What do you mean?” Grandma Frump said, frowning in the crystal ball.

  “I think she’s distancing herself from me,” Morticia said. “The world can be so cruel. I’m afraid it’s going to change her, but all she wants to do is run toward it.”

  Grandma Frump tilted her head. “She’s a lot like you that way,” she said. “You were always looking for something outside of what we gave you.”

  Grandpa Frump’s face appeared in the crystal ball. “Let me talk to her,” he said. “Listen, Morticia,” he went on, “life is life. How do you think we felt about leaving you behind? We felt helpless. But we knew you’d be okay. We raised you to be strong.”

  Morticia’s eyes filled with tears. “Wednesday’s growing up,” Grandpa Frump went on. “Trust your daughter. She’ll find her way.”

  Morticia smiled a watery smile. “Thank you, Father,” she said. “That’s most comforting.”

  Her father smiled back through the crystal ball. “Good,” he said.

  Meanwhile, in Parker’s bedroom, in a brand-new house down in Eastfield Estates, Wednesday and Parker were hanging out. Wednesday was using a magnifying glass and sunlight to burn out the eyes of a teen heartthrob on the cover of a glossy magazine. Parker was poking at the photo app on her phone.

  “You know,” Parker said, “when I met you, I thought you were super weird. But now I think you’re really cool.”

  “Same,” Wednesday said.

  “Oh!” Parker said, sitting up. “How’d that barrette go over at home yesterday?”

  Wednesday frowned. “It was odd. My mother was . . . accepting. It depressed me. One never wants to see one’s mother that way. Accepting. Mothers should be terrifying gorgons—unreasonable and unappeasable.”

  Wednesday smiled. “But I must admit,” she went on, “walking around in something so garish . . . so grotesque . . . I was shocked at how thrilling it felt.”

  Parker sighed. “I wish I could do that,” she said. “But my mom makes me wear this preppy stuff, and I just hate it. I would love to wear something that would really shock her.”

  Wednesday grinned. “Well, Parker,” she said, “you’re in luck. I’m the queen of shock.”

  Morticia gritted her teeth and smiled. “Thank you very much,” she said to the barbershop quartet of four shrunken heads on a platter. They’d just finished singing an audition tune for her.

  The heads all grinned and blinked in unison. “Our pleasure!” they chorused.

  Morticia sighed and turned to Grandma Addams. “Grandma,” she said patiently, “we already have a band for Pugsley’s Mazurka. They came highly recommended from the mortuary. I’m not sure why you think we should be trying out other bands.”

  Grandma smiled. “Oh, I’m sure your band is just fine,” she said reassuringly. “But my sister Sloom is going to be judging Pugsley. And if things aren’t done the traditional way, she won’t be happy—and the Mazurka will be a disaster.”

  Then she sighed. “But what do I know,” she added.

  Morticia knew when she was beat. “Fine,” she said shortly. A distant bang sounded from the front of the house. The front door. “Excuse me,” Morticia said. “I’d better go and see who it is.”

  She rounded a corner into the living room and stopped short. Wednesday was there dressed in a pink polo shirt and khaki shorts.

  Morticia c
lutched her chest and gasped.

  Wednesday opened her mouth and began to sing.

  “What’s so great about being yourself, when you can be like everyone else?”

  Morticia gathered her wits enough to speak. “How dare you enter this house looking like that,” she said sharply. “Where have you been?”

  Wednesday shrugged. “Hanging out with Parker.”

  Grandma Addams stepped into the room and stared. “Holy Hades!” she exclaimed.

  “Do you like my new look,” Wednesday said. It was less of a question and more of a statement.

  “I do not like it,” Morticia said sharply. “Everyone knows pink is a gateway color.”

  Grandma poked Morticia. “I warned you about sending her to public school,” she muttered.

  “Don’t worry,” Morticia snapped back, not taking her eyes away from Wednesday, “Wednesday is never going to that school again.”

  Wednesday gasped. “What?!” she said.

  “In fact,” Morticia went on furiously, “she’s never leaving this house again!”

  Wednesday stormed up to her room.

  Things didn’t go much better for Parker.

  She had shaved her head. She was wearing heavy goth makeup. She’d dyed all her clothes black and shredded holes in half of them.

  She’d never felt so free. “I’m living my truth,” she announced on her video stream, angling her head this way and that so her followers could see her new piercings, her new eyeliner, and her new (lack of) hair. She had closed the shades so her room was appropriately gloomy, but it did make it kind of hard to get a good picture on video. Parker considered turning on a light but then decided that that would betray her new goth identity. Her followers would just have to deal with dark video from now on.

  “YEAHHHHGHH!”

  A shrill scream pierced the air, and Parker hastily ended the stream and put her phone down. Her mother was standing in her bedroom doorway, staring at her in shock and fury.

  “Parker?” she screamed. “Who did this to you?!”

  Stay strong, Parker reminded herself. She’s not the boss of you.

  “I did this,” she said solemnly. “This is my new look, Mother. I choose my clothes from now on, not you.”

  Margaux clenched her fists . . . and her jaw.

  “This is that little creep Wednesday Addams’s work, isn’t it,” she spat out from between her teeth.

  Parker sighed and shook her head. “She’s not a creep, Mother. She’s just not like you.”

  Margaux opened her mouth to retort, but Parker cut her off.

  “Why can’t you ever let people be different?” she asked. All her life, Parker had put up with her mother’s attempts to make her fit in. She’d worn the clothes her mother chose. She’d worn her hair the way her mother wanted. She’d even studied the French horn. Ugh.

  Well, no more.

  “Because,” Margaux hissed, “it’s my calling to make everyone the same. It is literally my job, Parker.”

  She bent down until her face was right in Parker’s face and locked eyes with her. “And if they can’t accept my help, then they don’t belong in Eastfield Estates.”

  Margaux straightened up and briskly walked over to the light switch and flicked on the lights.

  “Augh!” Parker shrieked. “Too bright! It burns!” The light stabbed her eyeballs. She was a goth now, and that meant no light. Why couldn’t her mother just accept that?

  “Good,” Margaux said harshly. “Maybe it’ll burn away the weird.”

  Parker jumped up off her bed. “I hate it here!” she shrieked. “Everything’s boring and fake and bright. Like plastic flowers. Like you!”

  Margaux drew herself up, outraged. “Parker!” she shouted back. “Plastic flowers live forever! Now you think long and hard about that . . . with no social media.”

  She ripped Parker’s phone out of her hand.

  “No!” Parker cried, scrabbling desperately at Margaux’s fist. “Not that! Anything but that!” But Margaux turned and walked off, taking Parker’s phone with her.

  Parker threw herself on her bed face-first. She hated her mom. And she hated this town.

  Margaux threw herself into her secret lair. She hated the Addamses. And she hated what they were doing to her perfect town. What they were doing to her perfect daughter.

  Nobody knew about the lair beneath Margaux’s craft room—not even Parker. But it was the nerve center of Margaux’s entire operation. Here she had computers and monitors—all the equipment she needed to keep her perfect town . . . perfect. Here was where she did her best thinking, her best scheming. Here was where she was in charge. Where she knew exactly what to do.

  Margaux took a deep breath. She knew what her next move was. She slid Parker’s phone into her pocket and went over to her computer. She logged onto Neighborhood Peeps and began reading through the recent conversations in Eastfield Estates. Margaux smiled when she saw that the fake rumors she’d planted had taken off. There was already plenty of alarm about the Addamses.

  “It’s obvious they don’t belong here,” one said.

  “We should do something,” said another.

  “I’m worried for our children,” said a third.

  Margaux smiled. The neighborhood was already on the verge of rising up against the unwanted weirdos. All she needed to do now was fan the flames a little more.

  She cracked her knuckles and started typing.

  Chapter 7

  A record played on a turntable, polluting the night with its hideous, scratchy, discordant music.

  Uneven, stumbling footsteps rang through the Addamses’ house—clomp a-clomp clomp.

  Morticia, knitting an unspeakable monstrosity of a sweater in the parlor, looked up as plaster dust sifted down from the ceiling. She smiled.

  Pugsley was practicing the Sabre Mazurka.

  Upstairs, Pugsley wheezed and sweated as he stumbled through the steps. He paused and shook his head. Was he getting worse? It felt like he was getting worse.

  Something flashed by his window, and he turned to stare into the darkness. What was out there?

  “Aagh!” Pugsley yelled as Wednesday’s face appeared in his window. She stared blankly at him and then dropped out of sight. He ran to the window and opened it, staring out.

  Wednesday, borne by Ichabod the tree, was descending from her window to the ground. She was carrying a bag.

  “Where are you going?” Pugsley asked her. Ichabod paused, and Wednesday hung in the air in front of Pugsley’s window.

  “A friend’s,” Wednesday answered shortly. She shouldered her bag. “I hold people prisoner, not the other way around. Good luck with your Mazurka. You need it.”

  Ichabod began to lower her toward the ground.

  “Wait,” Pugsley called, and Ichabod paused again. “You’re leaving? Who’s gonna torment me every day?”

  Wednesday sighed impatiently. “Living under this roof is all the torment you’ll need. Besides, our parents have made it clear to me that the only way to be accepted in this family is to be exactly like them. I thought the Addamses valued difference, but I guess not. I can’t play by these rules anymore.”

  Wednesday looked at Pugsley. “Farewell, brother,” she said. “Tomorrow you become a man. And tonight I become a fugitive.”

  Pugsley thought this over, then shrugged. “I always kinda knew it’d end up like this. I just didn’t think it’d be so soon.”

  Wednesday nodded. Then Ichabod lowered her completely out of sight.

  She was gone.

  “Pugsley,” a voice murmured from the trap door to his bedroom. Pugsley jumped and slammed his head on the window sill.

  “Have you seen your sister?” his mother asked, gliding into the room. “She’s not in her room.”

  Pugsley rubbed his head and stared nervously at her. She had ways of making you talk—Pugsley knew this from long, hard experience.

  “Pugsley,” Morticia murmured, staring him intensely in the face. “Wh
ere is Wednesday.”

  Pugsley squirmed. He was going to crack soon, he knew it. Desperate times called for desperate measures—maybe he could hypnotize his mother before she could pry it out of him. He had to try!

  He whipped out a watch on a chain and set it rocking back and forth like a pendulum.

  “You’re getting very sleepy . . .” he said uncertainly, trying to make his voice soothing and hypnotic.

  “Pugsley,” Morticia said, drawing closer. She did not look amused. Pugsley’s heart started pounding. He was going to screw this up somehow, he just knew it.

  “She did not go to her friend’s house . . .” he said, still trying for a hypnotic voice.

  Morticia’s gaze sharpened. “She went to her friend’s house?”

  Pugsley swallowed. “I repeat,” he said, swinging the pendulum faster and faster, “she did not go to her friend’s house.”

  Morticia looked out Pugsley’s window into the dark night. Pugsley winced and braced himself for an eruption. But Morticia just stood there for a moment longer, and then sighed, slumping a little. She looked . . . sad. And somehow that was worse than any scolding.

  She straightened up and pasted a serene look onto her face, but Pugsley wasn’t fooled. He could tell she was really, really sad. He watched his mother glide out of his room, her head high and her back straight. He felt heartsore just looking at her.

  Pugsley sighed and plopped back down on his bed. He didn’t feel like practicing the Mazurka anymore. Not that he had felt like it before. He was terrible at it, and he knew it. The only thing he had a real talent for was explosives. He had no idea what to do with a sword.

  He pulled a photo album onto his lap and opened it up, turning the pages slowly. It was the album of his father’s Sabre Mazurka. Gomez had lent it to Pugsley to help motivate him. But it had the opposite effect. Looking at the photos of his father as a kid . . . Gomez was so graceful, so confident. He held the sword like it was an extension of himself. He was smiling in every photo.

  Plop! A drop of water fell onto one of the photos. Pugsley jumped and gently wiped the water off. He sniffled and wiped his eyes. When had he started crying?

  He sniffled again. His Mazurka was going to be a disaster, and there was nothing he could do. His sister was gone. His mother was heartbroken. His entire extended family was going to watch him fail tomorrow.