Chapter 2
As she’s shown to the library with the rest of the new class, she spots Wednesday, walking around with a few books in her hand as she looks over another before putting it back on the shelf.
Enid lingers back, trying to catch sight of whatever it is that she did actually choose to read. However, she can’t make out the titles from this distance.
“Ms. Sinclair, with us, please,” the guide calls, and she watches as Wednesday glances over at the name before her eyes lock on Enid’s.
“Ms. Sinclair,” the guide calls again and Enid breaks eye contact before catching back up with the group, those dark eyes in the forefront of her mind the entire orientation.
If Wednesday is already familiar with the library, then is she just a freshman that got an extra week here to get familiar with the campus? Or is she older than Enid and already has a year or so at this school?
The thought has Enid itching to know.
By the time she gets back to her dorm, the door is ajar and she’s immediately on edge as she slowly creeps in.
Closing the door behind her, she walks further in, listening for any sort of noise. There’s nothing for a while until a loud thud sounds and then a yell.
Enid doesn’t waste any time as she runs straight into Wednesday’s room, pausing as she sees several people in the room.
Her family, she assumes, based on the similarities in their appearance and their clothing choices.
“The door was open and I heard a yell,” Enid tries to explain when not a single person says a word, just staring at her as if they could see through her.
“My brother was trying to hang my bulletin up and fell,” Wednesday has the grace to explain from her spot on her bed, standing with a bulletin board in hand.
Enid glances over and sees the boy on the floor, rubbing at his backside as he stands.
“Oh,” she says stupidly as she continues standing there a moment before offering, “Do you want any help? I have some extra thumbtacks in my room.”
Wednesday opens her mouth to respond, but her mother interrupts, holding a hand to her daughter before saying, “That would be appreciated. I’m Wednesday’s mother, Morticia.”
Enid shakes her extended hand and says, “Nice to meet you. I’m Enid Sinclair.”
Pulling away, Enid returns to her room and opens her closet, rifling through her crime clippings before pulling out her small box of tacks.
Enid walks back in before taking her shoes off and joining Wednesday, standing on the bed.
“Do you want to hold it up or do you want me to?” she asks.
Wednesday raises a brow before saying, “I’m already holding it. You might as well just put the tacks in.”
Nodding, she pulls a tack out and watches Wednesday pull the board away from the wall a moment before shoving the tack into the wall.
Wednesday hooks it on the one side and Enid moves around her, her free hand grazing her back to help keep her balance before she pulls out another tack.
“Pull it back a bit,” Enid says so she can get the tack in place.
Wednesday huffs but pulls it back. Enid smiles to herself as she shoves the tack in the wall, loving how grumpy the other girl is proving herself to be.
She figures she must’ve hit her head today during the fight, as there is no reason behind finding the gloomy girl so amusing. Then again, maybe it's a pretty privilege thing.
Once it’s in, Wednesday hooks the other side, and simultaneously, both she and Enid take a step back on the bed to examine it.
“It’s crooked.”
“It is not,” Enid argues, reaching for it at the same time Wednesday does. They start batting at each other’s hands, trying to smack the other away so each could do as they pleased to the board.
“Girls,” Morticia says, the hint of a laugh in her voice.
Enid stops trying to bother with it, her hands limp at her sides as she watches Wednesday pull the board off and then pull the tack out of the wall before repositioning it and shoving it into the wall.
“See, now it’s leve-” Enid lunges forward as the board starts to fall, catching it just before it slid down into the space between the wall and the bed.
However, in the process she shouldered into Wednesday who stumbles back with the sudden, accidental shove.
Enid lifts her hand on instinct, going to shoot a web at her to catch her before she falls off the bed, before realizing that she’s not in her suit.
Letting go of the bulletin she reaches for Wednesday, catching her by her collar for the second time today.
“We have to stop ending up like this,” she says with a laugh. Wednesday is merely scowling, completely unphased by the fact that Enid is currently keeping her from crashing into the floor.
Enid pulls her back onto the bed before letting go and grabbing the board from the floor and holding it back up and flipping it around.
“Your hook broke,” she says, grabbing the small loop as she examines the tear.
An open palm is extended to her, the tacks from the wall now in Wednesday’s hand.
“Well, I won’t be needing these then,” the girl says.
Enid nods and trades her as she says, “Guess not.”
She steps off her bed before collecting her shoes by the door and giving a wave to Wednesday’s family before returning to her own room, her heart racing faster than it ever has in any fight she’s ever been in.
There’s something about Wednesday that just sings to her. Something about the dark and broody vibe perhaps, or maybe her succinct way of talking. Whatever it is, it has Enid longing for more time around her.
Locking her door behind her, she goes to her bed, pulling her suit out from under it and grabbing the sewing kit from a drawer in her dresser.
She sews up the hole in the calf where the bullet grazed before throwing it into her hamper and shoving a bunch of other clothes over it.
Tugging her shoes back on, she takes her basket down to the laundry room of the college.
“I’m starting to believe I’ve gone mad, and my brain has conjured you up for my own personal Hell.”
Enid looks over and spots Wednesday, a basket in her hands.
“Why would your brain make me of all things if it were a Hell?” Enid asks, leaning back against the washer.
“You’re entirely too bubbly and touchy. Not only, but everywhere I am, there you are,” Wednesday answers, walking closer, her boots thudding against the ground.
“I’m too touchy for you? Would you rather I have let you fall both those times then?” Enid counters with a raised brow.
Wednesday scoffs and sets her basket down by the washer before standing right in front of Enid. And even in her combat boots, she’s still shorter than the blonde.
“You didn’t have to help earlier. With the bulletin.”
Enid feels a smile tugging at her lips as she asks, “So your problem with me is I’m a decent human being? Noted.”
“You call going out of your way as ‘decent’?” Wednesday asks as she crosses her arms over her chest.
“On the average tier, it’s a steady ‘Certifiable’.”
Enid can’t help the grin that pulls at her lips as she regards the other. Her brows furrow slightly as she challenges with a simple, “Yeah?”
The challenge seems to ignite something within Wednesday, the subtle shift in how she holds herself being everything Enid needs to know.
Wednesday is just as, if not more, competitive as Enid.
Oh, this year is going to be so fun.
“Considering you aren’t even aware of the fact that you’re bleeding, I’d say yes,” Wednesday says with a nod down to Enid’s leg.
The blonde looks down, seeing the red bleeding through her jeans where she had been grazed by the bullet earlier in the day.
“That’s not blood,” she says with a shrug.
“No?”
Shaking her head, Enid says, “Marker. From my little brother.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrow before drifting down to the red on Enid’s pants once more.
“I wasn’t aware that marker pools on fabric like that.”
“Well, when was the last time you colored on your clothes with marker?” Enid counters with a small, questioning hum.
Her heart flutters at the sight of Wednesday’s mouth twitching as if amused with her.
“Fair enough.”
Enid nods, looking down at her and wonders at what point they had started drifting closer.
They now stand directly in front of each other, their sides pressing into the machine they’re leaning against. Wednesday’s head tilting back slightly to maintain eye contact with Enid.
The latter’s eyes drift over her face and down to her neck that’s adorned with a black choker and a couple silver necklaces.
Her mouth waters at the sight of her collarbones.
God, Enid, get it together. This is not the Victorian ages.
“Well, if you’re using this one, I’ll go find another,” Enid says, drawing away and picking up her basket again.
“I don’t have many articles. I’m sure we could share a cycle,” Wednesday surprisingly offers.
And as tempting as it is to have her clothes smell like Wednesday, her spider-suit is still in her basket.
“Don’t you know you don’t wash lights with darks?” She teases instead before turning and leaving.