It was a quiet evening at Nevermore Academy, the kind of evening were trouble brewed just beneath the surface of the calm. For Wednesday Addams, trouble came in the form of her very enthusiastic and borderline insistent girlfriend, Enid Sinclair.
“Come on, Wednesday! Just one little song,” Enid begged, practically bouncing on the bed in their shared dorm room. Her colorful socks were mismatched—one neon pink with green polka dots, the other featuring a cartoonish werewolf howling at a fluorescent moon. Wednesday, sitting stiffly at her desk and meticulously cleaning her typewriter, didn’t even glance her way.
“I’d rather be disemboweled,” she replied flatly.Enid pouted. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. You’ve got a great voice! I’ve heard you hum before.”
“Humming is not singing. And humming doesn’t involve public humiliation.”
“It’s not public! It’s just me,” Enid pointed out, crawling across the bed to get closer to her girlfriend. “And maybe Thing. He’s kind of like your backup band.”
Thing, lounging on the windowsill, gave an indignant tap of his fingers as if to say, “Leave me out of this.”
Wednesday finally turned her head to look at Enid, her expression as deadpan as ever. “I am tone-deaf, Enid. Singing would be a cruelty—both to you and the fabric of reality.”
“Oh, stop being so hard on yourself. No one’s tone-deaf. That’s a myth,” Enid said, wagging a finger at her. “I bet you’re just scared.”
Wednesday’s brow arched. “I fear nothing.”
“Then prove it,” Enid challenged, her grin widening. “Sing me one little love song. Just one! Pleeeeease?”
Wednesday stared at her for a long moment, her dark eyes narrowing. “If I do this,” she began slowly, “you will agree to stop pestering me about it for the rest of eternity.”
Enid nodded furiously. “Deal! But you’ve gotta actually try. None of that monotone poetry-reading stuff you do in class.”
Wednesday sighed, setting down her bookbag. “Fine. But if you laugh, I will ensure you regret it.”
Enid clapped her hands excitedly and sat cross-legged on the bed, practically vibrating with anticipation. Thing, sensing the potential for disaster, scurried to the safety of the bookshelf.
Wednesday stood, folding her hands primly in front of her. She cleared her throat, her expression somehow becoming even more grim.
And then she began.
To call it singing would be a gross overstatement. It was more like a series of uneven tones strung together in a way that vaguely resembled a melody—if the melody were being attacked by a pack of rabid bats. Wednesday’s voice wavered between too low and painfully high, cracking like ancient floorboards under pressure.
“You are… my suuuunshine,” she began, her voice like a haunted church organ. “My only… suuuuunshine…”
Enid clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking. Tears of restrained laughter pricked at the corners of her eyes. Wednesday’s expression didn’t waver, though her gaze sharpened dangerously.
“You make me haaaaappy…” Wednesday continued, her voice now somewhere between a screech and a whisper. “When skies are… greyyyyy…”
That was it. Enid couldn’t hold it in any longer. She burst out laughing, falling backward onto the bed and clutching her stomach.
Wednesday stopped mid-note, glaring at her giggling girlfriend. “I warned you.”
“I’m sorry!” Enid gasped, tears streaming down her face. “I’m sorry, it’s just… it’s so bad! But in a really cute way! I love it, I swear.
Wednesday sat down at her desk again, her movements deliberate and dignified despite the redness blooming on her usually pale cheeks. “Your reaction has only confirmed my suspicions. I will never sing again.”
Enid sat up, still giggling. “Aw, don’t say that! It was adorable. Besides, I think you could get better with practice.”
“Practice?” Wednesday repeated, her tone icy. “I think not.”
“Come on, Wednesday. Don’t you want to serenade me properly someday?”
“I would rather serenade you with the screams of my enemies,” Wednesday replied, resuming her work on the typewriter.
Enid sighed dramatically but leaned over to kiss the top of her girlfriend’s head. “Fine. But just so you know, I’m keeping this memory forever. And you’re lucky I didn’t record it.”
Wednesday’s fingers paused on the keys. “If you had, you’d be a memory.”
Enid grinned. “Love you too, babe.”
Despite Wednesday’s protests, Enid couldn’t help but hum the tune of “You Are My Sunshine” for days afterward, earning herself several exasperated glares. But late one night, as they lay tangled together in bed, Enid thought she heard a quiet, almost imperceptible hum from Wednesday. She didn’t say anything, choosing instead to smile to herself in the dark. Sometimes, love sounded a little off-key—and that was perfectly okay.
A week later, Enid had yet another bright idea. The local karaoke bar in Jericho was hosting a themed night for couples, and she was determined to drag Wednesday along.
“This is a gross misuse of my time,” Wednesday grumbled as they entered the dimly lit venue, where fairy lights blinked cheerily against a backdrop of glittery streamers.
“It’ll be fun! Plus, you can just sit and watch if you don’t want to sing,” Enid said, squeezing her hand. Predictably, the evening turned chaotic. Enid signed them up for a duet without informing Wednesday, choosing a classic—"I Got You Babe." When their turn came, Wednesday’s glare could have wilted a field of sunflowers. Enid tugged her to the stage, whispering encouragements while Wednesday muttered threats under her breath.
“You’ll do great! Just follow my lead,” Enid said as the music started. As the backing track began, Enid launched into her part with bubbly enthusiasm. Her clear, upbeat voice carried easily over the microphone, drawing cheers from the audience. Then, it was Wednesday’s turn. What followed was nothing short of catastrophic. Wednesday’s tone-deaf attempt to match the melody sounded like a crypt door creaking open during a thunderstorm. She started too high, dropped too low, and then hit an impossible middle ground that made even Enid wince.
“I got you, babe,” Wednesday croaked, her voice cracking halfway through the line. A collective murmur of amusement spread through the crowd, and someone near the back let out a startled guffaw. Enid, ever the supportive girlfriend, tried to harmonize, but her own laughter got the better of her. She stumbled over her lines, giggling uncontrollably as Wednesday soldiered on, her expression a mask of grim determination. By the time they reached the chorus, the entire bar was either laughing or clapping along in time with the chaotic performance. Wednesday’s voice reached a crescendo of dissonance, a sound so unique it defied description. Enid, tears of laughter streaming down her face, leaned into the microphone and ad-libbed, “Give it up for my girlfriend, the queen of... unique vocals!”
The crowd erupted into applause and cheers, clearly entertained by the spectacle. Wednesday, though visibly unamused, gave a curt bow before stalking off the stage.
Back at Nevermore, Enid couldn’t stop gushing about the experience.
“You were amazing! I mean, not in the traditional sense, but you totally owned it.”
Wednesday glared at her, arms crossed. “If by ‘owned it,’ you mean I subjected an entire room of people to auditory torture, then yes, I suppose I did.”
“Oh, stop. They loved you!” Enid said, wrapping her arms around Wednesday’s waist. “And I loved you. You made tonight unforgettable.”
Wednesday’s glare softened slightly. “Your concept of love is deeply flawed.”
“Maybe,” Enid admitted, grinning. “But it works for us.”
Later that night, as they lay tangled together in bed, Enid swore she heard Wednesday humming again—this time, a tune suspiciously similar to “I Got You Babe.”