The white plastic folding chair squeaks as the parole officer sits down at the metal table. He clicks his pen several times and clears his throat before speaking.
“As you know, parole is a privilege. And one of the restrictions on any parolee is to avoid the company of any person who has a criminal record of any kind. That would include most of your extended family.”
Wednesday Addams nods silently. “Yes, that is unequivocally not something that brings me any sliver of pride.”
“Would this pose an impossible challenge for you?” He writes something down on his large stack of papers. Wednesday cranes her neck in an attempt to read his notes, but the chains circling her wrists and keeping her snugly attached to the table prevent any successful snooping.
She pauses, shakes her head, and grimaces as if remembering something that had caused her immense embarrassment. “No. No. I do not want that life, I never wanted that life. My mother, my father, my uncle, every member of my bloodline, my brother even, they were criminals. I tolerated them, but they were cons. It was in their blood.”
The officer seems sceptical. “And it’s not in your blood?”
“No. No, sir. I… I fell for someone. It was a mistake. One I am ashamed to admit happened in the first place. But it happened. And if you would do me the courtesy of being released. I would,” she pretends to choke up, willing a single faux tear to slide down her face, “Sorry. Just saying that, almost makes me feel something. If I were to be released, I just want a mundane life. Perhaps I would find a place of employment, make a few acquaintances, go on a walk after work in the fresh air. And pay my bills. The simple life.”
***
What a load of garbage. That’s all Enid Sinclair, longtime criminal and even longer hopeless romantic can think as she sits in her 1988 FJ62 Toyota Land Cruiser, listening to the quiet humming of the radio and staring at the Women’s Correctional Facility. What an absolute dump. But there’s no time to dwell on that because Wednesday Addams, decked out in the last thing Enid had seen her wearing, is strutting out of the double doors and down the pavement. She looks good, really good. She’s barely aged, her long hair is freshly washed and braided, the platforms of her thick black boots give her a few extra inches of height, is she strutting? She’s never strutted before, not at least from what Enid’s seen. But if she is, it’s certainly working for her, she looks better than ever and she looks as if she owns the entire town.
She certainly owns Enid’s heart along with a few other stolen items. See, the thing is, Enid Sinclair has been in love with Wednesday Addams for pretty much their entire friendship. Or partnership. Or acquaintanceship, whatever you wanted to call it or depending on who you’d asked. The two had basically grown up together starting at age eighteen. Enid was fresh meat from sunny California, making small time business operations such as robbing a record store of all its Fleetwood Mac albums or taking two complimentary plastic spoons instead of one at the nearby fast food restaurant, but then on a whim she’d flown across the country to New York City, the Big Apple, the City of Dreams. And in that massive mess of subway cars and Broadway shows she’d met her: The girl of her dreams. Wednesday Addams, mysterious and brave and everything so charming about the criminal life Enid had imagined for herself as she had emptied her bank account and bought a one way ticket to the so-called Capital of The World. They had met in passing, one glare and one unbelieving stare led to another and soon Wednesday was buying Enid a much needed lunch. And they had hit it off great. Enid, as bubbly a personality as it gets, had immediately taken to Wednesday, and Wednesday, to her credit, hadn’t punched Enid in the face, neck, or anywhere, except the heart if you were cheesy like that. Wednesday was not. They’d agree to become ‘partners in crime’ and they would go bigger and bigger with their crimes until one of them flew too close to the sun and had landed themselves the starring role in prison, no understudy available. It had been the main focus point of their plan, underlined three times in bold, to keep themselves out of the spotlight, to be unnoticeable and untraceable, and Wednesday found a way to move under the radar like a shadow in the night, or like a really cool ninja, as Enid had once described her as. But even though it had worked on all but two people for a decade or so, it had never worked on Enid. They were so young when they had met, and Enid had expected the wave of complete and utter infatuation to fade with time and age, but apparently, it hadn’t. The second she’d laid eyes on her, those captivating eyes, those brilliant ideas that seemed impossible at first but always worked out in the end, those hilarious one-liners delivered with so much sass Enid didn’t know how to respond. Enid was in love, and there was nothing she could do about it but sit and watch as time sped past her eyes.
“Sinclair,” the sound of Wednesday Addams’s voice coming through the window is muffled, as she continues tapping a carefully manicured fingernail on the passenger side window. Enid had been too lost in thought to realise that Wednesday had diverted from the pavement path and crossed into the lot. The woman in black stands at the side of Enid’s beloved vehicle, waiting semi-patiently for Enid to notice. She rolls the window down, flashing Wednesday a smile as the pane of glass slowly disappears into the car door. Wednesday looks even more radiant from this distance, and Enid breathes deeply before she dares to think of anything to say to her. Get a grip Sinclair. You haven’t seen her in five years, don’t mess this up, she was perfectly willing to leave you for five years, don’t put anything past her.
“Hey there jailbird,” Enid taunts. Wednesday glares and Enid grins. Just like old times. She’d almost forgotten the way Wednesday’s glare had looked. It is just as enchanting to Enid as it had been the day they’d met. Almost. There’s just a little something missing, Enid doesn’t have time to place it. Wednesday tries to reach in to pull the lock open but Enid lunges to cover it. She just barely beats Wednesday to it, pushing her fingers out of the way as she grins up at the girl. She doesn’t smile back, but she doesn’t look exactly angry either, just her default look of completely and utterly miffed.
“Thought you weren’t supposed to get out for another…” Enid checks her watch with her other hand, “four years, three months, and nineteen days.”
“They granted me an early release. For my good behaviour,” Wednesday explains calmly, honestly, as if it’s the most sensible answer on the planet. As if Enid had just asked “How do you spell the word ‘it’?” And Wednesday had answered ‘i-t’ in the same tone as she had said ‘good behaviour.’
Enid snorts, she could roll around on the ground and pound her fists on the ground at an idea half as hilarious as this. “Good behaviour? Yeah right, how much did it cost you for that?” Probably more than Enid had made from any ‘jobs’ in the past five or so years. When Wednesday had gotten locked up, Enid had all but quit from crimes and had taken to life running a law-abiding bar, minus the law-abiding part. Well, that depends on whom you ask. But for the most part, Enid had been a law abiding citizen.
“Just let me into your car, Sinclair, if you can even stand to call it that,” Wednesday commands. Enid relents and removes her hand from the car lock, ignoring Wednesday’s jabs at Enid’s beloved car. Wednesday pushes it down as Enid moves back over to the driver’s side of the car. Wednesday heaves the heavy door open and sits in the passenger seat next to Enid, who wipes her sweaty palms on her pants nonchalantly.
“Get in the backseat,” Enid says, her voice as deadpan as the girl next to her.
Wednesday rolls her eyes. The various multicoloured keys on her keychain jingle as Enid turns the ignition.
Enid hadn’t visited Wednesday while she was ‘away.’ If you had asked her why that was, she would’ve stuttered, shifted her gaze, chewed on an all but non-existent fingernail, whatever it had taken to get the subject dropped. And if you’d asked Wednesday if that bothered her, well, you would’ve gotten no answer at all or maybe an eyeful of first rate prison contraband. But she had missed Enid, she’d missed Enid’s stupid smile, her insane uniqueness, the way she could get Wednesday to thaw out and really feel real feelings when it was just the two of them in Enid’s beat up car, looking up at the stars through the lines drawn through the fog on the front window, talking about everything and nothing. She had missed that. The stars.
“And where do you plan on taking me?” Wednesday asks, once her seatbelt is safely locked and Enid pulls the car into reverse, backing out of the parking space and driving away from Wednesday’s former place of residence.
“You’ll see,” Enid says mysteriously. It wasn’t often that Enid got to be the mysterious one with Wednesday. It wasn’t often that Enid got to be anything with Wednesday.
Wednesday stares out of the open window of Enid’s old car, watching people walk by, the trees, the birds, the other cars zipping past, the various businesses and organisations she had committed petty theft in. A wave of nostalgia hits her. She had missed the way the grass not grown in the prison yard looked when the cool spring air influenced it every which way. It was so green, blades gently swaying with each other, like a group dance. The people walking their dogs on the sidewalk, staring at their cell phones or talking to another person by their side, how lucky they were for the opportunity. The sound of the birds in the trees, speaking in high pitched chirps that carried through the air, conversing from across distances. Enid glances over at Wednesday every so often, watching as she takes in the scenes around them.
They drive to Enid’s ‘secret hideout’ which turns out to just be an old loft she manages to afford with absolutely no heating system, but a perfect space for whatever nefarious plans Wednesday has in that brilliant mind of hers. Enid doesn’t even want to know.
***
Unfortunately, Enid quite rarely gets her way. “What in the world are those?” She walks closer to get a better look at whatever nonsense Wednesday has already gotten herself into, less than twelve hours from her former imprisonment. If Enid had to guess, Wednesday was probably looking to ease herself back into the business, maybe some petty theft or a low level con. Real run of the mill, easy stuff. Wednesday could do it in her sleep with noise cancelling headphones on and a five second time limit.
Wednesday is sitting at the wooden table in the centre of the loft, blueprints and chinese food spread out before her. She had settled right into Enid’s venue, throwing her coat on top of the tarps covering the old furniture pushed against the corners of the wall and made herself semi-comfortable on the leather couch in the centre of the room. Enid had needed to deal with other matters, and had left Wednesday alone in her loft, hoping that she didn’t get herself arrested in the five hours Enid was away. Enid had been teaching her newest recruits at the old bar she had been running for the past five and a half or so years how to water down the drinks in order to get the most out of their money. The girls, try as they might, just weren’t getting it. Wednesday would’ve gotten it though. Wednesday was good at everything though, that competition was over before it started.
Wednesday looks at the setting. “This is white rice, I believe that box there is lo mein, that seems to be-”
“Yeah, no, not what I’m talking about Wednesday. What are these?” Enid pushes aside the Chinese restaurant’s paper menu and picks up the blueprints, the fringes of her stylish and brightly-coloured outfit hanging off of her sleeves. The blueprints, to Wednesday’s credit, are honest to goodness blueprints. They are genuinely blue with white outlines of an intricately designed building.
“They are my plans,” Wednesday says, as if planning another job not twenty-four hours after you manage to get yourself released from prison is an obvious idea. An obvious idea would be going for a spa day with your best friend and getting matching manicures. But sure, everyone has their thing. Wednesday’s seems to be déjà vu. She sits innocently at the table with her chinese food,
“No way, no way,” Enid interrupts, starting to pace. Of course Addams had come back here to get her wrapped up in some dumb plan that would end with the love of her life back in prison again, why should Enid expect anything less? It was stupid to think that maybe Wednesday would have wanted to just settle down, have a normal life, say hello to her friend. But no, that wasn’t Wednesday’s style. Wednesday’s style was to make incredibly detailed, incredibly risky plans that seemed to have less and less of a success rate, seeing as how the last one ended with her behind bars. What a plan. What a plan.
“Yes.” Wednesday says, determined. “I have spent five years, eight months, and twelve days spending all my nightmares thinking of the perfect crime. Absolutely nothing can go wrong.”
“Yeah… I believe that a lot of things can go wrong,” Enid contradicts. First thing, Wednesday gets herself locked up again for life and Enid never gets to tell her how she really feels, because how can a person say that through a pane of bullet proof glass and a telephone attached to a cord?
“Trust me,” Wednesday says, giving Enid a look that makes her stomach do somersaults, “it will work.”
Enid curses herself and sits down at the table opposite to Wednesday. She swears she sees some sort of victorious glimmer in the eyes of the girl across from her, but she chooses not to read into it. They eat Chinese food in silence before Wednesday decides that she’s bored with tranquillity.
“I saw Galpin today,” Wednesday says casually, halfway through a bite of noodles.
Enid freezes through her white rice. “He saw you?”
“Unequivocally.”
“Why would you do something like that?” Enid asks, the panic starting to rise in her chest. The last thing she’d expected from Wednesday was for her to go running back to that- she can’t even think about it. Not now. For five years she’d done nothing but think about it, but not tonight. No. This was her first night with Wednesday back, and as much as she seems to try to ruin it, Enid is determined not to let it be a total failure.
“Closure?” Wednesday suggests. It’s a lame lie. Although a con-woman, Wednesday never seemed to be too good at lying to Enid.
“Yeah right,” Enid says, not buying it for a second. Wednesday shrugs at Enid’s sarcastic response.
“So did you…” Enid gulps at the thought, although she would be lying if she said she hadn’t thought of it herself.
“Oh no, no, not yet. Just a little button,” Wednesday says, sliding the shirt button across the table. Wednesday had been in the same room as Galpin, had been close enough to touch, to taunt, and to procure a shirt button from his person. How had she done it? How had he reacted? How were they going to pull this off?
Enid runs a hand through her blonde hair, ends dyed brilliant shades of blue and pink. She’s definitely going to jail.
***
If they were going to do this, they were going to do it right.
They gather a team. ‘They’ meaning Enid. Wednesday had gone to do something she called ‘catching up.’ Enid hadn’t expected Wednesday to be the sentimental type, checking in on old friends and letting them know that she was alright, but seeing as Wednesday had returned every night with more money in the pockets of her expensive clothes than when she had left, Enid figured she was doing less hugging of close friends and more pickpocketing of innocent strangers. But then again, Wednesday had entrusted her with the incredibly important task, and Enid, although opposed to the whole plan to begin with, still had tried her best not to make the heist a total failure. She had found a few gems and others.
Divina, the fence. Charming and elusive, she is there when she wants to be, and is nowhere to be found otherwise. According to legend, she once sold a paperclip for forty-thousand dollars on a dare. When she was nine. If talking Enid Sinclair into agreeing to speak to Wednesday about her obvious feelings once their task was complete wasn’t impressive enough, convincing Wednesday not to fillet the vested children who had knocked on the door of the loft asking if she wanted to purchase some desserts may just have been her most difficult feat. She can pretty much talk her way through selling anything to anyone for whatever price she wants, convincing Laurel Gates to bring an old necklace to the Met Gala should be a sweet piece of cake, even sweeter than Wednesday’s newly purchased boxes of scout cookies.
Bianca Barclay, the tech expert. She speaks variants of code languages fluently that haven’t even been invented yet. On her first day, she had rewired and reinforced the entire loft within her first hour, just because she had been feeling generous. Plus, the loft’s security system had been piteous, a two year old could smash a few keys on a computer keyboard and have access to Enid Sinclair’s bank records within a half hour, Bianca did it in four minutes. Every activity you equate with luxury, she’s achieved the highest level with honours. Fencer, horseback rider, composer of several violin suites by double digits. Hacking the cameras of the Met takes her five minutes with ample time to pull up embarrassing photos of Enid Sinclair in her youth.
Yoko Tanaka, the pickpocket and amateur mixologist, according to her. She was an expert in both fields, although the expertise hadn’t been spread equally between both fields it had seemed. There were a few incidents, none of which included Yoko being caught flipping through someone else’s wallet. Of course, Wednesday hadn’t been pleased when cocktail mixture ran down the wooden floor and into her expensive creepers after Yoko had gotten a bit too big for her circular lensed glasses and had tried to throw the drink mixer behind her back and over her shoulder. Swiping the necklace and replacing it for a fake could be done with both hands tied behind her back, with an alcohol-free martini already made and in a to-go container for the road. Her pitch black shades inspire fear to all but three that seek revenge or a refund for their drink order. The only thing she seems unable to do is get a room, the frequent public displays of affection are enough to trigger a migraine.
What a team.
***
Yoko is laying on the couch with Divina laying in her lap, watching her girlfriend play some sort of multicoloured square matching game on her phone when Wednesday strides into the room. Prison seems to have given her some more confidence, instead of hopping from shadow to shadow, she seems to captivate whichever room she walks into.
“Have you explained the basics of our plan to them,” Wednesday asks Enid, her attention trained only on the girl currently losing a game of chess to Bianca Barclay, who lazily knocks Enid’s queen from its square while she scrolls on her phone in her other hand.
Enid grimaces at the implication that she had been part of the plan creating committee, but nods her head anyway.
Wednesday lays out her more detailed plans that boil down easily; convince Laurel Gates and her team of airheaded idiots to rent the one hundred and fifty million dollar necklace from a multibillion dollar fashion brand, steal the necklace from her while she’s occupied in the Met’s overzealous restrooms, cash in a thirty-million dollar reward for each of them. What could go wrong?
A lot of things.
Every single thing that could go wrong instantly surfaces at the very front of Enid’s mind. Although a very cheery person, her sweet persona doesn’t prevent the immense anxiety that floods her mind and travels down to the very tips of her fingers whenever something has the slight chance to go amiss. Despite Laurel Gates taking the bait like a small innocuous mouse lured into a trap by the promise of cheese, and the fact that Bianca has manipulated the Met’s cameras so there is no way their pickpocket nor transfer will be spotted, and that the replica necklace looks perfect, Enid still isn’t one hundred percent confident. Why not? She gets her answer in two words, straight from Divina’s well-meaning seating chart.
“Tyler Galpin,” she reads off one day. She says it so casually, like “Taylor Swift” or “Anne Hathaway.” They’re going over the seating arrangements for the Met, only a few months away, and Enid freezes in her tracks. Tyler Galpin. The Tyler Galpin? Surely not, surely Wednesday would’ve known if her mortal enemy was sitting right next to their target. Surely she would’ve known. She does know.
Wednesday, that disgustingly smart, horribly gifted, revenge hungry person that she had always been is running a job inside a job. Thirty million dollars was worth a lot more when the man who put you behind bars wasn’t around to see you claim the cash prize.
She’s out of the doors of the loft in thirty seconds, heading down the stairs and to the shoreline where she knows Wednesday will be. The waves of bubbling water brush up against the sand and roll back into the main river.
“Hey!” Enid’s voice travels from across the street. She knows it reaches Wednesday, but the girl doesn’t turn around.
“We need to talk,” Enid says, Wednesday still does not turn. “You better tell me this is not what I think it is.”
“Excuse me?” Wednesday asks, finally turning around.
Enid purses her lips. “Tyler Galpin.”
“I did not do that,” Wednesday lies.
“I’m not a croupier, okay? Or a tourist with a bucket of quarters. Don’t con me,” Enid says slowly, then, “You do not run a job inside of a job!” Enid says, the words falling out of her mouth in staggering steps. She’s yelling, she doesn’t care. Wednesday is there, just as Enid had expected she would be, counted on her to be, because she knows Wednesday like that. She knows when to trust her, when to check her, when to leave her in prison for five years and think about everything she’s ever done, but now she’s just blank.
“It’s not going to matter, we’re gonna get caught,” Enid says when Wednesday doesn’t respond, defeated.
“Stop it. We’re not,” Wednesday commands, her tone harsh.
“Why can’t you just do a job? Why does there always have to be an asterisk? You frame him, I walk,” Enid says. She can’t tell if she’s bluffing or not. There’s no way she would ever be able to get through prison, but there’s no way she would ever be able to get through life without Wednesday.
“Don’t say that,” Wednesday says flatly. She can tell that she’s losing Enid every second they continue like this.
“Enid. Enid!” She raises her voice. This time, Enid is the one to avoid eye contact. “Enid, he sent me to jail. You have no idea what that does to someone.”
“Yeah well, he’s gonna do it again,” Enid scoffs.
“He’s not. There is no chance, I can promise you that,” Wednesday guarantees.
Enid is appalled. “And how can you be so sure?”
Wednesday puts on the same face she always does. “Because I have spent five years, eight months-”
“And twelve days, yeah, yeah, yeah, save the speech, I’ve heard it before. Look, I don’t want any drama, not more than we’ve already gotten ourselves into here, but I’ll just say this; You’re gonna get caught and you’re gonna get arrested again, you’re gonna get all of us arrested. Maybe that’s okay with you, and you’ve made your peace with that or whatever, but I haven’t. Because I can’t go to prison. I can’t be the reason that you go to prison. Or Bianca. Or Divina. Or Yoko. Because I won’t be able to take that, I just won’t Wednesday, I just won’t. If you go back, I’m never gonna see you again. And I can’t do that, I can’t lose you again,” Enid says, pushing back tears, willing them to stay back for just a while longer until she can think straight. It is both a command and a plea.
“Why do you care?” Wednesday asks, sounding eerily like a teenage girl and not a woman who has done hard time. Despite her best efforts, she had always had a bit of a childish streak.
“Because I’m your partner in crime?” Enid suggests, semi-convincingly. They are nearing into feelings talk territory, and Enid tries to steer them back on the course of stopping Wednesday from trying to get herself re-imprisoned by her ex-boyfriend.
“If you were truly my ‘partner in crime’ then you should be more than happy to support me in this crime. It is a brilliant, foolproof plan to win all of us thirty-million dollars,” Wednesday elaborates.
“Yeah, well, maybe there’s more,” Enid says in one breath. It’s the stupidest thing she’s ever said. So much for not wanting any drama.
“Elaborate,” Wednesday says plainly.
Enid chooses her next words carefully. “Maybe I care about you, have you ever thought about that?” She sits down on a large stone near the water. Wednesday sits next to her. They are silent.
“Look,” Enid says after the silence has gone on for long enough, “I just can’t watch you get hauled off to prison again.”
“You were perfectly capable of standing by and watching it happen the first time,” Wednesday says, a bit of fire in her voice.
“What did you expect me to do?” Enid asks, incredulous.
Wednesday grimaces. “Nothing. But now I expect you to help me with this. You are my ‘partner in crime.’”
“No, no, I can’t,” Enid says, putting her hands up.
“Why ever not?” Wednesday questions, “you were elated over the grand scheme before you caught wind of Galpin’s lying, traitorous name.”
Enid scoffs. “You are so selfish, you know that? Did you ever stop to think, even for one second, about how I was feeling?”
“No, I am afraid I didn’t have time to consider that between cell inspection and yard time,” Wednesday says sarcastically.
“Goodness, do you ever think about anyone but yourself? You’re so self absorbed Wednesday, it’s infuriating,” Enid says.
“You know that. You have known me since we were eighteen years old and I have never for one moment considered anyone but myself, and yet you were there to take me back to your place of residence when I was released from prison, you were there to go along with the plan you so obviously did not want to go along with, and you have continued to be by my side akin to an obedient pet dog, so I can’t fathom that this is your first time considering my self-involvement. So please tell me, why else are you so disgusted by the idea of exacting my revenge on Galpin, because I am free from doubt that it is not my selfishness,” Wednesday says.
“I don’t want to get into this right now Wednesday,” Enid says sharply.
Wednesday’s stare deepens. “You were perfectly fine with ‘getting into it’ when we were discussing the viability of my plan, but now that I turn the tables, you are now too busy?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Enid says, breathing faster.
Wednesday almost laughs. “Oh don’t humour me Sinclair, there must be some ulterior reason as to your lack of excitement. I would’ve thought that it would be a winning scenario for you no matter the outcome. We complete the plan as I have so carefully laid out, you are thirty million dollars richer. We fail to complete the plan because of some miniscule mistake, I am out of your hair and behind bars. So please, enlighten me as to why you are not thrilled with this idea.”
Enid stands up suddenly. “Because I’m in love with you, okay? Are you happy? There it is. Out in the open. I’m in love with you Wednesday, so truly, mind numbingly, hopelessly in love with you. And when, you get sent to prison, not if, when. When you get sent to prison, I’m never going to get to see you again and work this stupid little crush out. And yeah, maybe I’m being completely selfish about this but so what? I’m the one being selfish so I won’t let you get shipped off to the women’s correctional facility? Okay. Sure.”
It’s the cheesiest thing Enid’s ever said. She half expects Wednesday to burst out laughing, but of course, she doesn’t. She sits there, all stoic and dreamy, and even though Enid’s having the worst day of her life– second only to the night she found out about Wednesday’s arrest, she still can’t help but keep her gaze trained on Wednesday now.
“Well. That is a complication which I did not factor into my calculations,” Wednesday says as Enid takes big gulps of air in front of her.
“Yep. Huge complication, I know,” Enid says, as sarcastic as she can be in this moment.
“So will you help me?” Wednesday asks after a moment. She looks up at Enid.
“Screw it, fine,” she says, “it’s your funeral.”
“Oh, how I wish it were,” Wednesday says. She blinks.
***
They act as if Enid had never confessed that she is so totally smitten with Wednesday Addams and has been for the past decade, and somehow that’s so much worse than Wednesday rejecting her totally. Because not only does Enid’s insanely unhelpful brain continue to entertain the idea that maybe Wednesday is just holding out until the end of this whole thing to confess her feelings for Enid, but she is hyper aware of every single glance, every movement, every breath. She would have preferred Wednesday to get angry with her. To scream at her and chastise her and tell her what an awful and sinister person she was, falling in love with her partner in crime, to kick her out of her own loft and leave her like a puppy dog in the rain. Because that’s what Enid deserved, or at least what she felt she deserved. She could have handled it, going about life knowing that Wednesday would never talk to her again, never call her on the phone for a late night talk and just lay there and listen to Enid prattle on about her day, would never make fun of her clothing like how her shoes were always a little bit to large or give her embarrassing fake names on her IDs, would never be in her life again. That would’ve been less than ideal, but still manageable. But to know that Wednesday would see her every day, knowing what she knew, it was awful. What must she think of Enid? What was Enid supposed to think of herself? How is she supposed to go on with life with the same deep dark secret she had always had, just without the secret part? And when this was all over, what would she be left with? Who would she be? What a nightmare.
It’s a strange sight to see, Wednesday pretending as if something hadn’t happened. Usually she was the first and only person to acknowledge something groundbreaking or incredibly awkward, but now she danced on tiptoes around Enid’s confession. All of the awkward glances, the quick look away, the shifty gazes, it’s so un-Wednesday like. Enid tries not to hyperventilate at the thought that this might become their new normal.
They continue with the plan. Enid’s half in a daze, half ignoring the world around her as they secure the Toussaint necklace and work their way into Laurel’s inner circle, guaranteeing a full security detail for her trip to the Met Gala with the one hundred fifty million dollar necklace locked around her neck. She’s barely aware of what she’s doing as they pair Laurel and Tyler up for something or whatever, she’s not even really sure, she just cheers along with the rest of the group as Yoko gives them the okay. They’re making a fake necklace in no time, and Enid really wishes that she could enjoy this potentially life changing moment, but her eyes are glued to Wednesday’s jawline and the subsequent look of utter mundanity that follows after being caught in the act. She really needs to look into therapy. Or a home outside of the United States of America.
***
She’s wearing a new dress. Wednesday Addams has never felt this pretty. It’s not often that she truly feels pretty anyway, but from the way Enid has explained it to her, it probably goes something similar to this. It’s nothing too fancy, nothing sparkly, she despises glitter and everything that brings unwanted attention to herself, it’s understated, it’s elegant, it’s revolting. It’s perfect. Her– how should she call it? Her ‘inamorato’ had invited her to this quite distinguished restaurant with the promise of a deal and something more. If everything was to go according to plan, the foolish buyers were to sign their name on the dotted line in fresh black ink. One signature, half a million dollars. Wednesday and Tyler would become rich and they would seal the rest of their lives with a blood pact. Everything a girl could dream of.
The only hitch: a tiny miniscule thing. Wednesday Addams was to be the seller, not the buyer. A beautiful piece really, if Wednesday were one for art without depictions of maiming or scenes without at least one pint of blood minimum, she may have wanted to keep it for herself. But she did not, and that is exactly why she is arriving at Tyler’s table in her new dress, ready to put up the night’s con. She was to hand them the documents and they would slide her the cheque, the whole thing was to take a few minutes at best, according to the steady words of Tyler Galpin.
And he is right, it does take but a few minutes. They’re cuffing her within minutes of arriving late to the scheduled sale, reading her the Miranda Rights, and hauling her into the back of the cop car, the red and blue lights illuminating the fabric of her gown and the whites of her eyes. They ask her question after question, but she does not let up. An Addams spills blood before secrets. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for a Galpin.
Enid finds out a day later. She had gone to sleep early that night, tired from a string of all-nighters waiting by the phone for Wednesday to call back. Wednesday had assured her that she would call her after the sale was complete, but Enid had just naïvely assumed that she had forgotten to do it. When she arrived at Wednesday’s apartment to find it turned upside down and swarming with police officers, she knew that it couldn’t have been a police-themed birthday bash. No, despite every prediction in every good natured bet they had ever made, Enid had not been the first of the two to go to jail. She hadn’t even tried to contact Wednesday. She had tried to try, but every time her hand would hover over the phone, it would shake so violently she wouldn’t have been able to dial the number if she tried. And maybe, in some awful way, the idea of never seeing Wednesday again appealed to her. Now she would never have to confront the rising pang of jealousy whenever Tyler Galpin was around. She would get over it. She would move on.
***
“Focus up, Sinclair,” Wednesday says through the comms system, her voice breathy instead of its normal terror-imposing tone. Enid is conspicuously staring at Wednesday from her place at the table, conveniently placed just a few rows down from Laurel and Tyler have been assigned. Enid snaps out of the trance. Get a hold of yourself Sinclair, she doesn’t like you like that, she just wants the money.
Ten minutes later, she has left the table. All of her fellow guests have also vacated the museum, something about a lost necklace that is worth a lot of money that she knows nothing about, please keep questions to a minimum. As she works on her side project, she hears Wednesday’s voice from outside of the exhibit. She falters, is Wednesday speaking German?
«…Beschilderung? Nein? Das ist Wahnsinn. Wahnsinn,» Enid hears Wednesday complain. She doesn’t know any German, but somehow she knows Wednesday is complaining. Because that’s the thing, even if she tries to forget Wednesday after all of this crazy stuff is older, and they’ve gone their separate ways, she won’t be able to. She’ll always stop herself before using the word “like” as a filler because Wednesday never takes it well, she’ll always consider buying a refrigerator magnet whenever she’s in a gift store to send to Wednesday, she’ll always keep the photo of the two of them after their first job in the pocket of her favourite jacket.
But the museum attendants are trying to usher Wednesday away and she’s persistent in her stalling and Enid is finished with her work. She dashes out just as Wednesday relents and allows herself to be removed from the premises. No matter, both Enid and her nostalgia are finished here.
***
It only takes the authorities three days to find Galpin out. He looks to be as good as guilty, Divina had made sure of it. He had played his part perfectly, truly believing that Laurel Gates would get him a starring role in her next blockbuster. Following her around like a lost puppy all night, he was essentially the only one who could have swiped the necklace and returned a fake one in its place. Well, the only one who showed up on the Met’s closed-circuit-television records anyway. Of course, Laurel Gates’s assistance was also appreciated.
Yes, that’s correct. Laurel Gates, Hollywood’s treasured daughter, had also been in on the plan. If it seems confusing, just imagine the look on Yoko, Divina, and Bianca’s faces as Laurel had strutted into the living room of Enid’s loft like a model on a runway, announcing that she had masterminded the whole operation. That confession was not entirely true, she hadn’t been in on it for the whole time. In the beginning, she really had been convincing Tyler that he would become a star for all the world to see, but eventually he had gotten too boring and Laurel had gotten too suspicious and Enid’s offer had been too good to pass up. So she had accepted, forwarded a photo of Tyler and the necklace, and watched with a bucket of popcorn as he had been dragged out of his snobby art-deco New York loft and into the back of a police car.
And that is how they end up standing in Enid’s living room, all six of them, staring at a closed refrigerator on top of a stack of boxes.
“What are we looking at?” Bianca asks, a look of incredulity plastered on her face.
“Patience,” Enid says, barely able to contain her excitement.
Laurel scoffs and Bianca rolls her eyes. They had been at each other's throats for the past few days as they waited for the authorities to process Tyler Galpin’s arrest.
“You may be wondering why you are gathered here, and you are right to be confused,” Wednesday tells the group, “but if you were to do the calculations, you would realise that your cut of the profits do not add up to the eighty five million dollars that we earned from the sale of The Toussaint. See, while all of America was worried about what was happening on your neck and you were… occupied, the entire building was on lockdown. While everyone was watching the entrance, we decided to take a look at the exhibit. After all, we only embarked on this journey due to my unbridled passion for the arts. And Enid and I had quite a thrill viewing all of the lovely designs, such a thrill in fact, that we decided to procure some souvenirs for you all.
Wednesday flips open the door of the fridge, revealing the various necklaces poached from under the noses of the Met’s best security efforts.
The group gasps.
“What the hell?” Yoko says, taking her sunglasses off to see the jewels properly. Enid smiles at Wednesday.
“Fortunately, not only did I enjoy the works of art, but the rest of the community did as well. So much in fact, that they are willing to pay hefty sums for our new acquisitions. Tomorrow, we will be selling this assortment of bedazzled necklaces for one-hundred-forty-three million dollars,” Wednesday reveals.
“Bringing your total to,” Enid starts, looking at Wednesday to reveal to the eager-eyed group what they have won.
Wednesday nods. “Thirty-eight million dollars. Each.”
There’s another gasp throughout the group of criminals. Yoko and Divina hug each other excitedly, jumping up and down at the prospect of having that much money, Bianca and Laurel nodding at each other in a truce. Enid smiles, watching her newfound friends revel in their joy. Wednesday stalks off to the terrace, once again slinking back into the shadows, unseen, even to Enid.
***
She watches the sunset envelop the blue of the sky until they mix together into several different shades of colours ranging from bright orange to a deep green to a striking purple. Behind her, there is the sound of the soles of shoes that fit slightly too large for their wearer hitting the tiling of the hall, the sliding of the terrace door, and the deep sigh of her best friend.
“What are you doing out here?” Enid asks, sliding the door of the terrace, muting the excited screams of their companions who still seemed to find their new riches unbelievable.
“What does it look like, Sinclair? I am gazing upon the sunset, wondering which crime I will commit next,” Wednesday says, chest tightening as she watches Enid join her at the railing of the terrace.
“I just thought maybe you would want to make fun of them celebrating in the living room,” Enid says. Wednesday can’t help but realise how well Enid truly does know her.
“There will be time for that, after a sunset,” Wednesday says, returning her gaze to the dazzling clementine fading into a deep grapefruit. Enid nods and stays silent, watching the sunset with Wednesday.
“Are you okay?” Enid asks after a minute or two.
“Yes,” Wednesday says, looking at Enid, “why do you ask?”
“Because you’re acting weird,” Enid says, brow furrowing.
“Am I not always a bit out of the ordinary?” Wednesday asks.
Enid purses her lips. “I guess, yeah. But weirder than normal.”
Is she ready to tell her? To give up all of that protection? Wednesday’s not sure that she ever will be.
“I will tell you tomorrow. Once the deal is complete, and we are all thirty-eight-million dollars richer,” Wednesday says. Enid nods. Wednesday turns and leaves Enid staring at what is left of the day sky.
***
And the deals go off without a hitch. Thirty-eight-million dollars is deposited into each of their bank accounts, and they all go their separate ways. Bianca Barclay tells the group that she will be starting up her own company, teaching girls to code. Yoko and Divina leave town with some sort of scamming business plan in mind. Laurel Gates is back to Hollywood, ready to work on her newest film. And so the loft becomes quiet again, only Enid laying on her back on the couch and Wednesday standing outside on the terrace again, the sliding door open so they can hear each other’s breaths.
“Hey, what were you going to tell me?” Enid calls.
“Oh, you’re still wondering about that,” Wednesday says, sounding disappointed.
Enid smirks. “Yeah, of course. It’s not every day that you have a secret.”
“And you know this is true because…,” Wednesday trails off, letting the question hang in the air.
“Okay, fair. But what’s your secret?” Enid asks with a smile, resisting the urge to twirl a lock of hair.
Wednesday takes a breath. In her dream scenario, she would never have to tell this to Enid, she would die a happy person knowing that no one would ever have the faintest idea of her immense weakness. But then again, the worst kind of nights are the ones where she dreams.
“I was not fair to you, when I brushed off your confession of love so quickly down at the shoreline,” Wednesday says. Enid sits up straight at this, silently pleading for her to continue.
“I maybe… I suppose that I shared some of your same feelings as well,” Wednesday chokes out.
“What does that mean?” Enid asks timidly. She thinks she knows what it means, she hopes so very much that it’s what she means, but it can’t be. And Enid can’t bear to have her heart broken. Again.
“It means, maybe I was reluctant to think about these perverse emotions due to the sake of the plan. And the sake of my own sanity. I was perfectly content sitting in my prison cell thinking of ways to achieve a perfect revenge on Galpin, but every time my mind flipped to you, my stomach would jolt and tumble and I would end up in the infirmary,” Wednesday says, not looking at Enid, who had stood up and started making her way slowly to the terrace.
“Are you saying that I give you stomach aches?” Enid asks.
“Yes.”
Enid frowns. Not exactly the love confession she had been hoping for for all those years.
“But maybe, that is what I needed. Because now the plan has worked, and I have some time. To consider all of this,” Wednesday says, sounding like she’s making it up as she speaks.
“This? You mean like this this?” Enid asks, drawing an imaginary line connecting herself and Wednesday.
“I suppose that I do.”
Enid runs the rest of the way to the terrace. “Well, that’s great Wednesday! That’s really really great!”
“It is?” Wednesday asks, perplexed.
“Yes!” Enid kisses Wednesday then, and it is everything she could have imagined. Wednesday’s lips are cracked and Enid hasn’t used a stick of chapstick since before Wednesday was incarcerated and she had some disgusting french fries just before this and she’s sure that they can both taste it now but it’s still the best kiss Enid’s ever had. She pulls away, looking into Wednesday’s bright eyes.
“I suppose it is,” Wednesday agrees.