Chapter Text
Tuesday had always been, tragically, boringly, unfortunately, nothing more than Tuesday.
Monday, at least, came with a reputation: people feared Monday, people cursed Monday, people dragged themselves through Monday like villagers with pitchforks. Wednesday, of course, earned points for association alone. Thursday had produced several memorable incidents, including a factory fire, a national rubber duck shortage, and Uncle Fester’s idea of bonding. Friday and Saturday gave otherwise boring people the illusion that fun awaited. Sundays brought Gomez attempting pancakes while humming love songs to her mother, and that itself was torturous enough to prove noteworthy.
Tuesday, though, contained only one feature:
Therapy.
Which did little to improve its case.
Wednesday—the Addams—had spent the last three weeks entering the clinic on South Highland Avenue, giving Marjorie her name, taking the seat nearest the exit, and waiting for Dr. Kinbott to invite her into an office decorated by a fool who believed healing required potted plants and watercolor birds. Wednesday had, also, considered telling Dr. Kinbott that birds were more useful when taxidermied, but Dr. Kinbott would likely write something down, and Wednesday preferred mystique.
The first session was promisingly bad.
Dr. Kinbott began by asking Wednesday why she thought she was there, despite already possessing a referral, a behavioral assessment, several medical records, and what her mother described as a short family history. A short family history from Morticia Addams could easily begin with an ancestor being burned alive in 1623 and end forty pages later with a detailed account of Pugsley’s fractured ankle, so Wednesday suspected the woman knew exactly why she occupied the overly-pillowed chair. Still, Dr. Kinbott settled back with her yellow legal pad and offered one of those patient little smiles that suggested Wednesday could take all the time she required, provided that she eventually filled it with something personal and upsetting.
“My university requires your approval before I can return.”
“I know what the referral says.”
“Then this question seems unnecessary.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
“You just did.”
Dr. Kinbott made her first note.
Wednesday watched the pen move across the page, feeling a small amount of satisfaction at having produced written material so quickly. Most writers struggled for an opening sentence; Wednesday had supplied one within thirty seconds, which seemed generous. Perhaps Dr. Kinbott would later publish these observations under an embarrassing title such as Reaching the Resistant Adolescent, containing an abstract that described Wednesday as “guarded,” “oppositional,” and “prone to intellectualizing emotions.” Wednesday had read enough psychology papers to understand that intellectualizing meant a patient had made the choice to actually think about something rather than cry about it in an office filled with watercolor birds.
“Do you want to go back?” Dr. Kinbott asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was pursuing two degrees.”
“That’s a lot of work.”
“I’m aware. I selected them.”
Another note. Wednesday briefly wondered whether every answer would earn one, or whether Dr. Kinbott had begun writing a grocery list to prevent herself from becoming bored.
“What were you studying?”
“English and Biology.”
“Interesting combination.”
“It ceases to be interesting when people say that every time.”
Dr. Kinbott’s mouth twitched. “Fair enough.”
That response was mildly unexpected. Wednesday had anticipated defensiveness, perhaps a strained laugh followed by some bland comment about making conversation. Instead, Dr. Kinbott simply crossed one ankle over the other and glanced down at the pad, seemingly uninjured. This complicated things. Wednesday preferred people who were offended easily; they could be categorized, dismissed, and avoided with minimal effort. A person who accepted correction presented a greater problem.
“So,” Dr. Kinbott continued, “English and Biology. What do you want to do with that?”
“Learn.”
“I mean after college.”
“Continue learning.”
“For a career.”
“I find careers to be an unnecessarily capitalist measure of intellectual success.”
“Do you tell your academic advisor that?”
“Frequently.”
“And what do they say?”
“He sighs.”
Dr. Kinbott laughed.
Wednesday stared at her.
Adults often laughed in Wednesday’s presence, usually in a nervous way after realizing she had intended every part of an alarming statement. Genuine amusement, though, implied Dr. Kinbott enjoyed the exchange, and enjoyment could encourage her to continue engaging.
“You’re funny.”
“I’m correct.”
“You can be both.”
“I prefer ‘correct.’”
“I figured.”
Wednesday turned her attention to the bird painting beside the bookshelf. Three round creatures occupied a branch surrounded by pale green leaves, though the artist gave one the markings of an eastern bluebird, the body of a finch, and feet better suited to a chicken. Its expression suggested it had recently received devastating financial news.
Dr. Kinbott followed her gaze. “I’m going to guess you hate that painting.”
“The artist hates birds.”
“I don’t think they do.”
“Then their incompetence is sincere, which makes it worse.”
“I bought it at Target.”
“That explains the commercial disregard for anatomy.”
“I thought it was calming.”
“It depicts three deformed animals trapped on a branch.”
A pause followed, then Dr. Kinbott looked at the painting with an expression that signaled Wednesday had permanently ruined it for her. “Your mother told me about Pugsley,” she said upon turning back.
Ah—
There it was.
Wednesday had expected the subject eventually. She simply hoped Dr. Kinbott might waste the entire session on education, career goals, or the psychological damage caused by mass-produced wall decore before approaching it. Instead, only thirteen minutes had passed. Either the woman possessed more efficiency than her office suggested, or Morticia’s “short family history” had placed Pugsley’s accident in bold print.
“My mother tells people many things.”
“She said he broke his ankle.”
“Two fractures, technically. The fibula and the medial malleolus.”
“And you pushed him.”
“He fell down six stairs after I pushed him.”
Dr. Kinbott paused. “What happened before you pushed him?”
“He touched me.”
“Where?”
“My shoulder.”
“Did he know you didn’t want to be touched?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell him to stop?”
“I was unable to speak at the time.”
Dr. Kinbott’s expression changed; concern appeared around her eyes, softened her mouth, and made Wednesday immediately regret the answer. Concern had a habit of becoming pity when left unattended, and pity was an emotional infection Wednesday had spent years avoiding.
“What was happening at the time?” Dr. Kinbott asked.
“A family dinner.”
“What was it like?”
“There were fourteen people in the house. Uncle Fester brought a karaoke machine. Cousin Marguerite brought a toddler who communicated solely through screaming, and my father had invited several relatives who interpret personal boundaries as a sign of poor breeding. Three conversations were taking place in the dining room, the television was playing in the parlor, and someone kept scraping a fork against a ceramic plate.”
“That sounds overwhelming.”
“It was badly organized, so I retreated.”
“And Pugsley followed you?”
“He thought I needed help.”
“Did you?”
An answer arrived immediately, though Wednesday refused to give it the satisfaction of leaving her mouth. Needing help had, in fact, been the entire problem. What she had truly needed was fewer people, fewer sounds, fewer questions, fewer hands attempting to comfort her. Pugsley knew this. He had known this since they were children and Wednesday crawled beneath their dining table during Gomez’s fortieth birthday celebration, remaining there until every guest left. And yet he had found her on the upstairs landing, seen her hands pressed over her ears, and approached anyway. His intentions had been kind. Pugsley’s intentions were nearly always kind, which made what happened considerably worse.
“He touched your shoulder,” Dr. Kinbott prompted.
“I remember.”
“And you reacted.”
“I pushed him down the stairs.”
“You pushed him away.”
“The stairs were behind him.”
“Did you know that at the time?”
Wednesday looked at the box of tissues on the desk. “My awareness of architecture was limited.”
“Were you trying to hurt him?”
“He was hurt regardless of intention.”
“That’s a different question.”
“The result remains the same.”
Dr. Kinbott put her pen down. “Pugsley told the emergency room doctor he tripped. Why?”
“You would have to ask him.”
“I did.”
That caught Wednesday’s attention. “You spoke to Pugsley?”
“With his permission, and your mother’s. He said he touched you when he knew he shouldn’t, and that you were scared.”
“I was overwhelmed.”
“He said ‘scared.’”
“Pugsley describes most emotional states inaccurately. He once referred to appendicitis as feeling ‘kind of weird.’”
“He also said you’ve apologized twelve times.”
“Thirteen. He was asleep for one of them.”
Dr. Kinbott smiled, though this one held none of the earlier amusement. “He doesn’t blame you.”
“He should.”
“Why?”
“Blame is the appropriate response when someone fractures your ankle.”
“Is that what you would do?”
“Yes.”
“If Pugsley pushed you during a panic response, would you blame him?”
“Pugsley has never experienced a panic response.”
“Try the hypothetical.”
“I dislike hypotheticals with faulty foundations.”
“Humor me.”
“I have no desire to.”
Dr. Kinbott sighed and reached for her pen again.
The first session ended six minutes early. Wednesday informed Marjorie at the reception desk that the experience had been “adequate,” which was more generous than Dr. Kinbott deserved, then walked home and spent the entire evening recognizing her forensic entomology notes.
The second session was worse upon making the discovery that Dr. Kinbott remembered things.
Wednesday had assumed the woman would rely upon her notes, yet she referred to the university incident, Pugsley’s cast, and Wednesday’s hatred of the bird painting without glancing down once. She had also replaced the glass bowl of mints with a square wooden box, presumably after observing Wednesday spend several minutes counting the wrappers near the end of their previous appointment. Removing the mints was both manipulative and considerate; Wednesday spent much of the session resenting the overlap.
By the third Tuesday, the clinic had formed a routine, and Wednesday enjoyed routines even when they involved activities she despised. She arrived at 3:32, gave Marjorie her name despite Marjorie greeting her with “Hi, Wednesday,” refused the offer of water, and walked toward the final seat in the row. From there she could see the entrance, the hallway, and the fish tank while keeping the nearest person several feet away. It was an excellent seat. More importantly, it was her seat—a distinction the blonde girl across the room apparently failed to understand when she placed a skateboard over it.
Wednesday stopped.
The girl continued typing on her laptop. Well, typing might have been overly generous. She pressed several keys, frowned, erased whatever she had written, opened another browser tab, stared at that for a while, then returned to the original document and placed her forehead against the edge of the screen. Her pastel hair had been pinned back, though several pink and blue strands escaped around her face. A canvas tote occupied the other seat beside her, a denim jacket the one in front, and three crumpled snack wrappers sat at her sneakers. She seemed to expand wherever she went, leaving evidence across every available surface.
How vulgar.
“Move that,” Wednesday ordered.
The girl lifted her head. “What?”
Wednesday pointed at the skateboard.
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” She grabbed it too quickly, knocked her tote from the neighboring seat, caught it with one hand, and nearly lost the laptop from her knees in the process. “Okay—uh—one second. I swear I usually have more control over my stuff than this.”
Wednesday looked at the three occupied seats.
“Fine. Sometimes I have more control over my stuff than this.”
She placed the skateboard between her legs and plopped the tote bag at her side, finally clearing Wednesday’s seat. This should have resolved the problem: Wednesday could sit, count the bubbles rising through Rasputin’s tank, and wait for four o’clock. Instead, the girl smiled.
“You can sit.”
“I’m aware.”
“Cool.”
Wednesday lowered herself into the seat and adjusted the cuffs of her coat. Silence lasted for nine seconds, which was less than she preferred and apparently far more than the blonde could endure.
“Do you know another way to say shows?”
Wednesday glanced over. “Are you asking me?”
“Sort of. I’m asking anyone who might answer.”
“That is generally how asking works.”
“Okay, well, do you?”
“Demonstrates. Reveals. Establishes. Indicates. Suggests, should the evidence remain inconclusive.”
The girl blinked, then quickly typed something. “Wow—thanks.”
Wednesday returned her attention to the fish tank. She counted twenty-nine bubbles before the clacking at the keyboard stopped again.
“Does this sound awful?” the girl asked. “‘The artist demonstrated childhood as a period of emotional transformation through the use of visual storytelling.’”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Her face fell. “You could’ve thought about it first.”
“Would that improve the sentence?”
“No, but it might make me feel better.”
“Then you’re seeking reassurance rather than an answer.”
“Can I have both?”
“No.”
The girl stared at her for a moment, then laughed quietly and looked at the laptop. Most people reacted poorly when Wednesday answered questions honestly, which had always seemed unfair when they were the ones careless enough to ask. This girl simply deleted the sentence and muttered something about professors inventing discussion posts solely to live up to sadistic fantasies.
“What’s wrong with it?” she asked.
“It says very little.”
“It says childhood is emotionally transformative.”
“Everything is emotionally transformative when described vaguely enough. Breakfast can become emotionally transformative. So can finding mold in your bathroom.”
“Welk, I did cry when I found mold in my bathroom last winter.”
“That supports my point.”
Another laugh echoed, and Wednesday tried to ignore the strange pull of satisfaction that followed. Causing amusement held minimal value. She preferred fear, irritation, or the quiet reflection that came after someone realized she had insulted them several minutes earlier.
The girl swiveled her laptop. “Can you tell what this article is even saying? I’ve read this section four times, and every time I get to the end, the beginning has disappeared.”
Wednesday looked at the screen. Nearly every paragraph had been covered in pink, yellow, blue, and green highlighting, occasionally with several colors layered over one word. “What does each color mean?”
“Pink is important.”
“Most of the page is pink.”
“A lot of it seemed important.”
“And yellow?”
“Definitions, I think.”
“You think?”
“I changed the system halfway through.”
“Then it’s no longer a system.”
Wednesday took the laptop before the girl could defend herself and read the discussion prompt at the top of the second tab. Beneath it sat a dense academic article on the social function of picture books, written by someone who clearly believed a simple point gained authority when buried in twenty-seven pages of terminology. She skimmed the highlighted section, scrolled back to the prompt, and felt an immediate flare of irritation.
“The article argues that repeated images teach children which behaviors their culture rewards. Your assignment asks you to choose one illustration and explain which rule it teaches.”
The girl blinked. “That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t they just say that?”
“Academics fear clarity. It allows readers to notice how little they have contributed.”
“Okay, that is so true.” She leaned closer to the screen, reading the prompt again. “So I just pick one picture, explain the rule, and use the article for evidence?”
“Yes.”
“I can do that.”
“I’d hope so.”
“Wow. You sound confident.”
“I met you three minutes ago. Confidence would be irresponsible.”
This produced another smile, and Wednesday turned back toward Rasputin before she could be expected to respond to it. The girl resumed typing, quicker now, although the process still included frequent stops, several deleted phrases, and one whispered threat directed at spellcheck.
“How do you spell ‘reinforces’?” she asked.
Wednesday spelled it.
“Thanks.”
A minute passed.
“Does the citation go before or after the period?”
“Before.”
“Right. I knew that.”
“Clearly.”
The girl looked over with an offended expression that lasted less than a second. “Okay, Wednesday Addams. Some of us have flaws.”
Wednesday’s head turned. “How do you know my name?”
“You say it to the receptionist every week.” She grinned and held out one hand. Several ink stains marked her fingers, while a bright blue bandage had been wrapped around her thumb. “I’m Enid Sinclair. Now we’re even.”
Wednesday looked at the offered hand until Enid slowly lowered it. “We’re strangers who possess each other’s names. That provides information, not equality.”
“It’s close enough.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is for a Tuesday.”
Wednesday disliked Enid Sinclair. The conclusion formed quickly, neatly, and with several pieces of supporting evidence. Enid wore at least six colors, treated the waiting room like an extension of her bedroom, tapped her foot, spoke whenever the impulse occurred, and displayed a sticker of a smiling wolf in roller skates on the back of her laptop. She accepted correction. She listened when Wednesday spoke. She allowed rejection without demanding an explanation.
These traits were inconvenient.
Enid looked back at her assignment, read the latest paragraph aloud under her breath, and frowned. “I need an example.”
“Use the red bird.”
“The one with the food?”
“Yes. It appears to be stealing.”
“I thought it was sharing.”
“The other bird is trying to take some.”
“Oh.” Enid leaned closer. “Wow, yeah, those birds are pissed.”
“It teaches resource competition.”
“This is supposed to be a children’s book about friendship.”
“Then the illustrator has failed.”
“I want to illustrate children’s books.” Enid’s smile turned a little uncertain, although she kept looking at the screen. “That’s what my degree is for. Well, eventually. Right now my degree is mostly discussion boards, professors saying ‘push it further,’ and me trying to figure out what that means.”
“It means they lack specific feedback.”
“Exactly!” Enid twisted toward her, suddenly animated again. “They always write that. Push it further. Further where? In what direction? Am I pushing the colors? The shapes? The concept? Am I supposed to push the actual drawing off my desk?”
“The final option would at least create movement.”
Enid laughed loudly enough for Marjorie to glance up from the reception desk. She covered her mouth and whispered, “Sorry.”
Wednesday felt that traitorous satisfaction again, slightly stronger this time.
The office door opened at the end of the hallway before she could examine the sensation. Dr. Kinbott stepped into the waiting room, followed by a small girl in an oversized red sweater who carried a holographic skull sticker and an expression of deep boredom.
Enid shut her laptop. Every loose object disappeared into tote with an efficiency entirely absent from her previous behavior. “Hey, goblin. How was it?”
“Terrible. She made me discuss my feelings.”
“That’s literally why we come here.”
“I thought we came for the stickers.”
Dr. Kinbott smiled. “Agnes did well today.”
“See?” Agnes raised her hand. “I got a skull.”
“It has heart-shaped eye sockets,” Wednesday observed.
Agnes examined the sticker. “Oh, it does.”
“The anatomy is offensive.”
“It’s glittery.”
“That makes the offense more visible.”
Agnes studied Wednesday for several seconds. Then, slowly, she grinned.
Enid looked from her sister to Wednesday, and something in her expression grew alarmingly pleased. “Oh, wow. This is going to be a problem.”
“What is?” Agnes asked.
“You two.”
Wednesday rose from her seat and buttoned her coat. “You requested assistance with an assignment. Any further association would be unnecessary.”
“Sure,” Enid sang, drawing the word out.
Dr. Kinbott waited by the office entrance. Wednesday walked toward her, passing Agnes, who continued watching with focused interest. Reaching the hallway, Wednesday paused. She disliked unfinished work, and Enid’s second paragraph still lacked a clear explanation.
“Use the red bird,” she said, looking back.
Enid blinked. “For resource competition?”
“Yes. Explain that the image rewards taking action over waiting for fairness.”
“Okay.” Her smile returned, bright and entirely too genuine. “Thanks, Wednesday.”
Wednesday followed Dr. Kinbott into the office, already irritated by the fact that Enid had said her name differently from everyone else. Warmer somehow. Familiar, despite having earned no right to familiarity at all.
It was intolerable.
It was also the first thing Tuesday had done in years.