In Principal Weems' office, the Addams family and Ethan sat together while Morticia carefully went through an old Nevermore yearbook. Its pages were yellowed with age. It was from the ti when she and Weems had both been students.
"Our old yearbook," Morticia said fondly, pausing over one of the photographs. "I haven't laid eyes on this in over twenty years. Such good tis we had, didn't we, Larissa?"
Weems glanced over, her tone dry as ever. "So of us had better tis than others."
As a student at Nevermore, Larissa Weems had lived largely in Morticia Addams' orbit. Morticia had been rembered, celebrated—even crowned champion—while Weems had stood beside her, competent and capable, but rarely the one people noticed.
It wasn't bitterness so much as mory: Nevermore had simply never belonged to her the way it had to Morticia.
"Oh, don't be so modest," Morticia said. "You always filled a room with your presence. Like a stately sequoia."
"And I suppose that makes you the lumberjack," Weems shot back.
Morticia's eyes lit with genuine delight. "There's that cutting wit I always admired. Do you rember our duet at the Solstice Talent Show? Your Judy Garland impression was uncanny."
She turned the page—and paused.
"Oh," Morticia said softly. "My picture's gone."
"Really?" Weems replied, lifting a brow with practiced surprise. "How strange."
Morticia closed the book with care. "May I borrow this for the weekend? Goz and I enjoy the occasional walk down mory lane."
She glanced at Goz. He responded instantly with a low, theatrical "Rawr."
Weems pinched the bridge of her nose.
Ethan, who had been watching the exchange in quiet disbelief, leaned slightly toward Wednesday. "Do your parents often do this?" he asked.
He already knew they were excessively affectionate—unable to keep their hands off each other—but seeing it in person was sothing else entirely. For the first ti, he understood exactly why Wednesday once compared them to a pair of rabbits in heat.
"Yes," Wednesday replied without hesitation. "They display their emotions constantly, regardless of location, audience, or social appropriateness."
She paused, watching Goz beam at Morticia.
"It's nauseating," she added. "They also tend to forget they're in front of their children."
"All right," Weems said, straightening in her chair. "Let's get down to the matter at hand, shall we?"
Her gaze moved pointedly away from Morticia and Goz, making it clear she had no desire to witness any further displays of affection. They weren't here to reminisce—or flirt—but to discuss the reason this eting had been called in the first place.
Morticia and Goz quickly ceased their public display of affection.
"Unfortunately," Weems continued, "Wednesday's assimilation has been… uneven."
"That's because I refuse to participate in the culture of dishonesty and denial that perates this institution," Wednesday replied evenly.
Goz nodded at once. "We've always encouraged Wednesday to speak her mind."
"And sotis," Weems said, unfazed, "that mind is weaponized."
"Only against vulnerable targets," Wednesday said. "I prefer efficiency."
Weems chose not to engage. "According to her therapist, Wednesday has been less than forthcoming. Their sessions have not produced the progress we were hoping for."
"I'm not a lab rat," Wednesday said evenly. "You can't expect to open up on command and confess my thoughts like so fragile volunteer, simply because a therapist delivers a few carefully rehearsed lines ant to inspire trust."
"I've spoken with Dr. Kinbott," Weems continued, ignoring Wednesday's sarcasm, "and we both believe it would be beneficial for you all to attend a family therapy session this weekend."
"No," Wednesday said at once.
"I anticipated that response," Weems replied evenly. "Fortunately, your parents are capable of seeing the rit in it."
Morticia tilted her head. "Not to align myself with Wednesday," she said calmly, "but we are only here for the weekend."
"Principal Weems," Ethan asked, breaking the silence, "do you really think therapy would work on Wednesday?"
Weems turned toward him, clearly displeased by the interruption. "And why wouldn't it?"
"You can't turn a raven into a dove by painting it white," Ethan replied calmly. "It will still be a raven. Wednesday will still be Wednesday."
Wednesday glanced at him. Once.
"Even if she attends a thousand therapy sessions," Ethan continued, unfazed, "the only person I'd be concerned about is the therapist. I can't imagine Wednesday breaking down. I can imagine the therapist reconsidering their career choices—and possibly the nearest window."
Weems stared at him.
Goz bead. "I like him."
Morticia's lips curved slightly.
"But that isn't for her to decide," Weems said firmly. "Therapy is court-ordered."
For once, Ethan had no response.
After a brief exchange between Morticia and Goz, they both nodded in agreent.
Weems allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.
Wednesday did not share it.
She already despised therapy. Now she was expected to endure it with her parents present. A new variation of torture, she noted—one that involved prolonged eye contact and emotional honesty.
Ethan rose from his seat. "I'll see you around," he said quietly before heading off to find Enid's parents.
****
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