And his father was going to be so disappointed in him.
Pugsley tilted over and fell sideways onto his bed. He buried his face in his pillow and cried himself to sleep.
The next morning, the sun rose into a cloudless blue sky. It was perfect weather for the season finale of Design Intervention.
Glenn checked his checklist, then another checklist, then double-checked the checklist of checklists.
“Check,” he muttered to himself. He was ready.
He strode out into the town square, where the crew for the live broadcast had assembled. About thirty locals from Eastfield Estates had gathered as well—extras to add some cheerful crowd scenes to the show.
“Okay, everyone!” Glenn said. “Listen up. We’re going to shoot across the town square to the gazebo, where Margaux will make her grand entrance. So everyone will be walking in this direction across the square.” He gestured to the crowd of locals. “Judy, you start here.” He grabbed a middle-aged man and walked him over to the sidewalk, where he positioned him facing east. “Ken, you’re going to follow Judy—”
Hmm. For this shot, Glenn really wanted one more local person to liven things up. Without looking carefully, he tugged another woman out of the crowd of Eastfield Estates locals and pulled her toward Ken and Judy.
“And you can stand right here,” he started, and then stopped and stared.
The woman he’d chosen had a towering bouffant hairdo, and there was . . .
There was a man’s head sticking out of her hair.
Glenn stared at the man’s head. The eyes blinked, and Glenn jumped a mile.
“Howdee do,” the man said. “I’m Ggerri. I could really go for a nonfat half-caf half-sweet almond milk mocha latte. Is there a café around here, my good sir?”
Oh god. Glenn had no idea how to respond. He whirled around, and for the first time that morning, he finally noticed that about half of the crowd of “locals” were weirdos of the first order. A woman walking on her knuckles walked—er, knuckled—up to Glenn. “Is there a bathroom nearby?” she asked politely.
“Excuse me,” Glenn said weakly, and then he turned and ran.
He dodged into an alley and whipped out his walkie-talkie.
“Margaux!” he squawked into the radio. “Margaux! Come in, Margaux! The cheese is in the trunk! I repeat, the cheese is in the—”
The radio crackled, and Margaux’s voice cut him off. “What are you talking about?” she said impatiently.
“The Addamses’ guests have arrived!” Glenn replied. “They’re here! What should we do?!”
“What we always do, Glenn,” Margaux said calmly. “Help people.”
In her secret office, Margaux put down her walkie-talkie and turned to one of her computers. She opened the Neighborhood Peeps site and began typing. She hit “post” and then stood up and left her secret office, carefully closing the door. She was needed in town—her plan was coming to fruition.
Margaux Needler stepped out onto the cheerful, boring, normal street of cheerful, boring, normal Eastfield Estates and smiled.
Across Eastfield Estates, phones began chiming with alerts. And the “normal” citizens of the town began to march toward Margaux’s house. The time had come, and they were ready.
Up on top of the hill, extended Addams family members were arriving for the Mazurka. The first car to pull into the driveway was a deluxe limousine. It rolled to a stop in front of the front door, the tires crunching gently on the gravel.
The car door opened, and a strange creature stepped out. From his wing-tip shoes to his white cane to his diamond ring, he was dressed to kill. He was also about three feet tall and absolutely covered in hair. A small bowler hat and a pair of sunglasses sat neatly perched over the glossy brown hair that covered his entire body—including his face—and fell neatly to the floor.
The front door opened, and Gomez and Morticia popped out on either side of Lurch. “It!” cried Gomez. “Cousin! You made it!”
Morticia smiled graciously. “Please come in,” she said, ushering It into the family’s rundown mansion. “Make yourself at home.”
Wednesday Addams woke up with a crick in her neck. She’d spent the night on the floor of Parker’s room, cuddled up in a neon-pink sleeping bag. She wasn’t sure Parker’s mother even knew she was there. Parker said Margaux was so distracted by the upcoming live episode of her television show that she barely noticed the nose on her own face.
Sure enough, the house seemed to be totally empty except for Wednesday and Parker. The two girls made their way downstairs and ate a late breakfast of cereal and orange juice. Wednesday stared down at her bowl in confusion.
“You mean it’s just wheat and sugar and preservatives?” she asked Parker for the fourth time.
“I guess,” Parker said. “Why, what were you expecting?”
“There’s no poison in it at all?” Wednesday continued. “Not even trace amounts?”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Parker said. “I’m pretty sure the preservatives aren’t great for you, but I’m not sure I’d call them poison. Same goes for the sugar, honestly.”
“Fascinating,” Wednesday said. She slurped the milk from the bottom of her bowl. “Your life is very strange, Parker. I think I like it.”
“I’m glad you do,” Parker said, “because I’m beginning to think I hate it.”
She reached into her pocket, only to find it empty. “Ugh,” Parker said impatiently. “I wish I knew where my mom hid my phone. I haven’t been on social media in forever, and it’s killing me. I’ve looked everywhere.”
Parker glanced down the hall. “Except my mom’s craft room,” she added nervously.
“Why not look there?” Wednesday asked.
Parker shivered. “No one is allowed in there. I’ve never even seen inside it. She goes in there a lot, but she always keeps the door shut.”
Wednesday rolled her eyes. “Then that’s where it is,” she said. Parker might have some residual fear of Margaux Needler, but Wednesday didn’t know the meaning of fear—literally.
She led Parker into the craft room. It was basically a walk-in closet bursting with neatly organized crafting supplies.
“Weird,” Parker said. “I always pictured it bigger.”
Wednesday poked around, lifting up trays of bright thread, sorting through piles of scrapbooking stamps. It didn’t really make sense. The room barely had space to stand in, and there were no windows—and no vents. Was Margaux really spending hours locked in a closet? Wednesday rifled through an umbrella stand full of tubes of wrapping paper. One of them slid toward her when she pulled on it and gave a very clear click as it swung.
Behind the girls, the door to the craft room swung shut. The floor gave a little shiver and then began to lower. The craft room was a secret elevator! But where did it lead? Parker grabbed Wednesday’s hand, and Wednesday squeezed it comfortingly.
The floor stopped its descent with a jarring bump, and a wall slid away, revealing a large, underground room full of computer screens and various kinds of security equipment.
“Whoa,” Parker said softly.
“Hidden depths,” Wednesday said. If she didn’t hate Margaux Needler so much, she’d almost be impressed: this was the kind of evil that Wednesday usually admired.
“What is all this?” Parker asked, walking tentatively into the room. There were dozens of computer screens, each showing a different video feed. One showed a living room where a man was reading a magazine and drinking a cup of tea. Another showed a kitchen where a couple of kids were playing a board game at the kitchen table. All around the room, computer monitors displayed live feeds from . . .
“Oh my gosh,” Parker said softly. “My mom must have built hidden cameras into all of the houses when she renovated all of Eastfield.”
Wednesday’s eyes opened wide. “She really is depraved,” she said with reluctant admiration.
Parker went up to one monitor and peered at it. “There’s Mr. Hanley making a sandw
ich,” she said. She moved on to the next. “And there’s our science teacher! Ms. Gravely! She’s putting her . . . underwear in the freezer?!”
Wednesday examined a different feed. “Who’s that woman putting ketchup on a piece of birthday cake?” she asked.
“That’s Mrs. Pickering,” Parker replied. “And that guy trying to put a tiny tuxedo on his cat, that’s Mr. Flynn.”
A tinny yowl emerged from the video feed.
“My money’s on the cat,” Wednesday said.
“She’s watching every house in town,” Parker whispered.
Wednesday and Parker looked at each other.
“We have to tell someone,” Parker said, and they turned to the elevator, then stopped short. Margaux Needler was standing in the elevator at the entrance to her secret office. She snarled, and Parker took a step back. Even Wednesday felt a moment’s alarm. There was something truly unhinged about the look on Margaux’s face.
“Mom,” Parker said, her voice shaking. “We, uh, we were just looking for you.”
“Parker,” Margaux said so sweetly that her voice practically dripped with honey. “What have I told you about Mommy’s crafting room?”
Margaux pushed Wednesday and Parker into the attic. The girls stumbled and tripped, turning to look at her as she loomed in the doorway.
“Sorry to do this,” Margaux said sweetly, “but standards must be upheld. Parker, someday you’ll understand.”
She turned to Wednesday. “And Wednesday . . .” She seemed to change her mind. She shook her head and turned back to Parker. “Well, anyway, Parker, someday you’ll understand.”
Margaux smiled sweetly at the girls, then locked the door behind her.
Click.
Parker stomped her foot. “Ugh,” she said. “My mom has a lair and a jail? I knew I should have told the judge I wanted to live with my dad.”
Chapter 8
The extended Addamses and Frumps continued to stream up the hill and into the Addams family home. The air was noisy with excited chattering as the celebration got going in full force.
Gomez and Morticia stood at the entrance to their home, happily greeting each guest as they came in. A middle-aged woman with plants instead of hair bounded up the steps and hugged Morticia, then Gomez.
“Salutations, Addamses! We’re here!” she said cheerfully.
“Cousin Petunia!” Morticia replied warmly, kissing her on the cheek. “I love what you’ve done with your hair!”
Petunia patted her leaves proudly. “Thanks,” she said, “I just had it mowed.”
Uncle Onion was right behind her, and greeted his nephew with a big, smelly hug. Gomez’s eyes immediately began to water.
“Uncle Onion,” he said, sniffling, “it’s been so long! I don’t know why, but I just get so sentimental around you!” He blew his nose loudly.
“Don’t cry,” Uncle Onion said. “Then I’ll start crying, and then it’ll be a whole thing.” His eyes were already looking rather glassy.
The guests continued to stream in, each stranger—and happier—than the last. Gomez beamed happily as he watched his family coming together for their first reunion since his marriage to Morticia. But Morticia—
Gomez frowned. Morticia didn’t look as happy as he felt. And then he remembered—Wednesday.
Wednesday, who had worn a brightly colored barrette in her hair. Who had stood her mother up for a séance tea party. Who had worn a pink polo shirt and run away from home.
Wednesday, who wasn’t here today to see her only brother’s Sabre Mazurka. Who was missing the reunion of the entire Addams and Frump clans.
Suddenly, Gomez wasn’t feeling so cheerful, either.
Morticia caught his eye. “Darling,” she said, “I’ve been thinking about this. We need to trust her. She’ll do the right thing. She’ll be here.”
Gomez sighed. “I hope you’re right,” he said. But Wednesday wasn’t the only child he was worried about. Pugsley’s practice sessions had gone from bad to worse over the last month. He had no idea how the boy was going to get through his Sabre Mazurka today without falling on his face, and as if that weren’t bad enough, Pugsley’s performance was going to be judged by none other than Great Aunt Sloom . . .
. . . Who was even now flouncing up the steps toward Gomez and Morticia. Gomez smiled his biggest, sweetest smile and swept forward to kiss her cheeks.
“Auntie Sloom!” he said. “You’re as radiant as a barrel of nuclear waste!”
Sloom swept right past him. “Where’s the boy,” she demanded without turning her head.
“Pugsley?” Gomez asked nervously. He looked around and spotted his son. He was hanging from the chandelier.
“Oh, there you are,” Gomez said heartily. “Come down and say hello to your Auntie Sloom!”
Pugsley attempted a graceful dismount but missed his mark and landed with a splat at Sloom’s feet.
Sloom looked down at him as though he were a centipede waiting to be squashed.
“This better be good,” she said. Then she swept away.
Pugsley looked up and caught Gomez’s eyes. The two of them stared at each other in mutual panic.
This wasn’t going to be good.
“Home is where the heart is!” Margaux Needler screeched into a bullhorn from her perch on the hood of a golf cart. The townspeople of Eastfield Estates, summoned by Neighborhood Peeps, had gathered in the town square. They listened angrily, yelling their agreement.
“If your home is awful, then your heart will be awful too!” Margaux went on. “I mean, that’s just math!”
“Yeah!” someone in the crowd yelled. “Math!”
“We cannot allow these so-called people to ruin our neighborhood!” Margaux shrieked. “And destroy our property values!”
“It’s not fair!” someone hollered. “We follow the rules! Why don’t they have to?”
“I have tried reasoning with them,” Margaux went on. “But they won’t listen to me. They won’t listen to Margaux! Can you imagine?!”
“We listen to you!” someone else yelled. “Why don’t they have to?”
“Well,” Margaux hissed, “their time is up. We’ll be revealing Eastfield Estates and all of you good people to our devoted viewership in just an hour! Our last chance to help these people—these, these Addamses—is now.”
She leapt down from her golf cart and threw her fist into the air. “So follow me for some good old-fashioned Design Intervention! Bill—!” She gestured at a suburban dad. “John!” She pointed at another dad. “Do you have that lovely trebuchet you built in your woodworking club?”
Bill and John nodded grimly. “Yes, we do,” they said.
The mob roared.
Glenn looked around him at the slavering mob. Then he looked at Margaux. She had a bloodthirsty light in her eyes. She’d clearly gone around the bend, and although Glenn figured it would make for good reality television, he wasn’t sure if it was good for reality.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked Margaux. But she only screamed a bloodcurdling cry in response.
Up in the attic of Margaux Needler’s house, Wednesday Addams and Parker Needler looked out the window and watched Margaux lead a crowd of unhinged townspeople up the hill toward the Addamses’ house.
Wednesday turned to Parker, her face resolute. “Nobody torments my family but me,” she said. She held out a hand, palm up. “Hair clip, please.”
Parker looked confused. But she handed Wednesday a hair clip.
Wednesday knelt by the door and carefully slotted the hair clip into the keyhole. She pressed her ear to the door next to the lock and jiggled the hair clip just so, until—
Click!
The door sprang open.
“Cage School 101,” Wednesday explained. “There are certain benefits to an unorthodox education.”
Up at the unsuspecting Addamses’ house, the celebration was in full swing. Thing carried a tray of hors d’oeuvres from room to room. It held a group of relations
rapt with a fascinating tale. The shrunken heads sang their shrunken hearts out. And Auntie Sloom held court in the parlor.
“Sloom,” Grandma Addams said affectionately, “you look miserable.”
Sloom nodded archly. “Why, thank you,” she said. “I’ve just returned from holiday.”
“Where were you?” Grandma asked.
“The morgue,” Sloom replied.
Morticia stepped up with a pitcher of cloudy, fetid liquid. “Auntie Sloom, can I get you another glass of dregs?” she asked, proffering the pitcher.
Sloom glared at her. “When’s the Mazurka?” she demanded.
Morticia looked around nervously. “Soon,” she said. “Soon. Our daughter Wednesday hasn’t arrived yet.”
Sloom sniffed. “That’s not my concern,” she said sharply.
Morticia straightened up. “Very well,” she said. She looked across the room and caught Gomez’s eye. She nodded.
Gomez took a deep breath. Then he raised his glass and clinked it loudly with a spoon.
“Attention, please,” he said, clinking away, “Attention!” He clinked and clinked, then clinked so hard that the glass exploded in his hand. Finally, the crowd quieted down, and everyone turned to look expectantly at Gomez.
“The hour is upon us,” he said. “Places!”
The entire congregated Addams and Frump clans trooped into the ballroom. Auntie Sloom climbed onto her special perch that had been set up for her at the head of the room and stared down imperiously. Gomez stood at her feet and addressed the crowd.
“We gather today to witness my son, Pugsley Addams, perform his Sabre Mazurka. He will begin with a reading from The Terror, which commemorates our Addams Family battle cries.”
Pugsley walked shakily to the podium that had been set up for him. It flipped a huge tome open to the correct page, and Pugsley stood up at the podium. He looked solemnly down at the page, and then took a deep breath and opened his mouth.
“YeaaaaaaAAAAAaaaaaAAAAAaaaaaAAAAAAgh!” he shrieked. It was a sound of pure terror.
Gomez and Morticia exchanged glances again. Gomez winced. The terror in that scream had sounded a little too real.
The Junior Novel Page 7
