The First Loss

Enid Sinclair's hand slapped her empty wrist. No scrunchie. The iridescent, galaxy-print hair tie she'd worn every day since freshman orientation was gone. Vanished. She tore through her side of the room—under the pillow, between the mattress and bedframe, into the depths of her 'mood ring' wardrobe—while Wednesday Addams stood motionless at the desk, scalpel glinting in the gray morning light, poised over the open yearbook. "Did you take it?" Enid demanded, her voice cracking. "As a joke? Because if this is about my playlist last night—" "I don't take things," Wednesday replied without turning. "I take lives. There's a difference." Enid groaned and flopped onto her bed. "You're impossible. It's my favorite scrunchie! It's probably under something. Or maybe Thing borrowed it—" Thing, perched on the windowsill, wiggled his index finger in a decisive 'no.' The scalpel descended. Not into flesh—Wednesday dragged the tip along the glossy photograph of a smiling student, slicing a thin line across his forehead. "Did you know this yearbook is cursed?" "Cursed?" Enid sat up. "Like, horror-movie cursed? Or your kind of cursed?" "The former. Every student photographed is losing something small each day. A sock. A memory. A shadow. So far, twenty-three have reported incidents. The school administration thinks it's a prank. But I know a curse when I see one." She turned, the scalpel still in hand, her face a mask of serene interest. "And I intend to meet the culprit." "Why?" Enid asked, genuinely baffled. Wednesday's lips twitched—almost a smile. "Because whoever designed a curse this petty, this precise, is either a genius or a sociopath. Either way, I'm fascinated." Enid stood, grabbed her phone. "Okay, we need to find my scrunchie first. And maybe call a therapist for you." "Your scrunchie is gone because you were photographed for the yearbook." "I was? Oh, yeah, the group shot yesterday. So what, I lose a scrunchie? That's not exactly a curse, it's just Tuesday." "It's Thursday. And you'll lose something else tomorrow. And the next day. Until you have nothing left." Enid's stomach dropped. "Nothing? Like... my life?" "Worse. Your personality. Your soul. A curse that strips you piece by piece until you're a hollow shell. Then, perhaps, death." A long silence. Enid looked at her hands—still there. Then at Wednesday. "So you're going to stop it? Because you're, like, a good person deep down?" "No. I'm going to find the one who made it and congratulate them. But first, I need to understand the mechanism." She held up the scalpel. "The yearbook is the anchor. Every photograph is a tether. Cut the tether, break the curse." Enid snatched the yearbook from the desk before Wednesday could slice another face. "Whoa! We're not destroying school property! We're going to, like, talk to the photographer or the yearbook advisor or whatever." "And lose all the fun?" Wednesday's eyes narrowed. She didn't struggle for the book. Instead, she simply said, "Thing." Thing scampered across the floor, leaped onto Enid's shoulder, and tickled her neck. Enid shrieked, dropping the yearbook. Wednesday caught it one-handed, scalpel already moving to the next page. "You're insane!" Enid yelled, rubbing her neck. "I'm curious. There's a difference." Wednesday paused over a photograph of a girl with pigtails and a crooked smile. "This one. She's missing her shadow today. I saw her at breakfast—she looked incomplete." Enid peered at the picture. The girl's shadow in the photo was unnaturally dark, almost dripping off the page. "So we find her. We ask her what she remembers losing." "We find the photographer. He took the pictures. He's the obvious suspect." "Or she." "Or they." Wednesday pocketed the scalpel. "Fine. We'll investigate like mundane detectives. But if we hit a dead end, I'm cutting out every page and burning them until the curse screams." Enid sighed. "Let's start with the scrunchie. And then maybe find out if anyone else lost something weird. Like, I lost a scrunchie. Maybe someone lost their sense of humor." "If they did, they'd get along with me." Wednesday walked out the door, Thing hopping along behind her. Enid grabbed her jacket and followed, muttering about curses and roommates who were definitely going to get them both expelled. The Nevermore hallway was quiet, but something in the air felt wrong—like static before a storm, or the moment before a secret is told. And somewhere, the yearbook photographer was probably laughing.