So This Is Love (A Macabre Wenclair Romance)

Chapter VI: Dance

Wednesday notes that Principal Weem's office seems uncharacteristically cold this afternoon. Likely due to the lack of flame in the fireplace.

A shame. She'd have enjoyed a way to roast the pig currently standing before her.

"You have no evidence that I sabotaged the unveiling."

"Do you think I'm some sort of dumbass?" Sheriff Galpin snarls, like a dog drunk on vitriol, pointing directly at Wednesday's face, "You were dancing along to fucking Disney, dressed up and everything!"

"We were told to dress formally for our performances," Wednesday side-eyed Principal Weems, "as per our role in Outreach Day."

"The music setup?!"

"Everyone enjoys the classics."

"Gallons of petrol, burning up the goddamn statue!"

"You could see me at a sizable distance from the fountain. In addition, I have no existing gas station purchases."

"You're the only ones who didn't run!"

"Neither did several audience members," Wednesday quirks an eyebrow, "Some even posed for pictures."

"You — It was you, Addams, I'm not a fucking idiot —"

At that, Wednesday crosses her legs. She looks imperiously at the grown man in his own seat, daring him to rise to his feet and enact justice himself.

"Our actions were entirely legal. You have no recordings. You have no fingerprints. You have no receipts. Several eyewitnesses witnessed my participation at Pilgrim World, as well as Enid Sinclair's full six hours of barista work — including your own son. Both Enid and I have complete workday logs available to prove our innocence: timecards, sales, and all. Enid even has her receipt from her purchase at the store where she bought our clothing."

Sheriff Galpin does not stand up. Instead, he fumes, he leans forward, looking at Wednesday with righteous violence in his eyes.

Then, Wednesday folds her hands.

"What interests me, though, is that you haven't accused Enid Sinclair of any crime whatsoever."

Wednesday's expression softens in amusement. Practically a crowd's worth of jeering laughter, by her own metric.

"I wonder why?"

And now, Sheriff Galpin rises to his feet. And now, he is red-faced and the chair jolts backwards from the force at which he stands, marching to war with the teenage girl across from him.

And now, Principal Weems stands in her own seat, stone-faced and stalwart.

"Sheriff Galpin, I believe Wednesday has supplied more than enough evidence supporting her non-participation in this travesty. If that is all, I believe that your time could be better used finding the true culprit, rather than interrogating one of my students. Thank you."

The silence is cloying. For them. For Wednesday, she has found her checkmate, and this particular game is won by simply playing around a blundering opponent.

Sheriff Galpin does not bid them goodbye. He puts on his hat and stomps out of the room, out of the doors, out of the building. He stomps all the way back to his car, then to his office, then to his sad home with nothing but disappointment and a Hyde.

Once he leaves and the door slams behind him, Principal Weems turns her lion's gaze to Wednesday.

"Utterly insufferable," Weems cavils, her lipstick carving into a frown, "I had that under control, but you just had to rub salt in that particular wound, and for what? Why make things difficult for yourself, for your family? Why antagonize everyone around you?"