Mal huffed.
“I think I’m most proud of the poems I did at the end of last year,” Nylan spoke up, smoothing her lilac hijab like it might smooth the slight edge of nervousness in her soft voice. “The ones about spring. I was reading a lot of Whitman then, and I think it really shows—in a good way.”
“Yeah, those were rad,” Emerson agreed through a mouthful of cupcake. The bright red icing was already staining her lips. Mal raised their eyebrow, unable to help noting that the color suited her.
“Yeah, I think that’s my favorite issue too,” agreed James, who sat to Mal’s left. “My piece in that one was really strong.”
Mal had to agree; it had taken a bit of red ink, but it was the best of his stories they had read. James wrote very literary fiction, the sort of thing that ended up getting studied in English classes. Mal didn’t always understand his metaphors, but they could absolutely relate to being the fat kid on the school bus, like the main character of the story in question.
Ms. Merritt nodded. “That was such a strong issue.” She looked across the circle at Kodi, who today wore her mid-length locs tied back and a loudly patterned button-front shirt. “What about you, Kodi?”
“I think my favorite was the fall issue last year, actually,” Kodi said, carefully wiping crumbs off her fingers and onto her plate as she spoke. “The whole thing was soedgy. Like… Parker’ssci-fi story about the alien who landed at Florence Mall on Black Friday?” She made brain-exploding fingers by her temples.
Mal remembered that story too. It had been an absolutebeastto edit—so many broken rules.
Parker laughed, nodding. “Right, and the poor boi could only communicate through ads from the stores!”
“That whole issue was bomb,” said Kodi. “Mal, you really killed it on that one.”
Mal blinked, surprised.
“Thanks?” They hadn’t meant for it to be a question. Though they probably wouldn’t admit it out loud, theyhadworked harder on that issue than any other. For one, they had just stepped into their more active editorial role, and they remembered feeling that because they were now Almost Official, they really had to prove themself to theCollageteam. For another, fall was their favorite, so they wanted to give it extra sparkle. “I think that’s one of my favorites too. Everyone wrote really cool stuff for it.”
“Oh! We can’t forget the fall issue freshman year, when we were allbabies,” Emerson chimed in, leaning forward in her chair, her face much too animated for Mal’s taste.
And then the group was off again, bouncing around through the last several issues and occasionally to ones only the seniors would remember: the story James had written about being gay in Kentucky that won a local student-fiction award; the first installment of Stella’s serial and how it had been the highest circulationCollagehad seen in years; Emerson’s first blackout poem and how much persuasion it had taken to get Ms. Merritt (and Mal) to print it.
Mal didn’t talk much, just clung to their coffee, letting the warmth of the cup and the rich scent of cinnamon ground them. Maybe they had missed out by not doing this more over the years—by not getting all of them together like this. On the rare occasionsCollagehad proper meetings, it had always been to talk business: to pitch stories, assign duties, select themes. It always felt like work, because it was. But this—sitting around and talking about memories together—felt more like hanging out with Maddie than like work… except the topic shifted to soccer exactly zero times.
It reminded them, in a strange way, of their eighth-grade lunch table—well, their first eighth-grade lunch table, when Maddie was still a year behind them. Their friend group had been small then—about the size of theCollagestragglers, really. Like now, Mal had not always been an active part of the conversation, but they were always included. Always part of the group.
It was… nice, feeling like that again. And although Mal would still miss the solitude of the editor’s desk, maybe they had been missing out onthisthe whole time. MaybeCollagecould have given them more than just a Common App activity and words on a page.
And now they would never know.
Realizing this—what they had, and that it wasnice, and that it was about to disappear forever—made the overwrought, dizzy feeling Mal had been staving off all week crescendo into a roar. Suddenly, it was as loud in their head as the day the magazine had been canceled. A familiar feeling of panic rose in Mal’s chest along with the volume of their thoughts.
Though they couldn’t for the life of them thinkwhy, theway everyone was talking aboutCollagenow reminded them of the way Maddie had talked about their second eighth-grade year, right after Mal’s school had let them know they would have to repeat it. They remembered hearing their mom and dad arguing loudly from downstairs: a distant but worrying sound, not unlike the secondary droning of panic in their brain now. Huddled together in Mal’s bed, Maddie whispered a steady stream of stories in their ear, promising them that repeating eighth grade would be like all the good parts of the past school year—getting into Introductory Physical Science, a gifted class, the only one they had passed with flying colors; the unhurried quiet of study hall; the privilege of being able to eat lunch in the library on Fridays if they wanted to—but with Maddie by their side this time, helping to smooth over all the sharp parts.
But now, there was no Maddie—there was no fix, no second chance. There was only Mal, in a roomful of people they suddenly wished they knew much better than they did, a rapidly cooling cup of coffee quivering in their hand.
“So what is everyone going to be moving on to next?” Ms. Merritt asked as the stories slowed down and plates began to empty.
“Orchestra,” Stella answered immediately. “And National Honor Society, I guess, and, of course, Theater.” Stella, naturally, had options for her options.
“I’m moving to Yearbook,” Nylan said.
“So am I,” added James, smiling at Nylan. “I mean, it’s not the same, but at least it’s still makingsomething.”
Mal’s heart quickened. Should they have too?
“Track in spring,” said Kodi. “This semester… I don’t know. I guess I’ll focus on academics.”
“Nothing but art club here,” Parker admitted. “But I’m also doubling down on anime club at the library, so…” She trailed off, shrugging.
“I’ve got no idea,” said Emerson, her shoulders bouncing nonchalantly. “This was mything. But that’s part of the excitement, isn’t it? Finding out what happens next!”
Mal’s eyes went wide. No, it wasnotpart of the excitement. It was part of theterror, the terror that Mal was now drumming out on their thigh with their thumb. It was only after several eight-counts of frantic drumming that they realized it was their turn to say what they’d be doing next. A thin laugh caught in their throat.
