Though it was very much not what Mal had written down in their planner, the rest of Monday’sMixxedMediatime was spent together, celebrating.
“I regret to inform you that someone has broken Community Rule Number Six.”
From the other side of the Zine Lab, Emerson’s voice sounded long-suffering. Mal, engrossed in tidying up their side of the editors’ desk, looked up in concern.
“Who didn’t clean up after themself?” they asked.
Emerson frowned dramatically.“Me.”
Mal stood up, shaking their head. The group’s celebration of Sam’s article had stretched into the late evening, turning into an impromptu party with much emptying of the snack shelf and many refills of coffee. Sam had even covered Emerson’s shift to let them all enjoy the moment together, as a team. Now Emerson stood on the other side of the worktable, surrounded by her casualties: two plates that had held fancy pastries from the café and three glasses that had been filled with Italian cream sodas.
“Will you help me with all these dishes, Mal?” she asked sweetly.
Mal thought to suggest taking them back to the café, but they didn’t want to push Sam’s goodwill after they’d been so kind to them all. Though the idea of bits swimming at the bottom of the sink made them feel icky, Mal said, “Yeah, I will.”
“Perfect.” Emerson beamed, stacking glasses. “I’ll wash, you dry.”
The two of them stepped up to the utility sink, once forgotten but now seeing regular use by staffers who kept up with Community Rule Number Six. Emerson put the dishes in its basin and filled it up with warm, sudsy water. Standing hipto hip—and with Emerson humming her most recent hyperfocus song, by boygenius—they fell into the easy rhythm of a domestic task.
Maybe it was just the day, which sat glowing and glorious and tiring inside of Mal’s chest, or how Emerson’s sweet, slightly off-key humming made them feel cozy, but a little thrill ran through their entire body. Kissing Emerson was nice—and there had been plenty of that tonight; stolen here and there, tasting spiced and sugary like Emerson’s pumpkin scones—but this was a special sort of nice too. It spoke to Mal of a future they might actually be able to have: happy, just like this, without their mom hovering around the corner and telling them they were stacking the dishes wrong.
And all of a sudden, Mal was wondering what the future might look like for Emerson.
“Emerson,” Mal asked, floating the question carefully. “Have you thought about what you’re doing next year?”
“Like, in the new year?” she asked, handing Mal a glass to dry.
“I mean… after.” The words felt cautious in Mal’s mouth. “For, like. College.”
“Oh,” Emerson said, and then repeated: “Oooh. I mean.” She shrugged. “Sort of, but in a very chill way.”
Mal raised an eyebrow at her. Whenevertheythought of college, it was not chill at all. They said, “Oh?”
“Yeah…” Emerson trailed off, her hands still in the soapy water. She seemed to be considering something, as if she was making a choice. She nodded very slightly to herself, then resumed washing as she spoke, scrubbing a plate. “I had sometrouble when I switched from middle school to high school, you might remember.”
“I don’t,” Mal said, but then rushed to soften it. “Not that I don’t rememberyou, just that you always seemed really… put together.” In a different way than Maddie was put together, yes, but it was true: Mal had always known Emerson to move through the world with confidence.
But maybe this was what Maddie had been talking about when she warned them about Emerson earlier in the year.
“I do try,” Emerson said, laughing. She kept her eyes on the task at hand, not quite looking at Mal. “But that was after I went to IOP.”
Instead of asking, Mal pressed their hip gently into Emerson’s, a silentwhat? andtell me if you want to.
“Intensive outpatient therapy,” she clarified, her voice quiet. “I’m notembarrassedabout it, it’s part of my lore, but it’s just—therapy every day, for several hours in a row, for several weeks in a row. Like in-patient therapy, but… not so scary. People go for a lot of reasons, really. I went because I got really sad for a while there, and it was scaring my moms—and me.”
Mal went still. Though Emerson still looked down at the sink, her hands working the same dish over and over, Mal only had eyes for her. Their voice grew quiet too. “Is that why you missed school for a while in freshman year?”
Emerson nodded. “It’s silly, but middle school had so much more structure, people to tell you where to go and when, and when I got to high school and it was more on me… I didn’t do so well. I felt like I had to go and go and go to keep up in thosefirst few months, and then I kind of just… crashed to a stop, and it was like I couldn’t ever go again.
“But IOP helped, and so did making compromises about what I prioritize—things that make me happy, instead of me just trying to keep up with responsibilities all the time. So my grades have sucked, but my moms are supportive. They said they’d rather have me with C’s and here than with A’s and not.” She took a deep breath. “But I’m a little scared that going from high school to college is going to be the same.”
Rinsing it in a clean stream of hot water, Emerson finally handed Mal the plate. And then, at last, she looked at them. She didn’t frown, but she didn’t smile either. Her face was open. Vulnerable.
“But you’re so…bright, Emerson,” Mal said, holding the dripping plate in their hand.
Emerson shrugged. “Sometimes it takes a little darkness to remember how bright we can shine. And I have a plan this time.” The smallest smile broke through at this word. “Which is very Mal-Flowers-approved, I know. I’m going to stay in Covington, and go to NKU or community college—I haven’t decided yet—to get my freshman stuff out of the way while I make the adjustment, so I can have my support system around me. My moms. My therapist. And maybe my not-partner-but-some-other-cooler-word-for-it.”
She dipped her head to bonk it gently against Mal’s shoulder. Mal dipped theirs to rest on top of hers, drying the plate and stacking it on the rack beside the sink as they did so.
