Most other times of the year, the fall child was just a child. They felt unremarkable, green like the rest of the world. They lived in a green house with a green family: a plain father who didn’t notice them because he was always busy with business and a plain mother who noticed them too much because she was always busy looking after them. They had a sister too, but she was anything but plain. She always shone bright gold, like her hair and her trophies, of which she had many because she was a star.
The fall child crunched down the sidewalk. Most times, they lived in the shadow cast by all that shining. Those were very lonely times.
But once a year, they came to life. They could always tell it was coming with the apple-crisp turn of the air. As the rest of the world slowed down for winter, it felt like the child could finally keep up. Like they were built for the speed of fall. It was how they knew they were a fall child.
When things started to change, so did they.
They changed from green to yellow, the color of candlelight, and they stayed up late to read books they liked at their own pace or play games they liked by their own rules.
They changed from yellow to orange, the color of pumpkins on porches and mums in pots, and they took time to admire both, and they never rushed.
They changed from orange to red, the color of good cozy flannel, and they felt pretty and comfy inside it, and underneath it their fat belly kept them warm against the night.
They changed from red to brown, the color of pumpkin-spiced lattes, and they splurged on them sometimes because it was cool outside and they felt like they were worth it.
Most of the year, when they had to fit into the green world, they had to do so in parts: a book unread and assignment turned in late; a mad dash in the morning with no time to slow down; a pair of too-small shorts to make themself smaller; a plain black coffee to be plain and normal.
But in fall, the fall child finally fit.
The fall child walked down the avenue, the wind blowing their hair and the chill nipping their nose, and they found a good, leaf-strewn bench to sit down on. It was green, but that did not matter because the fall child was full of color. The colors they knew they were but couldn’t show. The color of all the things they wanted to be: interesting and observant and comfortable and cozy. Of all the things that mattered to them.
In the fall, they mattered.
On the bench, the fall child sipped their pumpkin-spiced latte, wiggling their thick thighs against the wooden seat.
Everything was better. And the fall child smiled.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVEWHERE THINGS FIT
The plan was to act like nothing had happened.
Mal didn’t feelgoodabout it. Even as they sat in their comfy, armless chair at the editors’ desk, the plan sat with them like a stone on their shoulders, weighing them down. But they did feelconfidentabout it. The e-mail had been deleted so quickly there was no way for Emerson to notice it—if she had even checked the inbox, which she never did, because that was Mal’s job.
So on Friday, Mal continued, business as usual: They sorted through the articles for the December issue that had started to show up in the zine inbox, they scooted out of the way when Kodi needed a new pad of Post-its from Emerson’s drawer, they said “Yeah, sure” when Nylan offered them a prawn cocktail chip from a bag she’d bought from Jungle Jim’s, and was pleasantly surprised when it was less prawn and more cocktail, like Nylan had promised.
But business was not as usual. Mal knew it. It stiffened their movements, flattened out their smile.
Any curve left in their smile vanished when Emerson finally entered the room.
But Emerson was business as usual too: She said hi to Alex and sipped her cat mug of heavily sugared-and-whipped-creamed coffee and chatted with Theodora while she waited for her Pop-Tarts to toast. She sat in her rolling chair, and her movements were fluid, not stiff, and her laughter at Parker’s joke seemed genuine.
Mal smiled again too. The planwasworking. They knew it would.
And so they were surprised when Emerson turned to them and asked, deathly quiet, “When were you going to tell me about the NKU e-mail?”
Mal’s stomach dropped; they imagined it plummeting so hard it left their body, crashing through the wooden floorboards beneath their chair. A chill swept over them, prickling their skin.
“I don’t want to talk about that right now,” Mal said.
It wasn’t the right answer, but it was the truth. Last night, when Maddie had snuck into Mal’s room and asked what was up, they’d said “Nothing,” and when Ms. Merritt caught them in the hall, all excitement aboutCollagecoming back, they’d said no, and when Sam had smiled and waved at the counter when they’d walked in earlier, they hadn’t said anything at all—not evenplease, may I have my mug?Presently, Mal’s coffee was growing cold in a cardboard cup on their coaster.
Mal hadn’t even wanted to talk about it withthemself. They’d spent last night listening to chill beats on the loudest volume their blown-out earbuds could produce, humming along to keep their thoughts quiet.
“What do you mean, Mal?” Emerson asked. Her voice wasstill a quiet whisper—a feat, Mal knew, for her—but now Mal could tell it wasn’t flat, like their mom’s often was when she used it with them. It was still lilting and round. Emerson was excited. As if to prove this, her hands started working in her lap—waving happily but subtly so the others couldn’t see. She reached out, grabbing Mal’s, and fluttered them together with barely contained glee. “It’s so cool! We did it! We got the magazine back!”
“I don’t want it,” Mal said,theirvoice a flat whisper.
“What?!”This exclamation, Emerson couldn’t keep quiet—the word squawked out, and Mal knew other people at the worktable must be looking. Emerson giggled, then corrected her volume. “You’re silly, Mal. Come on, pull it up! Sam said it came through yesterday. I can’t believe I had to hear it from them and not you!”
