The first order of business was what, exactly, they were about to do—and, really,ifthey should even do it. Though the idea had felt pressing in the loud panic of Friday afternoon, with their mom’s cold warning in their head, now that Mal had had sleep and a quiet shift at work to think about it, they were pretty certain it was a terrible idea.
Yes, keeping the magazine alive in some form still felt appealing, but Mal had limited ability. Some people thought about it as “spoons”—a theory of living with chronic illness that often showed up in their social-media feed—but since Mal wasn’t chronically ill in the way those content creators were, they thought about it instead like a page to be edited.
On any given day, Mal felt like the page of their brain came prefilled with a paragraph or two. Even if it was not the most concise (some days it felt more like long strings ofAAAAAAAAAin all caps and bold than actual words), those couldn’t be deleted. They included nonnegotiables: wake up, go to school,go to work, go to Maddie’s games, go to sleep. The rest of the page quickly filled with things thatshouldbe nonnegotiables but often became negotiables by accident: brush teeth, drink water, eat food, get homework at least mostly done, shower. Once, their brain page had included more: hanging out with their friends at Covington’s many coffee shops, chatting on anAnimal Crossingroleplay Discord, trying (and mostly failing) to flirt with classmates they thought were cute. But as trying to keep up with their daily paragraphs—and The Plan, which took up an immovable paragraph all on its own—had gotten harder, those kinds of activities had to be edited out.
Trying to runCollageentirely on their own would fill in at least another ten to fifteen lines’ worth of space on Mal’s brain page. And there were only so many more lines and paragraphs that could fit. It would be a big commitment—one Mal wasn’t entirely sure they were willing to make.
And then there was the matter of Emerson. Most people in Mal’s life who were not Maddie, their mom, or their dad existed in their periphery like a same-face NPC fromZeldaor an oft-ignoredAnimal Crossingvillager (Pietro, maybe). But Emerson Pikerefusedto be relegated to NPC status. Anytime she showed up in Mal’s life, whether in the school hallways or (like she had all weekend) in Mal’s thoughts, she was much like her writing: incredibly excited but sloppy, needing a lot of editing when it came to commas and word order and,dear god, using fewer exclamation points.
Mal could never decide if they were impressed with Emerson or absolutely terrified of her. There was a particular courage required to live life as bright as she did. All theirinteractions left Mal feeling a little spiky. Emerson was loud, and wiggly, and always,alwaysgoing and doing and saying and thinking—and it was too much for Mal to keep up with, because Mal had their hands full keeping up with themself. So either way, Mal knew Emerson would take upat leasta paragraph’s worth of valuable brain-page space simply by virtue of existing. (She was taking up several linesalready, impossible to erase and highlighted in an eye-burning yellow they could neither change nor take their eyes off.)
But Emerson also came with a brain page of her own—and if Mal was going to do this, they needed that space. They needed what she knew about zines, because they knew nothing, and that frightened them. More frightening still, they neededher: a truth they were not entirely comfortable with, even as they headed her way. They crossed to the other side of 12th Street, the unofficial divide between the Covington where Mal lived and the Covington people weren’t afraid to walk around in after dark.
Mal always felt more than a little out of place on this side of things. Austinburg, the neighborhood where they lived, was loud and a little messy, and everyone knew everyone and shoutedhelloorfuck offdepending on the day and the quality of their relationships. Here, the streets were quieter and more neatly kept, with nicer cars parallel parked along them and more trees than Mal was used to, fall colors just starting to flirt with the edges of their leaves. Unlike the old Victorian townhome Mal’s parents owned (a rarity for Austinburg, where many people rented), which needed new gutters and a fresh coat of paint, these houses had been either well kept all along or renovated in varying degrees of historical accuracy. Manyhad already started to decorate for fall, their wrought-iron fences lined with bundles of mums in autumnal oranges and cozy golds and their sweeping front steps stacked with pumpkins in fancy shades of blue-green and white. And the closer Mal got to the river, the nicer the homes got—and the more at ill ease they felt.
The Haus on 3rd Street was very much Not In Their Neighborhood.
That was the third item in this walk’s trifecta of Self-Talk: the Haus itself. Mal had only been once before, with their mom when their Aunt Tina had come to visit from Lexington. It felt very much like the sort of place you bring someone from out of town to show them how cool Covington could be (because the Hauswaslegitimately cool, which Mal could even tell as they’d tried their best to take up as little space as possible while they waited in the coffee line). But because of that—to Mal, at least—it also felt incredibly out of reach for people like them.
It was also kind of snobby, a darker part of Mal Self-Talked to themself. Maybe this was the general insecurity they felt whenever they came out this way, but in their mind, the Haus on 3rd Street was where people who wanted to beseenhaving coffee went, rather than people who wanted to actuallyhavecoffee.
The placetheywent when they had space on their brain page (and in their budget) for coffee as a treat was now half a block ahead: Uncommon Grounds. The vibes were immaculate: clove-scented with mismatched chairs and artsy decor in shades of rich red and dark brown, a cozy little pocket of fall all year-round.
When Mal passed the shop, its windows festooned with agarland made of orange and yellow leaves, they felt like they were walking past the last bastion of comfort on what was becoming a more and more uncomfortable journey.
And then the thought crept in: Should they even continue? They could text Emerson that they’d changed their mind—tell her to ask Stella for editorial help; Stella wouldlovethat—and go sit by the river for a while. Their long walk, the chill breeze, and all the gem-toned decorations had them feeling autumnal. What difference would it make if they turned around now, ducked into Uncommon Grounds, and got a small pumpkin-spiced coffee to take with them?
The idea was so tempting that Mal could almost taste the spicy, bold flavor on their tongue. And surely they could find another Thing if they looked hard enough. Maybe theycoulddo soccer. They already did everything with Maddie anyway; what was one more thing? It wasn’t exactlyuseful—the word rang in their head in their mom’s voice—but surely a zine wouldn’t be, either. Mal’s steps slowed.
But then their pocket buzzed.
hi!!!! i’m here!!!
meet me in the back room when you get here!
the one that’s like, off to the right, not to the left, past the all-gender bathroom then through the little hall thing!!!!!
you can’t miss it!!!!
Frowning at the screen, Mal sighed. It would be a jerk move to blow Emerson off when she was already there. Andwhile Emerson bordered on Too Much, Mal was also at least a little curious to see what she was wearing today, whether it was the same bird-print dress that had swished through their thoughts all weekend.
The walk sign changed from a red hand to a white silhouette of a person, directing them to go.
Mal always followed directions—so they went.
The Haus on 3rd Street was indeed a house.
Once, it had beenonlythat: a stately three-story townhome with unpainted red brick and tall, original glass windows. At some point nottoolong ago but longenoughago, Mal couldn’t remember exactly when, an older gay couple had bought it and fixed it up—not that it needed much more fixing than a coat of hunter-green paint and bright white window trim. They had moved into the top floor, using it as their living space, and opened a coffee shop on the bottom floor. A sign had been painted in white on the wall facing Greenup Street: a squat, roundish coffee cup wearing a little arrow-shaped hat like a roof, with the wordsTHE HAUSlettered neatly below it.
As Mal approached, people bustled in and out of its bright yellow door, holding to-go coffees, or briefcases, or baby carriers. Others chatted at bistro tables tucked neatly beside planters of pansies in shades of amber and garnet, the conversations as cozy as the steaming mugs cupped in their hands. All of them looked happy to be out on a Sunday as lovely as this, their grins broad, together almost entirely in twos or threes. They also looked decidedly hip: sharply dressed withcool shoes and neat hair (two things by which Mal tended to judge General Coolness).
Mal, with their plain ponytail and scuffed-up comfort Doc Martens, would stick out. But Emerson was already here, so they hurried forward anyway.
Before they even got to the front door, the smell of coffee wafted out to them. It was warm, rich, and—Mal couldn’t help it—mouthwatering. Their steps quickened involuntarily at the promise of caffeine. They ducked through the door—and immediately realized that, since the last (and only) time they’d been there, the Haus at 3rd Street had grown.
The coffee counter was the same old brown wood Mal remembered. It whirred with espresso machines and drip makers and glowed with glass cases of sweets, ranging from fussy and delicate to hearty and dense. The back wall was decorated with a garland of dried flowers and apple slices and about four dozen brass hooks, most of which supported coffee mugs in an array of shapes, sizes, and colors.
But everything else had shifted. This front room, which had once been a small clutch of five bistro tables, now housed artful table displays of Haus merchandise: hats and mugs, pins and sweatshirts. An illuminated shelf on the far wall held curated collections of booklets, paintings of cats, and a speaker designed to look like a record player, which played acoustic covers and sat beside stacks of CDs. About a dozen people milled around, chatting and laughing and waiting for coffee orders, or standing in line to place them.
