“Oh, cool, no problem!”
And before Mal could tell her not to, Emerson was ripping a handful of pages from the back of her notebook, then fishing around again in her backpack.
“Okay, so—basically. We fold the pages in half like this.” She folded the pages together in what Mal always thought of ashamburger style. “And then we’ll poke a series of holes in the spine of the signature—that’s what a little bunch of paper likethis is called.” With her pen, Emerson stabbed several holes down the center creases in the pages. “And then—okay, it’s about to get really rudimentary in here, but use your imagination.” Waggling her bushy eyebrows and grinning playfully, she grabbed the other item she’d collected—a spool of floss, like for teeth—and rolled out a long piece, then started weaving it through the holes. Her tongue peeked out between her lips as she worked. After a few quiet moments, she held it out to Mal. “Like that. But, like, imagine it with cool stories inside and not dental floss as the binding.”
Mal eyed the little pamphlet.Roughwas a kind word for it, but it did remind them vaguely of the pamphlets they’d seen on sale in the front room of the Haus.
“Okay,” they admitted, their mind transposing carefully edited stories onto the pages and colorful embroidery floss into the binding. “That’s actually really cool.”
“Yes!” Emerson shouted. “So, we can do the actual editing the same way as before, and the layout—I think between your Word know-how and my Illustrator wizardry, we can figure that out too. And for any photos and art”—Emerson redirected quickly when Mal frowned at her—“or whatever else, we can scan them in. Or actually—ooh!—what if we print out a master proof, do all the layout tweaking on that, and then scan it back in for printing?”
Maldidalways like to edit on a printed copy first (to keep both their dyslexia in check and their often-wandering mind away from the temptation of opening other tabs), then translate it into Word after they were done.
They nodded. But their mind still swirled with worry. “It sounds like… a lot.”
A lot of paper. A lot of space. A lot of time. None of which Mal had a surplus of.
“Don’t worry, it won’t be,” Emerson reassured, managing to somehow take notes and watch Mal at the same time. “We can do the actual printing at the library, because it’s waaay cheaper than, like, the print store. It’ll be practically nothing—like fifty to a hundred bucks max.”
There was that number again. Mal swallowed. Fifty to a hundred bucks was seven to fourteen hours of their time at Dollar City. “I can’t afford that, Emerson.”
“It’s cool, I’ll front the first print,” Emerson said, “and then we can cover the next run with what we earn back. If we keep the same price as before—it was five dollars a pop, right?—we can do that easy-peasy.”
Mal shrugged. Five dollars wasn’t always easy-peasy for them. “I guess.”
“Mal,” Emerson said, leaning in again. She waved her hands at Mal, fingers wiggling like she was trying to filter out the truth of the matter. “I’m sensing hesitation here. You sound—respectfully—like a wet blanket. Come on. What can we do to fix it?”
Mal looked up from their planner. They had expected Emerson to look sassy, or sarcastic, or some combination of the two. Instead, Emerson looked… open. Curious, with her pen poised to take notes.
So, taking a deep breath, they decided to suggest a change.
“Since production costs will be lower, maybe we can lower the price a little?” Mal swallowed. “Could we still earn our investment back at, like… two dollars an issue?”
That was much easier for people like Mal—it was a soda at the machine in the hall at school, or a coffee like the one they’d bought from Sam.
Emerson shrugged like it was no big deal. “Oh, sure, absolutely.”
It felt like a small rebellion, changing the price. Mal cocked an eyebrow. They hadn’t expected it to be that easy. “Really?”
Emerson shrugged. “I mean, probably! If you think I can do the math in my head that fast, then bless your heart, but, like. Itsoundslike the math is mathing, at least. So like, ninety-eight percentyes, absolutely.”
A grin tugged at Mal’s lips. “So, absolutely, minus two percent.”
“Yougetme,” Emerson squeaked, shoving playfully at Mal’s knee. The same hand then flew to her Post-its, sticking another onto her notebook page. “Okay, what’s next?”
“I think that’s it for that item.” Mal consulted their own notes. “Now there’s just the third.” This was the one Mal was most nervous about. They swallowed and asked: “Who will be involved?”
“You, duh,” Emerson said immediately. “As editor in chief, since that’s what you were before we got the axe. And me, of course, as…” Emerson pursed her lips. “Is there another editor-in-something I can be? Or, like… support editor? Cleric to the editor? I can do all the arts and craft parts—and bring you coffee and snacks and healing potions.”
Emerson’s grin turned toothy, her expression vibrant. Though they hadn’t meant to, Mal was grinning too—and laughing. The sound was almost too loud for the room, but the thick rug in the middle of the space muffled it.
“How about managing editor?” Mal wasn’t sure that was exactly right, but it at least seemed to fit.
“Love it. Sold.” Emerson nodded. “Who else?”
Mal’s warm laughter slowed, then stilled. This was the question of the hour.
“It seems fair to ask everyone who was onCollageif they want to be part of this,” Mal conceded, because it was the Right Thing To Do. Even if it meant including Stella, too.
