“Yeah, but it feels a bit weird to call a meeting at school about it, what with Ms. Merritt making everything sound so…this is the end.”
Mal nodded. “Exactly.” Even agreeing to this meeting with Emerson felt a little Against The Rules. The wholeideaof a zine felt distinctly like something their mom—and colleges—wouldn’t approve of.
But even as those truths raised the tension in their shoulders, there was another one building in their chest. It felt a little like excitement, if excitement seemed practical and doable.
Mal was starting to believe that maybe—maybe—they could pull this off.
“What if we ask everyone quietly?” Mal felt a surge of guilt as the words left their mouth. “Split the list and reach out to folks between classes?”
“Yeah, that could work,” said Emerson. “Whisper-network style. Very clandestine. I like it.”
Mal decidedly didn’t, but they nodded anyway. It was the only way.
“And whoeverdoessay yes, maybe we could have another meeting on Friday to discuss—” Mal’s head swam with all thethings they would need to figure out. The tingle of excitement in their chest dimmed by a measure. “Everything, I guess?”
“Perfect.” Emerson clapped, clicked her pen. “We’ll just need to split the list.”
And they did, chatting over the names. Emerson wrote them out in scratchy purple ink on one of those bright yellow Post-its, then tore it in half down the middle and gave one side to Mal. Their list contained easy folks, like Nylan, but also harder ones, like Stella.
“Doable?” Emerson asked.
For the editor in chief, it had to be. Mal nodded.
“Well, Mal.” Emerson waggled her eyebrows in a way so silly Mal couldn’t help but smile. “I think this is the most productive meeting this back room has ever seen.”
“Really?” Mal leaned in.
“Yeah. I mean, to be fair it hasn’t seenanymeetings other than our holiday party last year—and let me tell you, once Sai broke out the peppermint schnapps, that wasnotproductive.”
Mal laughed again. It felt unexpectedly open and natural in their chest.
“So, we’re in, huh?” Emerson laughed too. “Like, we’re really doing this thing?”
Were they?
Mal looked at Emerson: her easy grin, the smudge of purple ink on her cheek where she’d accidentally wiped her finger and left a mark, the sheerbrightnessof her. Mal still wasn’t entirely sure about this whole thing.Collageas a zine already had a very different vibe thanCollageas a magazine, as if those extra four letters had made a world of difference. Andthis desk—sturdy though it was—felt off too. Even their coffee cup, now almost empty and getting soggy at the bottom, felt not quite right. Disposable, like the budget that brought them here in the first place.
They were closer to The Plan than they had been on the walk here, but everything was still… off, like their dyslexic mind had rearranged it, misread it: The Lanp, maybe, or The Panl.
But there was no denying that, with Emerson, they had crushed this planning meeting. And if Mal was going to make this work—the zine and the Haus and The Plan—then they were going to have to do it with Emerson Pike.
“We’re doing this thing,” Mal said with a nod. They tried to make it look enthusiastic but settled for resolute.
“Fuck yeah!” Emerson squealed, so loud that a man passing through the other room peeked around the corner with a disapproving frown. Emerson snorted, then added, quieter, “Fuck yeah we are, Mal Flowers. Come on. Official business. Let’s shake on it.”
Emerson extended her hand, and Mal’s eyebrows pulled together in a frown. It wassucha silly, dorky gesture. But the look on Emerson’s face was so genuine that Mal couldn’t help giving in. They took Emerson’s hand in their own. It was warm where they held it, soft and comfortable like a favorite sweater. Mal shook it three times, gently. When they let go, Emerson’s finger left a faint hint of purple ink stain on the back of Mal’s palm.
And just like that, the deal was sealed: for better or worse, in purple ink.
Description 1
CHAPTERFIVETOO MUCH
On Wednesday night, after a blessedly boring shift at Dollar City, Mal sat curled up on the sofa in the family room, the rapidly filling page in front of them lit by the blue glow of the TV.
They had started this week by checking several names off the Post-it list Emerson had given them on Sunday. Parker Washington had been an early and easy win; she was on board as soon as Mal opened their mouth, and she gave them a high five for being a “badass punk bitch” (her words, not Mal’s). A girl named Taylor Bagby had been an equally easy pass; as soon as Mal had gathered the courage to approach her in the hall on Tuesday, Taylor had said no thanks. While crossing her name off felt a bit like a loss, Mal wouldn’t particularly miss the cat mysteries she turned in at the last minute.
But while some of the names on their list were easy, one stood stubbornly at the very bottom, glaring at them whenever they opened their planner:
