This was why slotting something intoCollage’s place in The Plan was so important. The Plan was how they forced themself into Normal Parameters, how they kept themself acceptably solid. Even if it was uncomfortable, it was what worked.
But How You Can Get was also, Mal worried, code for I Don’t Want You To Get Like That. With Christmas at Glen’s creeping closer and closer, Mal was pretty sure their dad’s concern came from a place of not having time or energy to handle them when they got Like That.
They shouldn’t have brought this up with him after all. Mal gripped their planner even harder.
“I know,” they said; again, this was not worth pushing back on. Sometimes it felt like the whole Flowers family operated at least in part because of How Mal Could Get—to keep them from it. Their insides churned uncomfortably with guilt. “But I’m not alone. Emerson will help. And Stella too”—Ugh—“if these notes go to plan.”
“Just be gentle with yourself, okay, Mal?” He fixed them with a Look, soft and concerned, that made Mal look away. “I don’t want you to do too many things.”
And there it was: the discouragement. Mal knew—or at least hoped—that it wasn’t malicious, that it came from a place of wanting Mal to live a normal life, but it was always there, at the edge of anything they ever did: their parents’ disbelief in them. While Maddie was encouraged to do more—play for a travel soccer team during summers, or go out for captain, or pick up tutoring sessions at the parish community center—Mal was, without fail, encouraged to do less.
For a long time, this had made Mal resent Maddie. It wasn’t fair that she got to do All The Things when Mal couldn’t even do what theyneededto do. But resenting Maddie was hard: She was kind and patient and tried harder to understand them than anyone Mal had ever known. It wasn’t always easy being Maddie’s sibling, but sometimes Mal wondered if it was even easy being Maddie—if she ever felt like shehadto do all the things, since Mal couldn’t. Now their resentment rested sloppily on their mom and dad—and, really, on Mal themself. Most of the time, they felt like the disparity between them was their fault for not beingableto do as much.
“I won’t, okay?” they huffed, pushing up from where theyhad been so comfortably sitting. “I’ll be fine. I won’t bug you with any of it, at all. I can do it on my own.”
“I just don’t want you to burn out,” he called after them, but it was too late; Mal was already off down the hallway and up the stairs to their bedroom.
And like their dad’s warning was some sort of prophecy, by the time Mal flung themself onto their bed, they found themself in that place of How They Could Get: their thoughts turned up to eleven out of ten, their clothes feeling too tight and too scratchy,themselffeeling Wrong, proper noun. Though some part of them was distantly aware that they should finish their notes for Stella, that they should brush their hair and teeth and change into their sleep clothes, suddenly the only thing they could do was lie very still on their bed in the dark of their room and try very hard not to let out the full-body scream they felt coursing through their whole being.
Mal stayed like that, stock-still and screaming internally, until a single thought solidified in their brain:
Maybe they werealreadydoing too much.
Mal’s dad had apparently talked to Mal’s mom about The Mal Problem. Though they couldn’t be sure when, exactly—their parents worked opposite schedules most days—they were certain he had. That morning, while she waited for Mal to finish pouring a second cup of coffee from the old machine on the kitchen counter (How They Could Get made them especially tired the day after), she had given Mal the same “Mal, Please Don’t Do Too Much” speech as their dad had the night before.
It only made what they had to do today feel more Important.
Compounding this was the text they received halfway through the school day, on their way back to History class after lunch.
HI!!! I FINISHED MY LIST!!!!!
“Who’s that?” asked Maddie, turning from a good-bye with a lunch-hour friend and eyeing Mal’s phone.
Usually, Mal avoided using their phone at school, even in the hallway. It was Against The Rules, and while Mal thought this one in particular was silly (really, what else was there todoin the hallway, other than walk to class and check your texts?), they still didn’t like to break it. They shrugged.
“Emerson,” they answered, and then added, “but it’s nothing, just—”
But before Mal could finish, their screen flashed brighter with a new paragraph of text.
And some people said maybe!!!!! Which I think is as good as a yes especially once we make one kick-ass first run and they see how good this is going to be! SO BASICALLY everyone said yes, they just don’t know it yet
“It’s aboutCollage,” Mal corrected themself, because the text being even adjacently school-related made checking it feelless like breaking the rules—and because, even through the inappropriate caps and the too many exclamation points, Mal could see that the thesis of Emerson’s text was good news for their magazine.Zine.They sent back:
Cool.
Thanks.
And, thumbs hovering over the screen as they considered it, finally:
Mal almost never used emojis—as in “only once or twice a year” almost never—but a bit of good news aboutCollage(and Emerson’s own flagrant overuse) warranted one.
After that, they didn’t want to have to sharebadnews with her. And so, after spending most of History scanning their mostly finished conversation notes and pepping themself up for it, Mal set out to find Stella in the halls before fifth period.
But they were so focused on not forgetting their answers for possible conversation paths that they walked straight past her before their brain caught up. They stopped abruptly, then backtracked, calling out, “Hey! Stella!”
Stella turned, one eyebrow already raised into Perturbed Position (an emotional indicator Mal had grown familiar with over the course of their friendship).
“Oh,” she said, connecting the voice to Mal, who had doubled back to stand in front of her. “It’s you.”
