“We could raise the cover price too.”
This suggestion came from Stella, one of the few staffers Mal actuallyknewknew outside ofCollage. Orhadknown. In freshman year, Mal and Stella had both joined the magazine and become fast friends, but they’d fallen out just as quickly. There had never been a particular moment that did it; Mal’s rules and social irregularities had just added up over the year as Too Much for Stella to handle. Since sophomore year, Mal’s interactions with her had mostly been confined to passing snarky comments back and forth on the pages of Stella’s serialized romantasy (which was, as Stella pointed out in the comments every few pages, the most popular feature in every issue). At the end of last year, Stella had also made it known that she did not approve of Mal’s promotion to editor in chief. Now, with that same snooty air, she pulled her thick brown French braidover her shoulder, her pale fingers combing through its end. “Then we’d earn more for every issue we sold.”
“But five bucks is already a lot,” a staffer chimed in from the middle of the room. It took Mal a moment to recognize her as Kodi. Her low, unassuming speaking voice always felt incongruous with the smooth sapphic poems she wrote. If Mal’s mind had been any quieter, they would have nodded in agreement; the price ofCollagewas already a big ask for many students, Mal included. If it hadn’t been for their free staff copy, there were some semesters—especially the ones before they were old enough to work at Dollar City—when they wouldn’t have been able to purchase it at all.
But their mind still raged with thoughts, so Mal just scrunched their nose, gripped their cup harder, and took a jerky sip of their coffee.
“I mean, if it’s what we have to do,” Parker said, her high voice going squeakier with distress. “If we sell enough, maybe we could fund the print run ourselves, without school support.”
“We’d have to do the math,” Nylan chimed in quietly, “but it’s worth considering.”
“Again, I’m really sorry I don’t have better news, team, but I don’t think that’s something we can manage,” Ms. Merritt said. “The printing cost alone wasn’t even covered by the cover price—that’s why our funding was so important—and there’s a lot that goes into producing a magazine likeCollagebeyond that cost too. And you know I believe in what we do here, but I don’t have that sort of funding hanging around, unfortunately.”
A collective sigh went around the room—in phases, deflating and then sharp with an intake of breath and then deflatingagain—until everyone finally went quiet. Mal got lost in their coffee, blinking down at their reflection in its still surface. It had started to cool—and with it, so had Mal’s last hope of finding a solution. The noise of their brain turned up again, threatening to pull them down into the depth of overwhelm.
“What if we DIY it?”
The words were so loud that Mal looked up from their coffee. They came from a girl named Emerson Pike. Unlike most of the otherCollagewriters, Mal hadalwaysknown Emerson on sight, without question. Minus the month and a half Emerson had missed during freshman year, she had beeneverywherefor Mal’s entire high school career: in their English classes, having loud opinions about American literature; in the margins ofCollage, pushing back on Mal’s corrections every single issue; in the windows of the coffee shops Mal passed on their walks, deep in animated conversation; under a bridge with a big group of community volunteers, painting a mural on an overpass wall as Mal rode by in the back seat of the Flowerses’ minivan.
Mal knew Emerson because she wasbright. Not just her colors—though she was bright that way too, with big, bushy, naturally red hair and a vibrant wardrobe full of loud patterns and bold colors that called attention to her fat body instead of hiding it. Emerson was bright in who she was as aperson. Her default expression was a smile so radiant, it bordered on blinding, and her voice was often snorty with laughter at some secret inside joke she would probably share if you asked. It was like she was turned up brighter than everyone else in the room, that one bulb on a string of lights that glowed a touch more yellow than the rest. You couldn’t miss her.
All of this made Emerson stand out, and not always in a good way. She was so wildly different—from Mal, especially. Emerson’s brightness made Mal’s plain blond bob, muted gray T-shirt, and quiet, considered voice seem downright dull.
Emerson also seemed incapable of sitting still, ever, like she was a bomb at risk of going off if she didn’t wave her hands enough when she talked. They danced through the air in front of her as she went on, somehow managing to smile around her words.
“We could make it azine. Zines are easy and cheap to make. They’re a hyperfixation of mine right now, so I’m trying not to info-dump on y’all, but, like, literally, we could do a first run with, I don’t know, fifty bucks? A hundred, tops? Then we could make more with what we earn back, like you were saying, Parker.” Emerson waved a welcoming hand to Parker when she said her name, like she was inviting her in. “And, sure, it’s different from the actual magazine, but they’re really rad, and we could still get our words out there—and that’s what matters, right?”
Stella huffed and rolled her eyes from her seat nearest Ms. Merritt.
But Parker nodded and said, sounding hopeful, “Right.”
“It’s true,” echoed James.
“That does sound like a neat idea,” said Nylan.
“I don’t disagree,” said Ms. Merritt. “But since it’s a school-led program, we have to get our funding through official channels.” Several students groaned, and Ms. Merritt waved her hands placatingly. “I know, I know. Very square and bureaucratic of me. But we have to do things by the book.”
From their desk in the middle of it all, Mal nodded glumly.
“Or we could not,” challenged Emerson, with a casual shrug and a wicked grin, “and fully do it ourselves. Take itrogue.”
Mal scoffed, but they were the only one. Most students were entirely checked out, waiting for the meeting to be over, but the small, core handful were nodding in agreement with Emerson’s suggestion. Mal’s lips pressed into a frown.
This was entirely too much.Emersonwas entirely too much. She was acting very much like her writing: kind of all over the place, with too many exclamation points and, as she defended in the edits Mal made,artfulcomma choices.
But Parker didn’t seem to think so. She leaned back in her chair, grinning at Emerson, and said, “We couldtotallydo that.”
And Kodi said, “That would be cool as f—uh”—she threw a glance to Ms. Merritt—“farts.”
“Yeah,” said Nylan, turning from Emerson to face Mal instead. She smiled. “What about it, Mal?”
“Huh?” they said elegantly.
“You’d be the editor.” Emerson said it with an impliedduh, and a very small piece of Mal buried somewhere beneath the near meltdown glowed with pride. “So, what do you think?”
“I…” The two cups of coffee they’d had that morning shifted awkwardly in their stomach. With the eyes of most of the classroom on them, it was harder to hold what was happening at arm’s length. The panicked, hot feeling of a meltdown swelled inside their chest, tightening their throat. “Don’t?”
Smooth, for a first—and last—editorial ruling.
