“Yep.” Emerson nodded solemnly, then thunked a reusable Costco bag onto the desk too.
What Mal wanted to ask wasAre we allowed to have snacks here?Because the café part of the Haus sold pastries—beautiful pastries from the queer bakery in Cincinnati, all fresh berries and flower petals and fiddly little chocolate bits, which Mal had on more than one occasion considered buying even thoughthey really couldn’t afford a twelve-dollar cruffin. Bringing in outside food felt a little like breaking the rules.
But Mal remembered that when it came to the Haus—and probably to life in general—Emerson made her own rules, so instead she asked, “Emerson, why do you need an entire economy-size box of Pop-Tarts?”
“Idon’t need them,” she said, like that was obvious too. “Weneed them. We’re staring down a deadline, Mal! We will need fuel! And strawberry Pop-Tarts are, like, the quintessential easy comfort snack. And I wanted to bring stuff innow, when I have half a brain to think about it, instead ofthen, when we’re staying up to a million o’clock, trying to get everything put together at the last minute.”
“Okay, one, we won’t be doing things last minute because I don’t do things last minute.” Not these sorts of things, at least. Their homework was another story. “But two, that’s pretty smart.”
“I’mpretty smart.” Emerson floofed her big red hair and then winked, which made Mal’s stomach feel fluttery. “Come on, help me plug this in.”
“Right here? On the desk?”
Emerson flicked her hands at Mal in mock frustration. “Unless you have a better plan,Mal!”
As it turned out, they did have a better plan. It just took a little bit of work. Stifling giggles, Mal and Emerson went out into other parts of the Haus looking for a shelf. The lending library was their first stop, but all the sturdy wooden shelves were in use. Then they went to the back garden, but it had rained that morning, so the stack of wooden crates that might have worked were too wet to haul inside. But they finallyfound what they were looking for in the actual stockroom—or rather, Emerson did, while Mal stood anxious watch outside, too nervous to go into the employee-only space—a broken shelf which in a past life had been a display space for a pop-up shop, until a tantruming toddler had crashed into it over the weekend. Once Mal and Emerson dragged it back through the building (trying, and failing, to be quiet the whole way), they found out it was perfectly Economy-Box-of-Pop-Tarts-size.
“It’s like it was meant to be,” Emerson said, awed, and then laughed.
“Divine toddler intervention,” Mal joked back, putting the toaster on the top shelf. It was a little too tall to act as a countertop, but it would do. They dangled the cord down the back of the shelf. “Here,” they said. “Now we can plug it in.”
“The officialMixxedMediaSnack Shelf is in order!” Emerson crowed, clearly pleased with their work. “MixxedSnacks!”
Mal was caught mid-laugh by a voice cutting through their shared mirth.
“I want to laugh too!” said Parker. She stepped into the back room, a backpack slung over one shoulder and a twenty-sided-die-shaped purse draped over her elbow. “What’s so funny?”
But it wasn’t only Parker—Nylan was there too, in a silvery blue hijab and with her laptop already perched on her hip like she was ready to work.
“Oh, just my penchant for giving things stupid nicknames,” Emerson said with a shrug, still laughing. “Hey, you two. I didn’t know you’d be coming in today.”
Parker’s grin dimmed by a shade. “Oh, yeah—uh, Mal said we could?”
Emerson turned back to Mal, still grinning. “Very editor in chief of them.”
Mal had saidParkercould, but they hadn’t expected Nylan too. Nerves swirled in their belly. They were still getting used to working alongside Emerson. Two new additions felt like A Lot.
But Nylan stood there, smiling pleasantly, beside Parker, who looked a little nervous.
“Yeah, uh,” Mal said, a beat late. “I probably should have run it by you but—I guess we co-work now?”
“It’s like quiet-hangout-and-get-shit-done-mode,” Parker explained when Emerson looked as confused by the word as Mal had. “I don’t know, just—sometimes being around other people really helps medostuff. Like peer pressure.”
“And I brought snacks?” Nylan jiggled the tote bag on her elbow. “Shrimp crisps from Jungle Jim’s. They sound weird, but I promise they’re really good.”
Mal made a face, but Emerson clapped her hands, once and sharp, in approval.
“We can add them to the MixxedSnack shelf,” she said. “Mal and I just set it up. It’s like weknew.”
“Cool,” said Nylan. “Uh, where can I put my stuff down?”
“Could we move this table over?” Parker asked, gesturing to the old green-painted monstrosity on the far wall.
“Uh, I saw them move that in here, and it took about a billion people,” Emerson said, “but sure, let’s do it.”
And so they did. It took all four of them, Mal in the center, pushing hard with their butt, Nylan and Parker steering on either long end, and Emerson crawling on the floor underneath to make sure the ancient, thick legs didn’t get stuck on the rug.But the old worktable finally slid into place in the center of the room with a screech loud enough to make one of the owners, Sai, who ran the day-to-day business at the Haus, come back to check that everyone was okay. After they assured him it was fine (with much eyelash batting from Emerson), they were left to figure out the seating situation. Not wanting to press their luck, Mal suggested borrowing a couple folding chairs from the hallway turned performance hall.
“Oh, yes,” Emerson said, “I always approve of a little thieving.”
