“Hear, hear!” said Emerson joyously before crunching into a hot chip. She dusted off her fingers and reached out to squeeze Mal’s arm reassuringly.
“They already showed us they don’t care about what we’re doing,” Mal went on. The words bubbled up from inside ofthem, from where they had been stewing last night, while Mal couldn’t sleep. “They canceled us. It’s not like they can cancel us again. So I vote we just… sell it anyway. But I—we, me and Emerson—want to know what you think.”
“Immediately no,” said Stella.
“Does sheenjoybeing the worst?” Parker stage-whispered to Nylan, who tried hard not to smile.
“Some of you might not have a lot going for you,” Stella went on, “but I do. And I’m not going to get busted for selling some bootleg magazine.”
“It’s a zine,” corrected Kodi. “And that’s fine, Stella. If you can’t sell your copies, I will. I’m in.”
Stella crossed her arms over her chest, eyes rolling.
“It’s giving very Kids on Bikes campaign hook,” Parker said, and though Mal had absolutely no idea what that meant, they understood this: “I vote yes too.”
“Me too,” said Nylan, smiling at Parker. “Also, is that another TTRPG? It sounds so fun!”
“Have you ever played that one?” Parker asked.
“No,” said Nylan, “but is it like—”
“Focus, friends!” Emerson interrupted—which said something. Parker shrugged, sheepish, and Nylan giggled.
“Honestly, I assumed we knew about the no soliciting thing already,” James admitted. “They always get really strict about the fine print with GSA fundraisers. So I guess I was on board with this before we knew it was a thing.”
“Okay,” said Mal. The anger in them now mixed something softer—an admiration for how easily everyone (except Stella, which tracked) recommitted to the zine. Working togetherhere in the back room was different from any experience Mal had ever had working within the walls of Holmes High, where everything felt like a challenge. “We’re goingreallyrogue, then. I mean, as long as you’re in, Emerson?”
“Honestly, I am ready to follow you into battle, Mal,” she said, reaching for Mal’s hand and giving it a little squeeze. “Which is a ‘yeah, let’s sell this anyway’ vote, so we’re clear.”
“Then that settles that,” Mal said, and nodded. “Now I have to go. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
And with a last squeeze of Emerson’s hand, they turned, grabbed their backpack, and walked out the back room door, the heat of their swirling emotions carrying them forward.
The walk from the Haus to Holmes High School was long, and if Mal hadn’t been so keyed up, it would have been nice. The air was cool and smelled fully like fall: dry leaves, damp soil, the faint smoke of a far-off burn pile, a hint of brine from the river. It set the sensory scene for the new decorations Mal noticed cropping up: hay bales and home-made scarecrows, elaborate displays of pumpkins and other gourds, big bushel baskets of mums and pansies and late-season sunflowers.
But Mal’s cheeks burned hot—from worry and anger and feelings they were far too overwrought to pin down. They pounded them out instead as they stomped up the sidewalk, the soles of their boots hitting the cement hard. Half a block from 10th Street, their alarm went off—sudden and sharp, making Mal almost jump out of their skin, shrieking, before they turned it off with a huff and kept walking.
It was at 13th Street that Mal realized where they really wanted to be: not walking toward Maddie’s soccer game butstill in the back room of the Haus, bent over the layout with Emerson and theMixxedMediastaff.
The realization was sudden, and automatically Mal was filled with a sense of guilt. They had already forgotten this game once; it felt unfair to Maddie to even think about blowing it off a second time, to say nothing of the ire they’d face from their mom. But the feeling still sat there, stubborn in their chest: this knowledge was Important, with a capitalI.
And a quiet part of them took it a step further, whispering that yes, The Plan kept them in order, kept them on track, kept them showing up for Maddie and out of the way of their mom—and for those purposes, it was a success.
But something had felt off about it lately, and Mal was pretty sure that was due to more thanMixxedMedia.
Pushing that thought aside, Mal pushed themself even harder, walking fast enough that by the time they got close to Holmes, their hair was damp with sweat despite the chill of the day. With their dad working, it was only Mal’s mom in the stands, wearing Bulldog red and waving a pennant that said#9: FLOWERS.
“You look like a mess, Mal,” she said, scooting over to make space for them on the bench.
Well, that suited Mal just fine, because theyfeltlike a mess. And it took the entire course of the game, of falling into the comfortable lull of the ball as it moved from one side of the field to the other, to untangle the reason why. When it came to what other people wanted from them, The Plan was still working. But when it came to whatMalwanted, The Plan had kind of failed them.
On the field, Maddie played brilliantly. By the end of the second half, she had led the team to a sound victory—3 to 2. She hadn’t scored the winning goal, but she had cheered the loudest, lifting her teammate up on her shoulders and parading her around the field.
Mal cheered loudly too, because that was what they did, and because they really did love Maddie. When she looked to the stands, they waved their arms wildly at her and, when they were sure they’d caught her attention, pointed at her, then kicked out with their foot, then pointed at their butt—you kicked butt—a tradition they’d had since freshman year.
Maddie beamed back, her laughter silent at this distance, and pointed at her eye, then her heart, then at Mal.
“Come on,” their mom said, turning back from chatting with her seat neighbor and standing. “Let’s go give our winner a victory hug!”
