Mal blinked up at Alex.
Werethey accepting new writers?
It was something Mal hadn’t considered; the oldCollageteam had abandoned ship so quickly when the magazine lost funding that Mal hadn’t prepared for any new interest.
They looked toward Emerson, sitting in her spot on the right side of the editors’ desk (thewayMal yearned to scoot in beside her on her left), but she was bent over her work, cramming nickels into brown paper change rolls and swearing under her breath.
“Yeah, sure,” Mal said, before they were even sure whether that was the right answer. “What do you write?”
“Personal essays, but, like, with a very fiction-y voice,” Alexsaid, looking excited. “Mostly about being a trans guy, because I can never find stuff to read about us. And I’m really stoked about what y’all are doing here for the community.”
“Yeah, cool,” said Mal, confused but trying to not show it. “Welcome to the team.”
“More like welcome toHELL,” Emerson said, collapsing dramatically on the editors’ desk. “If I have to roll any more nickels ever, I’m going to die.”
Mal shook their head but smiled, taking their place to her left. “Here, let me help.”
And for a while, Mal became lost in the task at hand, until all the change had been accounted for. Collecting all the various Post-its on which Emerson had recorded figures and doodles of cats, they tallied up the totals from the first issue’s sales.
A strange wave of discomfort rolled through Mal’s body as they did this work. Money had never been their strong suit. But that wasn’t right—they were okay, really, with their budget. They always made sure they had enough to cover their cell phone bill, their coffees (and sometimes Emerson’s) at the Haus, special snacks for themself and Maddie, and contributions to a small but growing savings account, all from their small Dollar City wages. It was more that money made them uncomfortable, or that they thought it should. More than once, they had overheard their parents fighting about it, and it seemed like they never had enough of it.
And now here was a small treasure of it, earned by doing something much nicer than stocking shelves at the dollar store, by working with people they liked much more than Brenda,the head cashier who refused to use Mal’s correct pronouns. Mal counted the crumpled dollars and small army of rolled change again, trying to reconcile the totalandthe unsettling, hopeful feeling in their chest.
In the end, they’d figured out enough to at least start a new spreadsheet titled (by Emerson)MIXXEDMEDIA FUNDS!!!!!“Team meeting?” they asked, looking across at her.
“Team! Meeting!” Emerson agreed, but at such volume that it was an announcement, too.
When everyone had gathered around the old green worktable, Mal and Emerson sitting side by side at its head, Mal consulted their old laptop.
“Okay,” they said, “we’ve finally added up everything, including the consignments from the Haus café—which sold out, too, over this week—and it looks like we made a total profit of one hundred and thirty-five dollars.”
“We only made a hundred thirty-five bucks?” James asked, incredulous. “For all that?”
“Well, no,” said Mal. “We made back what we invested—”
“What my mom’s credit card invested,” Emerson interjected.
“Well, we madethatback, and then an extra one hundred and thirty-five dollars on top of it.” It had seemed likea lotto Mal. A surge of shame flushed their cheeks.
“That’s cool,” said Nylan, grinning. “That means our next print run is fully funded!”
“I mean, I guess,” said James, shifting in his seat. “But was that print run large enough?”
“True,” Alex chimed in. “I feel like I barely got my hands on a copy. It sold out lightning-fast.”
“Collagecould never,” agreed Parker. “Do we need to up the numbers?”
Mal shrugged. “I think we can stay solid where we are, and in a couple of issues, we’ll have earned enough to think about it.”
“But think of all the extra funds we could be earningnow,” James said. “We could be saving up for a printer of our own so you two don’t have to use the janky ones at the library.”
“The library printers aresuperb,” Emerson protested, crossing her arms.
“But I get what you mean,” Parker said. “Like, we could be investing more in what we’re doing. MakeMixxedMediabigger. Better.”
“It’s already great,” Mal said defensively.
“No, yeah,” said Nylan, “it is. But think what we could do if we had resources like we did at school. A printer for when we need it, a computer we could all use, right here.”
