“Good,” their mom answered. She raised her voice over the sound of the faucet she’d turned on—probably filling a pot to start making dinner. “You just needsomething, Mal. It doesn’t even have to be something youlove, just something youhave. Colleges just look to see that you do something, to figure out where you’re at in the pack.”
A chill crept through Mal at their mom’s words, and they leaned a little closer to Maddie instinctively. This was how theirmom talked about college for them: They weren’t at thebottombottom, likeThoseKids (whoever they were), but they weren’t close enough to the top that they needed to be truly impressive, like Maddie. This was their place in The Pack (their mom’s own version of capital-letter thinking): passably mediocre.
“Got it,” Mal said flatly, looking down at their math homework.
“Maybe something a little more practical,” their mom mused from the kitchen between hums of some country song Mal couldn’t recognize. “Something actuallyuseful—like science. You’re not bad at that.”
Mal clenched and unclenched their hand where it held their algebra notebook. Science hadn’t been sousefulwhen Sixth-Grade Mal had wanted to become a freshwater aquatic biologist and aquarium habitat designer. When they’d learned that such a career existed, Mal had been certain that it was what they wanted to do with their life. But their mom had chided them for being impractical, and for messing up her rock garden when theyborrowedgravel and plants for practice aquatic landscapes that they set up in buckets in the backyard, trying to attract tadpoles that never showed. That dream hadn’t followed them beyond the summer, and the Mal who started sixth grade did so thinking their goals were A Problem.
Now, sitting on the sofa, Senior-Year Mal narrowed their eyes at their paper, trying to keep the itch of overwhelm at bay.
“Hey,” Maddie whispered, dipping her head close to Mal’s. “We’ll find something great. Don’t worry. She’s…” Maddie waved a dismissive hand, something she did often enough that Mal understood it meant bothA MessandLike That.“Andwe’ll be out of here soon, okay? Just one more year, and we’re off to Lexington together, and she’ll be here alone, fussing at herself.” Then, with a decisive nod, she sat up and said, louder, “Hey, Mom, let me help you with dinner.”
After a belly full of spaghetti (one of their favorites) and an admittedly really fun late night of making snacks with their sister, Mal could almost believe Maddie was right. But on Friday, with theCollagefuneral looming later after school, they still hadn’t found a replacement.
“What about soccer?” Maddie asked. Once again, she and Mal sat brainstorming at their lunch table, their heads ducked together among a circle of Maddie’s teammates.
Mal shrugged. “Unless you’re actively recruiting benchwarmers…”
Maddie scoffed. “Who says you’d be a benchwarmer?”
“Me,” said Mal, biting a chicken nugget in half. They went to every single one of Maddie games, so they knew that actuallyplayingsoccer wasn’t for them. Mal was fat, but that didn’t mean they were unfit; they walkedeverywhere. They knew fat people could be athletes, too.
But soccer wasMaddie’sThing.
One of the things Mal had secretly liked aboutCollagewas that it was entirely theirs. Since the Flowers siblings were so close (both in ageandrelationship), Mal often lumped themself into Maddie’s activities and hobbies. Mostly, it was nice—but it wasn’t always. Even in frivolous things, Maddie always seemed to excel. One Christmas, for example, Mal got an embroidery kit. They were so proud of the sloppy backstitched shark they’d sewn onto the neck of an old sweatshirt.They’d shown Maddie a few basic stitches so she could try too. And by the next afternoon, the knees of Maddie’s jeans were covered in beautifully satin-stitched flowers worthy of a Craftsagram post—and a braggy, emoji-heavy Facebook post by their mom.
Mal had never picked up their project again.
Not that there wasanyrisk of it with soccer, but Mal didn’t want to make Maddie feel the way they had felt that day. Maddie needed her own Things, too.
“Thanks,” they said, pushing a mushy pea on their plate with a fingernail. “But I think I’ll pass.” They sounded much calmer than they felt.
“We’ll find you something,” Maddie said, and the way she said it meant it wasn’t optional: If Maddie set her mind to something, itwouldhappen. “We’ve still got the weekend. That’s two whole days to come up with a new plan.”
Mal nodded numbly. Maddie sounded so certain, and they wanted to be too. But with the End ofCollageparty approaching in just a few short hours, Mal couldn’t help feeling like they were approaching the End Of The Plan, too.
And they were afraid—really afraid—that this would also mean the End Of Mal.
COLLAGE
The Holmes High School Student Literary Journal
Vol. 47 | Spring Issue
Fiction
Through the Garden of Gems and Dahlias(serial) - Stella Willen
“This Time Next Year” - Jade Hellmann
“Endless Paws-ability” - Taylor Bagby
“What Rules Are For” - Emerson Pike
“Notes on Perspective” - Sara Santiago
“When the Storm Came” - Christie Park
