“Oh, absolutely, yes,” Emerson agreed emphatically.
“I thought it was just because we had crushes on each other,” Mal blurted out.
“Oh, it’s that too,” Emerson said, and smiled, her index finger tracing a circle around Mal’s kneecap. “Or else I’m not sure what I’ve been flirting with you all this time for, honestly.”
This was how they had alwayswantedto talk about liking someone, plainly and honestly, but knew they shouldn’t because they were supposed to be Coy and Mysterious. That had been Mal’s problem, ultimately, in all their relationships: with Jess, who eventually dumped Mal for not being able to read her emotions the way she wanted; with Ava, who never really forgave Mal for saying her seventh-grade-formal dress was “definitely green” and not “pretty”; with their first boyfriend in middle school, Ryan, who said they couldn’t keep him guessing, whatever that meant.
With Emerson, they didn’t have to do those things.
Mal grinned. “Yeah, same. I like it. Keep doing it.”
“I’ll make a note of that.” Emerson smiled—a new sort of smile, a soft one, which Mal watched unfurl on her lips. It was still big, but less toothy. Closed-lipped. Special. “But yeah. It’s because we like each other, and also because our brains match. Or maybe don’tmatch—but are definitely in the same font family. Like, you’re Georgia and I’m Georgia Bold.”
A laugh, pure joy and a little awkward, bubbled up from Mal. “That’s my favorite font.”
“You’remy favorite font,” Emerson said, and put her hand on Mal’s cheek.
It lingered there long enough for Mal to say, “I really want to kiss you, Emerson.”
And long enough for Emerson to say, “I really want you to kiss me, Mal.”
And long enough for Mal to scoot forward on their seat, the cushion soft beneath them, and for Emerson to wheel her rolling chair forward, and for Mal to lean in, their hand reaching up to Emerson’s opposite cheek, for them to marvel at how perfect and round it felt in their palm, for Mal to gently press their lips to Emerson’s.
Mal smiled into the kiss. It felt Correct, even though it was not something they’d planned at all.
For the rest of the evening, the zine was forgotten, but Mal remembered the oversweet coffee taste of Emerson their whole walk home.
Jones | Queer, Looking | 1
See notes though throughout, but Kodi, this is really good. I’m so proud of you for taking this risk. Do you mind talking about this in person? I’d love some recommendations for which thrift shops you like. The Goodwill in Bellevue leaves much to be desired.
QUEER, LOOKING
by Kodi Jones
You can spot us in the waves of racks, bobbing heads in snap-back caps, bodies in button-downs:queer, looking.
This is so clever and effective.
In the thrift shop, there’s always a few of us: lesbians who have made the step out of the comfortable, out ofyeah but is she gay thoughintooh yeah she’s gay gay. We inevitably all make it to the same men’s rack. The masc rack, when we’re there. It starts off small, just a head nod: that universal queer signal ofI see you. Then there’s always the brave one who starts the small talk, and before you know it, we’re swapping our favorite spots around town like tomboy trading cards.
Lately the brave one has been me, but it wasn’t always. When I first started dressing more masc, I kept my thrift-shop finds like a secret. Like if people knew my spots, they might knowME. I still felt like I was on the sidelines, shoved out of the mainstream shops my girlfriends shopped at. Still new to my style. Still new to my own identity.
Consider italics? I do love the visual of this being in caps, though.
I remember the first brave butch who saw me at aSaint Vincent De Pauland pulled me aside to tell me where the heat was at. As we sorted through those sorry dad shirts, she told me about the community I’d come to call my own. She swapped me style tips, told me about a queer barber shop in her neighborhood, shot the breeze with me. The next month, I saw her again at a shop she’d told me about, looking fresher off for it.
Clarify that this is a thrift store?
Our stories, secrets, and stores come hand-me-down too, just like the clothes. It’s a communal knowledge we share, started off one head nod at a time. We pass it down, knowing look to knowing look, until we
Kodi, this line isso good.
CHAPTERNINETEENWHAT MAL CARES ABOUT
Thursdays were usually zine days, the one weekday Mal was guaranteed a full evening with Emerson. They had wanted to get back to the editors’ desk since Sunday—strictly, they told themself, because there was so much work that needed doing, and not at all because of their exciting new extra-extracurricular activity (kissing Emerson). It hadn’t happened again—yet—but Mal very much wanted it to.
But today Maddie had soccer practice, and with both their parents otherwise occupied, it was on Mal to accompany her. With their backpack full of homework to keep them occupied and a crisis developing in real time over the e-mail chain they had open on their phone, Mal waited for Maddie to come downstairs.
