Whatever she was, though, Mal would have to find out later. Maddie turned and left, closing the kitchen door behind her and leaving Mal alone in her wake.
“Is it me, or is this November issue much easier?”
Mal cocked their head, fingers pausing over their ancient laptop. They didn’t need to turn to pick out Nylan’s smooth, high voice from the small group gathered behind them at the worktable. Parker’s was much louder and had a little rasp at the edges; James’s was measured and masculine; andEmerson’s was comfortable and familiar: brash and brazen and just right.
“Yeah,” Emerson said—there it was, warm in Mal’s ear, making them smile despite the storm that still simmered inside of them. “I think it might be?”
Was it? Mal frowned down at their screen, where Alex’s essay about the language of queer shoes shone back at them. Alex’s work was surprisingly easy to edit; he liked grammar almost as much as Mal did, or at least he had a strong command of commas. Still, Mal meddled with them, trying to find things to fix—trying to push Maddie’s echoing words out of their head.
It was almost working.
But it wasn’t just editing that felt easier this time. Nylan was right. Mal had originally chalked it up to knowing what they were doing now, but it had to be more than that. It was almost as ifMixxedMediachallenged them to be better in ways thatCollagehadn’t. With Mal in charge, and each of them having equal ownership of what they put out, Mal supposed they were all trying harder. They had to; the zine’s success rested squarely on their own shoulders.
That purpose—and that responsibility—somehow made it easier to get things done.
“Yeah,” they finally agreed, quickly uploading their edits to VansTheMans.docx and e-mailing it back to Alex before closing their laptop. “I think we’re good at what we do.”
It was the first time Mal could remember saying that about something they did. They smiled to themself.
Turning from their laptop, they scooted their comfy, armlesseditor’s chair a few feet across the hardwood floor to join the staffers at the worktable, Emerson wheeling along right behind them. This afternoon, it was less a worktable and more a snack table; Emerson offered half of her strawberry Pop-Tart to Mal, and Nylan slid a piece of cheese on a cracker across the table.
“Try it,” she said. “It’s stinky but really good.”
Mal eyed it, then shook their head.
“More for me, no worries,” said Parker, giving Nylan a smile before grabbing the cracker and popping it into their mouth.
“We’re going to have to change the sign to say ‘SnackMedia Zine Lab,’?” Emerson said, taking a cracker Nylan offered, “since that’s mostly what we’re doing nowadays.”
“For now,” Mal said. “It’ll be crunch time soon enough.” This worry let the storm clouds lurking in the corner of their mind loom a little closer. Mal frowned.
“Not soon enough for me,” Emerson said, chewing. “I’m getting itchy for something to do.”
“You can do my mini zine,” James volunteered, reaching for some cheese.
“I can’t wait for the zine fest at Haint History Festival,” Parker said. “This time of year is like my Christmas—I go hard for Halloween shit.” They shot Emerson a tentative look. “I’m honestly a little bummed we’ll be working and not out doing Halloween stuff together.”
“I have a solution!” Emerson interjected, breaking into Mal’s thoughts with a voice so loud someone working in the performance hall cleared their throat pointedly. “I’mabout to lay down some real Hannah Montana shit. Are you ready?”
“Some realwhat?” Mal asked.
“Hannah Montana, Mal! A literal classic and meme gold.” She made grabby hands at Mal and sang what they guessed was a theme song, about having the best of both worlds. “Big¿por qué no los dos?energy. You ready?”
Mal shook their head, laughing. “Okay, lay it on us.”
“We dress up anyway.”
“Can we even do that?” Nylan asked.
Emerson shook her hands at the table like she was begging for them all to catch up. “Yes!That’s, like, basically what Haint History Fest is for. It’s a spooky craft-fair-slash-snack-a-thon moment, with food trucks and vendors and—best of all—a big bonfire where you make free s’mores. Also probably ghosts? It’s to celebrate all the ghosts in the Village.”
“There are ghosts in Mainstrasse Village?” Parker asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Those houses were built in like the 1800s,” Emerson said. “If you don’t think people died in them and haunt them, you’re joking yourself.”
Mal snorted—but Emerson made a good point.Mostof the houses in Covington were built around the turn of the century. If there were such a thing as ghosts, this city seemed like the sort of place they’d hang out.
“But, like, everyone dresses up,” Emerson added. “We’d stick out more if we didn’t.”
