And maybe if they made a mini zine, Emerson would be so proud of them she would kiss them again (and again and again).
Mal’s lips tingled pleasantly at both thoughts: making Emerson proudandkissing her.
They hadn’t talked about it, Mal and Emerson—about what had happened the other night. But not even the almost-fight with Maddie could dull the shine of the memory in Mal’s mind. It sat at the center of their waking hours, glowing and golden and tasting good. Anytime Mal drank coffee now, they thought of how it tasted mixed with Emerson’s peppermint lip balm.
“Hey,” Emerson said, leaning in close to Mal. (They were sure they could smell mint.) “I hate to harsh the spooky gay vibe, but we should probably take a look at that e-mail from Stella. I peeked earlier, and there were alotof bolded, underlined statements. That never bodes well.”
With a flush in their cheeks, Mal nodded. “Yeah, I guess we should.”
Leaning back so they didn’t have to move away from Emerson’s touch, Mal slid their laptop off the editors’ desk. And with a great groan and a creak of its hinges, it glowed back to life.
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CHAPTERTWENTYBETTER EDITED
Halloween Eve was the first time Mal wished they had worn more layers.
It was in part the late hour, they were sure, as they booked it down Greenup after covering a last-minute closing shift at Dollar City. Under the glow of porch lights, frost sparkled like little stars on the smiling pumpkins, clinging to spiderwebs both artificial and real. For the first time all season, Mal’s flannel-button-down-and-medium-thick-cardigan combo was not quite enough to keep them warm on their long walk. When they made it through the front door of the Haus, they rubbed their cold cheeks with frozen fingers and reached eagerly for the cup of coffee Sam handed them on their way to the back room.
Though it hadn’t been long since they’d last visited—a few days at most—the last few weeks had been so busy that they felt like they’d been long-absent. Their moments at the Haus had become stolen, snuck in between school dismissal and the minute they knew their mom would miss them at home, where they were still trying to get, and stay, caught up on their schoolwork. They snuck them in after their Saturday workshifts, spending the two dollars to catch a bus back to their neighborhood in time for Maddie’s games.
It was as close to The Plan as Mal had been all semester, and it was working. Their mom had started to back off a little, and Maddie’s smile hadn’t felt so genuine since summer. Whatever she’d needed to think about after their maybe-fight had apparently been enough to right the Flowers siblings’ relationship, at least tentatively.
It just wasn’t really workingfor Mal. They felt pale, stretched thin. And while they texted Emerson daily, sent her pictures of particularly pretty fallen leaves or interesting acorns they found on their walks, it was very different than sitting beside her, feeling her skin against their skin or (Mal thought about it more than they should) her lips against their lips.
But it was worth it, they rationalized, so Mal could fully show up for their team on Thursday. They had missed tonight’s Build It Bash for the second issue, which was due out after tomorrow’s Mini Zine Fest at Haint History Festival.
Still, they wanted to check and make sure that the staff had stayed on track in their absence. As they made their way to the back room, they expected someone to be there, putting last-minute touches on everything—Emerson, surely, or James, who was still on the fence about his vampire-fiction zine. But the room was empty.
Except for the zines.
The worktable was covered from corner to corner with stacks of zines. Most of the space was taken up with November issues—twice as many as the last run, finished with days to spare. About a third of the tabletop was reserved formini zines, some of them printed in color—Parker’s cartoon about Covington’s neighborhood cats, Emerson’s zine about making zines. There were a few missing—James’s, of course, and Mal’s own, which they had run off earlier in the day and planned to work on tonight, alone in their room. (They still weren’t entirely sure they were brave enough to bring them to the festival.) But the work was done, and someone—Emerson, they guessed, from the sparkly pink yarn that tied them all together—had even arranged them how Mal liked, in neat bundles of ten, tied together for easy transport.
Mal was struck with a strange feeling—one that made them want to cry, even though they weren’t sad. It mingled in their mind with all the little rebellions of the past two months—the name change, the secret sales, the success that at first seemed impossible—and made the corner of their eyes sting.
As it turned out, theydidn’thave to check on their staff, but they were still glad they had. This felt like a special treat all on its own. Mal smiled.
“Oh, good, I didn’t miss you.”
They turned at the sound of the voice, their unsipped cup of coffee sloshing dangerously, to see Sam wiping their hands on the front of their apron.
“I know you’re wrapping up. I’ll be out soon,” Mal said apologetically, before Sam could say anything else. The wet stains on Sam’s apron usually meant dish washing. Mal had spent enough late nights at the Haus to know that dish washing meant closing time.
“Yeah, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about,” Sam said.
Instantly, Mal braced, their shoulders tensing in anticipation of bad news. Tentatively, they said, “Yeah?”
“Jesus, Mal, you look like I’m a ghost or something. Chill! I just wanted to check in about that article I’m writing. I’m almost done with it, but I was wondering if I could ask you a couple questions so I can include some of your thoughts. Would that be cool?”
Mal blinked. Sam’sMixxedMediaarticle had completely slipped their mind; they must have forgotten to write it down in their planner. It took them a full breath to process the question.
“That’s…reallycool, actually,” they said finally, when they were sure it was. The gentle, fiery feeling of the zines on the table still kindled in their chest. “What questions do you have?”
Sam whipped their phone out from their back pocket, opening what looked like a voice note app. Holding it between them, they asked, “Well, I want to know a little bit about what you’re doing here, withMixxedMedia. Can you tell me about what made you want to start the zine?”
Mal blinked at the red recording circle on Sam’s phone.
