Chapter Four The Haus on 3rd Street #4
“Don’t worry, it won’t be,” Emerson reassured, managing to somehow take notes and watch Mal at the same time. “We can do the actual printing at the library, because it’s waaay cheaper than, like, the print store. It’ll be practically nothing—like fifty to a hundred bucks max.”
There was that number again. Mal swallowed. Fifty to a hundred bucks was seven to fourteen hours of their time at Dollar City. “I can’t afford that, Emerson.”
“It’s cool, I’ll front the first print,” Emerson said, “and then we can cover the next run with what we earn back. If we keep the same price as before—it was five dollars a pop, right?—we can do that easy-peasy.”
Mal shrugged. Five dollars wasn’t always easy-peasy for them. “I guess.”
“Mal,” Emerson said, leaning in again. She waved her hands at Mal, fingers wiggling like she was trying to filter out the truth of the matter. “I’m sensing hesitation here. You sound—respectfully—like a wet blanket. Come on. What can we do to fix it?”
Mal looked up from their planner. They had expected Emerson to look sassy, or sarcastic, or some combination of the two. Instead, Emerson looked… open. Curious, with her pen poised to take notes.
So, taking a deep breath, they decided to suggest a change.
“Since production costs will be lower, maybe we can lower the price a little?” Mal swallowed. “Could we still earn our investment back at, like… two dollars an issue?”
That was much easier for people like Mal—it was a soda at the machine in the hall at school, or a coffee like the one they’d bought from Sam.
Emerson shrugged like it was no big deal. “Oh, sure, absolutely.”
It felt like a small rebellion, changing the price. Mal cocked an eyebrow. They hadn’t expected it to be that easy. “Really?”
Emerson shrugged. “I mean, probably! If you think I can do the math in my head that fast, then bless your heart, but, like. It sounds like the math is mathing, at least. So like, ninety-eight percent yes, absolutely.”
A grin tugged at Mal’s lips. “So, absolutely, minus two percent.”
“You get me,” Emerson squeaked, shoving playfully at Mal’s knee. The same hand then flew to her Post-its, sticking another onto her notebook page. “Okay, what’s next?”
“I think that’s it for that item.” Mal consulted their own notes. “Now there’s just the third.” This was the one Mal was most nervous about. They swallowed and asked: “Who will be involved?”
“You, duh,” Emerson said immediately. “As editor in chief, since that’s what you were before we got the axe.
And me, of course, as…” Emerson pursed her lips.
“Is there another editor-in-something I can be? Or, like… support editor? Cleric to the editor? I can do all the arts and craft parts—and bring you coffee and snacks and healing potions.”
Emerson’s grin turned toothy, her expression vibrant. Though they hadn’t meant to, Mal was grinning too—and laughing. The sound was almost too loud for the room, but the thick rug in the middle of the space muffled it.
“How about managing editor?” Mal wasn’t sure that was exactly right, but it at least seemed to fit.
“Love it. Sold.” Emerson nodded. “Who else?”
Mal’s warm laughter slowed, then stilled. This was the question of the hour.
“It seems fair to ask everyone who was on Collage if they want to be part of this,” Mal conceded, because it was the Right Thing To Do. Even if it meant including Stella, too.
“Yeah, but it feels a bit weird to call a meeting at school about it, what with Ms. Merritt making everything sound so… this is the end.”
Mal nodded. “Exactly.” Even agreeing to this meeting with Emerson felt a little Against The Rules. The whole idea of a zine felt distinctly like something their mom—and colleges—wouldn’t approve of.
But even as those truths raised the tension in their shoulders, there was another one building in their chest. It felt a little like excitement, if excitement seemed practical and doable.
Mal was starting to believe that maybe—maybe—they could pull this off.
“What if we ask everyone quietly?” Mal felt a surge of guilt as the words left their mouth. “Split the list and reach out to folks between classes?”
“Yeah, that could work,” said Emerson. “Whisper-network style. Very clandestine. I like it.”
Mal decidedly didn’t, but they nodded anyway. It was the only way.
“And whoever does say yes, maybe we could have another meeting on Friday to discuss—” Mal’s head swam with all the things they would need to figure out. The tingle of excitement in their chest dimmed by a measure. “Everything, I guess?”
“Perfect.” Emerson clapped, clicked her pen. “We’ll just need to split the list.”
And they did, chatting over the names. Emerson wrote them out in scratchy purple ink on one of those bright yellow Post-its, then tore it in half down the middle and gave one side to Mal. Their list contained easy folks, like Nylan, but also harder ones, like Stella.
“Doable?” Emerson asked.
For the editor in chief, it had to be. Mal nodded.
“Well, Mal.” Emerson waggled her eyebrows in a way so silly Mal couldn’t help but smile. “I think this is the most productive meeting this back room has ever seen.”
“Really?” Mal leaned in.
“Yeah. I mean, to be fair it hasn’t seen any meetings other than our holiday party last year—and let me tell you, once Sai broke out the peppermint schnapps, that was not productive.”
Mal laughed again. It felt unexpectedly open and natural in their chest.
“So, we’re in, huh?” Emerson laughed too. “Like, we’re really doing this thing?”
Were they?
Mal looked at Emerson: her easy grin, the smudge of purple ink on her cheek where she’d accidentally wiped her finger and left a mark, the sheer brightness of her.
Mal still wasn’t entirely sure about this whole thing.
Collage as a zine already had a very different vibe than Collage as a magazine, as if those extra four letters had made a world of difference.
And this desk—sturdy though it was—felt off too.
Even their coffee cup, now almost empty and getting soggy at the bottom, felt not quite right.
Disposable, like the budget that brought them here in the first place.
They were closer to The Plan than they had been on the walk here, but everything was still… off, like their dyslexic mind had rearranged it, misread it: The Lanp, maybe, or The Panl.
But there was no denying that, with Emerson, they had crushed this planning meeting. And if Mal was going to make this work—the zine and the Haus and The Plan—then they were going to have to do it with Emerson Pike.
“We’re doing this thing,” Mal said with a nod. They tried to make it look enthusiastic but settled for resolute.
“Fuck yeah!” Emerson squealed, so loud that a man passing through the other room peeked around the corner with a disapproving frown. Emerson snorted, then added, quieter, “Fuck yeah we are, Mal Flowers. Come on. Official business. Let’s shake on it.”
Emerson extended her hand, and Mal’s eyebrows pulled together in a frown.
It was such a silly, dorky gesture. But the look on Emerson’s face was so genuine that Mal couldn’t help giving in.
They took Emerson’s hand in their own. It was warm where they held it, soft and comfortable like a favorite sweater.
Mal shook it three times, gently. When they let go, Emerson’s finger left a faint hint of purple ink stain on the back of Mal’s palm.
And just like that, the deal was sealed: for better or worse, in purple ink.