Chapter Five Too Much #2
And there it was: the discouragement. Mal knew—or at least hoped—that it wasn’t malicious, that it came from a place of wanting Mal to live a normal life, but it was always there, at the edge of anything they ever did: their parents’ disbelief in them.
While Maddie was encouraged to do more—play for a travel soccer team during summers, or go out for captain, or pick up tutoring sessions at the parish community center—Mal was, without fail, encouraged to do less.
For a long time, this had made Mal resent Maddie.
It wasn’t fair that she got to do All The Things when Mal couldn’t even do what they needed to do.
But resenting Maddie was hard: She was kind and patient and tried harder to understand them than anyone Mal had ever known.
It wasn’t always easy being Maddie’s sibling, but sometimes Mal wondered if it was even easy being Maddie—if she ever felt like she had to do all the things, since Mal couldn’t.
Now their resentment rested sloppily on their mom and dad—and, really, on Mal themself.
Most of the time, they felt like the disparity between them was their fault for not being able to do as much.
“I won’t, okay?” they huffed, pushing up from where they had been so comfortably sitting. “I’ll be fine. I won’t bug you with any of it, at all. I can do it on my own.”
“I just don’t want you to burn out,” he called after them, but it was too late; Mal was already off down the hallway and up the stairs to their bedroom.
And like their dad’s warning was some sort of prophecy, by the time Mal flung themself onto their bed, they found themself in that place of How They Could Get: their thoughts turned up to eleven out of ten, their clothes feeling too tight and too scratchy, themself feeling Wrong, proper noun.
Though some part of them was distantly aware that they should finish their notes for Stella, that they should brush their hair and teeth and change into their sleep clothes, suddenly the only thing they could do was lie very still on their bed in the dark of their room and try very hard not to let out the full-body scream they felt coursing through their whole being.
Mal stayed like that, stock-still and screaming internally, until a single thought solidified in their brain:
Maybe they were already doing too much.
Mal’s dad had apparently talked to Mal’s mom about The Mal Problem.
Though they couldn’t be sure when, exactly—their parents worked opposite schedules most days—they were certain he had.
That morning, while she waited for Mal to finish pouring a second cup of coffee from the old machine on the kitchen counter (How They Could Get made them especially tired the day after), she had given Mal the same “Mal, Please Don’t Do Too Much” speech as their dad had the night before.
It only made what they had to do today feel more Important.
Compounding this was the text they received halfway through the school day, on their way back to History class after lunch.
HI!!! I FINISHED MY LIST!!!!!
“Who’s that?” asked Maddie, turning from a good-bye with a lunch-hour friend and eyeing Mal’s phone.
Usually, Mal avoided using their phone at school, even in the hallway.
It was Against The Rules, and while Mal thought this one in particular was silly (really, what else was there to do in the hallway, other than walk to class and check your texts?), they still didn’t like to break it. They shrugged.
“Emerson,” they answered, and then added, “but it’s nothing, just—”
But before Mal could finish, their screen flashed brighter with a new paragraph of text.
And some people said maybe!!!!! Which I think is as good as a yes especially once we make one kick-ass first run and they see how good this is going to be! SO BASICALLY everyone said yes, they just don’t know it yet
“It’s about Collage,” Mal corrected themself, because the text being even adjacently school-related made checking it feel less like breaking the rules—and because, even through the inappropriate caps and the too many exclamation points, Mal could see that the thesis of Emerson’s text was good news for their magazine. Zine. They sent back:
Cool.
Thanks.
And, thumbs hovering over the screen as they considered it, finally:
Mal almost never used emojis—as in “only once or twice a year” almost never—but a bit of good news about Collage (and Emerson’s own flagrant overuse) warranted one.
After that, they didn’t want to have to share bad news with her. And so, after spending most of History scanning their mostly finished conversation notes and pepping themself up for it, Mal set out to find Stella in the halls before fifth period.
But they were so focused on not forgetting their answers for possible conversation paths that they walked straight past her before their brain caught up. They stopped abruptly, then backtracked, calling out, “Hey! Stella!”
Stella turned, one eyebrow already raised into Perturbed Position (an emotional indicator Mal had grown familiar with over the course of their friendship).
“Oh,” she said, connecting the voice to Mal, who had doubled back to stand in front of her. “It’s you.”
“Yes,” said Mal.
A beat passed, and Stella huffed. “So, what do you want, Mal?”
This was easy. “I wanted to see if you’d be interested in an alternative approach to Collage this year,” they started. “Like Emerson said in the meeting on the first day—about taking it rogue.”
Even saying the word out loud felt like a rebellion, despite Mal having said it several times already this week as they posed it to other staffers. It sat awkwardly on their tongue.
They tried not to let this show. But Mal had never been terribly good at keeping their feelings off their face. And clearly, Stella could tell.
“Wow, Mal,” she said. “That look is really selling it.” She paused, perching a hand on her hip. “And that depends. Who is going to edit, and how are you planning on telling me it’s me?”
Mal had prepared for this too. They shifted mentally down their notes.
“Sorry, but the editorial staff is already filled. However, as a valued contributor to Collage, I wanted to make sure to invite you to join the team.”
It sounded wooden and rehearsed when they said it.
“Please, Mal, you mean as the person who moved copies.” Stella rolled her eyes. “You know Jade’s bad fanfic isn’t doing it. And let me guess—the editor in chief position went to you?”
Well.
“Yes,” Mal admitted. “With Emerson assisting as managing editor. But your work is always so clean, Stella, it won’t even matter.”
“Not to you, but you’re not the one who gets the red ink, Mal. That’s a hard pass from me,” Stella said. “Good luck with all that.”
Mal froze. The conversation ideas they’d come up with evaporated from their mind under the burning heat of Stella’s stare, any proper retorts lost to the How They Could Get of last night. So they just said, “Okay,” and walked away.
Mal’s cheeks burned as they went, a familiar feeling creeping over them.
This was how they had felt every day toward the end of things with Stella.
When Mal went along with what she needed, everything was fine, but as soon as Mal had thoughts or feelings or opinions, it was Too Much To Ask.
That phrase had become eerily similar in Mal’s head to How They Could Get: another indicator that the way they related to people was Wrong. Their pace quickened.
They had only made it two classroom doors down when Stella’s voice and footfalls caught up with them.
“Wait,” she said, stopping Mal short. They turned to face Stella, who went on, one hand still perched impatiently on her hip: “I know you need me, Mal.”
“Yeah.” There wasn’t any point lying. Their face would just give the truth away.
“And if you want to play editors with Emerson, then whatever.” She waved her hand dismissively.
“But the unfortunate truth is that, if I want to get into a writing program, I need a writing-related activity on my application. And it looks like your little project is the only game in town. So fine. I’m in. ”
Mal blinked, their cheeks still burning. They hadn’t planned for this. “Oh. Okay, good.”
“But,” Stella went on firmly. “Only if I get a feature spot in every issue, a real biography with my piece—not just a byline, I’m talking three sentences minimum and a photograph—and input on the cover.
Respectfully, the knockoff literary journal look Ms. Merritt came up with was a nineties throwback, and not in the cool way. ”
They helped Ms. Merritt come up with covers—or at least pick them from the prefab designs the print company offered. Mal frowned.
“I can’t promise you all that, Stella,” Mal said. They should have checked with Emerson about bargaining tools—an idea that only occurred to them now. And now that they thought about it, they should also have planned for Stella having a list of demands. None of this was in their notes.
“Sure you can, Mx. Editor in Chief,” Stella taunted. “If you want the power, you’ve got it. Are you too afraid to use it?”
Well, no—Mal wasn’t afraid. They just weren’t used to having any power to use in the first place. And historically this had been where Mal said Okay, Stella and relented, because it was easier than saying anything else.
But it would be a jerk move to grant all of this without Emerson’s approval. Thinking back to their weekend meeting made Mal feel a little bit warm, especially when they thought about Emerson’s smile. They didn’t want to be the one who turned it into a frown.
But Emerson had put Stella on Mal’s list for a reason: because they were In Charge and they knew the magazine better than anyone else. Which meant they also knew Stella’s attitude better than anyone else.
Standing in its full blast again was not much fun.
Just then, Mal’s phone buzzed in their pocket. They could think of only one person brazen enough to bother them at school—and that thought filled them with just enough edge that they said what they needed to.
“Okay,” Mal spat. “You’re in for a feature, and you can have a real bio—but at the back, with everyone else’s. And I can’t give you the cover—that’s Emerson’s thing.” She was really excited about it. “But if you’re in, you’re in. No drama. No hostile takeover.”
Stella considered this for a moment, chewing the inside of her glossed lip.
“Okay,” she said, after an eternity had passed. “I’m in. And no hostile takeover—just a swift exit if things go south. If you want to captain this ship, Mal, you can go down with it alone.”
Mal rolled their eyes. They’d been on the receiving end of a Swift Stella Exit before.
“Sure thing,” they said. “We’re meeting tomorrow. I’ll send you the details.”
A saccharine smile spread over Stella’s lips as she turned to walk away. “Can’t wait!”
Mal could. And as they hurried to their next class, they couldn’t quite shake the feeling that their notes had been absolutely useless. Dodging around other hallway stragglers, they texted Emerson straightaway.
Stella’s in.
Regrettably.
Three dots appeared instantly. Mal waited for the coming onslaught of exclamation points.