Chapter Eight Honk If You’re a Loser #2
“Yeah—” Mal started, but before they could finish, two things happened:
Mal’s mom rolled her window down and yelled, “GET A MOVE ON, MAL.”
And Emerson threw her arms around their shoulders, drawing them in for a hug.
After a breath spent processing, Mal closed their arms around Emerson’s waist, her hips soft beneath their forearms. They held her for half a heartbeat before, just as fast as she’d leaned in, Emerson bounced away again.
“See you Sunday!” she shouted, even though she didn’t really need to.
“See you Sunday,” said Mal, mystified.
As Emerson bounded back toward the Haus, Mal blinked after her, trying to catch up with everything that had just happened and to memorize how Emerson’s face had looked immediately after: all lit up with a grin that made her eyes sparkle, a hint of bright pink on her cheeks.
And then they crossed the street and climbed into the back seat of the minivan.
Thirty minutes into Maddie’s scrimmage, Mal still couldn’t stop playing those last moments with Emerson in their mind.
The blare of the van’s horn. The way their mom yelled out the window, loud enough for half of the Haus to hear.
The way Emerson threw her arms around Mal like it was no big deal, how warm they felt around Mal’s shoulders in the chill of the early-fall evening.
And the biggest deal was that the whole thing hadn’t been a big deal, at least not the way it might have been with someone else.
Mal wasn’t big on spontaneous PDA; it had been a sticking point in their previous relationships.
But instead of making them feel panicky and imposed upon, like most sudden hugs did, Emerson’s embrace had made Mal feel… good. Pleasant and warm. Tingly.
And it was nice, hugging another fat person.
Mal didn’t feel weird when their bellies touched like they sometimes did hugging thinner people.
It was oddly empowering remembering the feel of it.
Part of that still lingered, glowing in the center of Mal’s chest, whenever they imagined Emerson’s arms around them again.
But a whoop from the crowd pulled Mal back to the soccer stands and the crisp night air, which felt comparatively cold despite sitting close to their mom and wearing the red Bulldogs hoodie she had brought for them. On the field, Maddie’s team moved the ball toward the opposing goal.
“GO, MADDIE, GO,” Mal’s mom screamed beside them as Maddie… did soccer things on the field. Even after all these years, Mal could never really be sure what was happening. They always had Maddie to explain the bits they missed.
Still, they were glad they were there.
Mostly.
Part of them, the part that felt warm at the thought of Emerson, wished they were somewhere else—at the Pride Center, specifically.
It would be chilly there, too, but maybe they could find other ways to keep themself warm.
Like snuggling under a shared blanket with a hot black coffee in one hand and Emerson’s fingers tangled up in the other.
Mal frowned, burrowing down into the neck of their hoodie. This was the first time it had occurred to them that they might want to hold Emerson’s hand. And now that they’d thought about it, their fingers ached with the want of it.
But along with the want came a surge of guilt.
Not because of the hand-holding; Mal had stopped feeling guilty for being queer a long time ago.
They had to. While Maddie had been enthusiastically supportive both when Mal came out as bi and then again as nonbinary, their parents treated both pieces of information a lot like they did Mal’s ADHD diagnosis: They accepted it but never really understood it.
Or (Mal suspected, in their mom’s case) believed it.
And just like they couldn’t count on their support for the way their brain worked, Mal knew they couldn’t count on their support for who they loved either.
It was easier to just support themself—which was admittedly a challenge at first but was still much more comfortable in the long run.
No, Mal felt guilty because they wanted to be somewhere else. Much like The Plan, there was another order of business for Mal when it came to their time: Show Up For Maddie.
It was Mal’s Job, and had been for as long as they could remember.
Between her work schedule, her own social schedule, and trying to keep up with the house, their mom couldn’t be there for everything, and their dad could be there for even less, especially this time of year.
Once, Mal had had their own things to do too.
But in freshman year, when Maddie got more serious about soccer, Mal had noticed she often had to go to her practices and matches alone.
Though Maddie had never said it bothered her, Mal couldn’t imagine a world in which it wouldn’t.
And so, in much the same way they’d been making sure Maddie had an after-school snack since sixth grade, Mal made sure Maddie had someone in the stands.
Mal could always show up for their sister, even when no one else could—and so they did.
But now a nagging feeling itched at the corner of their brain.
What if Mal wanted to show up for someone else?
They had before. Mal and their neighborhood friends used to take the bus down to the river to watch the geese and the barges float by, but those friends had mostly moved houses or schools since Mal got held back.
In early freshman year, they would meet up with Stella at the library to hang around in the teen room and listen to her dream up the characters that had since become Xarrett and Talia, but once Mal’s friendship got to be too much work—once Mal got to be too much work—those visits stopped too.
Since then, there hadn’t been anything as pressing in their schedule as keeping to it, as upholding The Plan and Maddie’s necessary space within it.
Because while Maddie needed Mal to show up for her, Mal needed Maddie to do the same for them.
It wasn’t her fault The Plan was so rigid and cumbersome.
But the thought of watching But I’m a Cheerleader with Emerson still pulled at Mal’s mind as hard as Maddie banked the soccer ball toward the goal.
For a moment, Mal leaned into the want and wondered what would happen if they weren’t here to see Maddie make her shot—if they were instead in the parking lot of the Pride Center, sitting cross-legged under a blanket as the screen came to life. But then—
“That’s my baby girl!” their mom screamed, jumping to her feet along with the rest of the crowd. Mal stood too, just in time to see Maddie running back up field from the goal, her hands held high in victorious fists. The illuminated number on the scoreboard went up one point.
“Yessss, Maddie!” Mal yelled, pumping a fist. They beamed as they watched their sister’s teammates clap her on the back.
And immediately, Mal was glad they were here—and guilty they had considered being anywhere else.