Chapter Twelve No One Sells Mixtapes （or Zines） Anymore
Friday was a mess, but it was over.
This was the beauty of The Plan in action. When Mal followed it, they got things done—even if they felt like exhausted garbage that had been run over by a bus (twice) when they finished.
Their shoulders slumped from the weight of that exhaustion, Mal plodded down the stairs from the second floor of Holmes to the parking lot, where they’d meet Maddie for the walk home.
They had a reprieve, at least for the night: both of their parents were working late, so it was a “snacks on the sofa with their sister, co-op Animal Crossing marathon” kind of evening.
Mal always looked forward to these nights, but after the proper noun Day they’d had, and with another one ahead of them tomorrow, they were more excited than usual for the calm and the rest.
But Friday, it seemed, was not yet done with them.
“Oh, hi, Mal.”
Mal startled at the unexpected voice. Ms. Merritt had popped out from the door to the teacher’s lounge, a stack of freshly copied papers in her hands, still fragrant with chemicals. She smiled at Mal.
The page of Mal’s brain was overfull already, spilling into their margins and leaving them with at least 150 words to cut before they would have any space to work with for the rest of the day. They were much too tired to try and shape their expression into a proper, respectful mask.
They said, “Oh. Hi.”
Ms. Merritt seemed not to notice: a small blessing. “Emerson told me about your new zine. How exciting! You’ll have to let me know where you’re selling them so I can pick up a copy.”
“We’ll have them here, actually, at the end of the month,” Mal said, looking over Ms. Merritt’s shoulder at the exit beyond. Having them here on Monday hinged on Mal actually getting them done, but they left that part out. “I’ll make sure you get one.”
“Oh, Mal, honey, you can’t do that,” Ms. Merritt said. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but you can’t sell anything on school property if it’s not for a school-related activity. It’s against the no-soliciting policy.”
To her credit, Ms. Merritt’s frown looked genuine—but it took Mal a moment too long to process this. The page of their brain overflowed with new key-smashes and swear words.
Mal blinked. “But that’s the plan.”
“I’m sure Emerson can help you make a new one,” Ms. Merritt said. “She’s so good at those.”
If Mal had had a different day—if they had had any space left on their brain page at all—they would have said something else. But as it was, their backpack sat heavy on their shoulders, full of a weekend of homework and a planner without any space to fit it all in.
They said, “Oh. Sure. Okay.”
And before the acrid burn of anxiety in their throat could make them say anything else, Mal turned and left—but not without pulling up their school’s website.
After searching through the sloppy design to find it, they opened the student handbook.
It took three tries to remember the exact words Ms. Merritt had used before successfully locating the No-Soliciting Policy.
The first several paragraphs were a bunch of official-sounding nonsense about what did or did not constitute a school-run program. But there, under Item 3, was a list of prohibited sales, which Mal read over twice.
The sale of student-generated items or services which are not part of a school- or education-related program as detailed in Items 1 and 2 are prohibited on all campus grounds.
Such items include but not limited to: bakery or culinary products; comics, magazines, pamphlets, books, chapbooks, or other forms of reading material; Pogs or trading cards; cosmetology or nail technology services; craft items including beaded lizards, Rainbow Loom creations, and friendship bracelets; mixtapes.
Pushing through the door, Mal shook their head.
The policy clearly hadn’t been updated since at least 2012; no one sold mixtapes anymore.
And if they’d been any less worn down by the day, they might have wondered what led to the specific inclusion of beaded lizards.
But they were worn down, and only became more so each time they replayed the list in their mind.
By the time they found Maddie sitting on the curb by the now mostly empty parking lot, they weren’t even sure they could make the walk home.
“I have a proposition,” Maddie said, standing and dusting off the backside of her corduroys.
“Hmm?” Mal hummed, trying to sound engaged.
“We stop by the Rosales’s bakery on the way home and get a couple of those pumpkin conchas for tonight.” She waggled her eyebrows. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about them since we saw them in the window the other day.”
Mal had been thinking about them too—and how they’d like to get one for Emerson.
The treats she loved were always so sugary, but the ones Mal loved best were just a little sweet.
They thought she might like how the conchas tasted with a cup of Haus coffee—that maybe they could split one together, sitting side by side at the editors’ desk.
Maddie grinned down at them, clearly eager.
“Oh, sure,” they said. “Okay.”
It was only after Mal had a belly full of pumpkin concha and hot coffee that they realized how grumpy they had been before. The deal on half a dozen pastries that Mrs. Rosales had given them had definitely helped, too.
“That was so nice of her,” Maddie said, splitting another for the two Flowers siblings to share and relaxing back into her place on the sofa.
Mal nodded and took a bite, the seasonally spiced crackle topping dissolving pleasantly on their tongue.
The night had turned blustery, sending leaves scattering from trees and brushing up against the windows in a soft rhythm.
It matched the weather of Scary Town, Maddie’s Animal Crossing save file, almost perfectly.
Mal visited on their secondhand Switch, curled up on the sofa under a blanket, because they knew Maddie preferred to play on the TV.
“Want to shake trees to look for acorns?” Maddie asked.
Mal nodded again.
Here on the sofa with Maddie, surrounded by the gentle music of Scary Town and the glow of the TV, they felt a little less bad.
They always did, in the space the siblings created: the two of them together on the sofa, cozy and warm, all other expectations banished from the living room.
It would be easier for both of them if it was always like this.
They were at their best when they could just be, rather than trying to do what they were supposed to.
But their worry about the No-Soliciting rule still blustered around inside them like the leaves outside, rattling Mal’s bones as if they were the house’s old window frames.
It was a dull unrest, but one Mal couldn’t shake.
As they sat taking bites of concha and shaking in-game trees with Maddie (“Oop, there’s another—your turn to take it, Mal”), they let the feelings blow through them.
When the wind of worry died down, they were left with the melancholic sense that no matter what they did, they would never be doing the right thing when it came to school.
Mal tried—always, and so hard. They were always finding work-arounds, from crossing their 7’s so their dyslexia wouldn’t spin them into L’s to transitioning from magazine to zine.
But regardless of their efforts, there was always something off.
There was just something about Mal that existed outside the acceptable parameters of the rules.
For as long as they could remember—since eighth grade, at least—they had blamed themself for this.
It was them, after all, who couldn’t fit inside the margins.
But now, beside Maddie, they felt comfortable enough to reach out into the fringe of their brain page and examine another idea: maybe it was the rules, and not Mal, that were wrong this time.
By selling the zines at school, they were simply doing what they had to in order to keep up with The Plan—their own set of rules that kept them grounded within all the other sets of rules.
And while MixxedMedia was not, strictly speaking, an education-related program as detailed in Items 1 and 2 of the Holmes High School Student Handbook, it was still an education-related program.
Mal and Emerson and the rest of the staff had only taken it into their own hands because the school had failed them.
Frowning down at their Switch screen, Mal scrunched their nose. They had never really considered that someone other than them might be a failure. And yet the sudden certainty of it rested heavy in their stomach, vying for space with a second concha Maddie had split with them.
“Okay,” Maddie said, breaking up Mal’s swirling thoughts. “That’s enough acorns, I think. What would you like to do next?”
Mal looked up from their small screen. Their sister looked back, her expression open, easy, curious, comfortable.
For a second, Mal almost asked Can we talk about school, actually?
because they wanted Maddie to have answers for them.
Actionable solutions, like she always did.
But that new feeling in their stomach stopped them.
Maddie, who had never failed at anything, might not understand.
“Let’s go fishing,” they said instead, steering Animal Crossing Mal toward the bottom of the screen, headed for the ocean.
“Okay,” Maddie agreed, following them. “And let’s pile up all the sea bass we catch in front of Derwin’s house. He started calling me Ladybro, and we can’t let that go unpunished.”
Mal smiled despite themself. Even if they worried Maddie might not understand their school dilemma, they knew she would always understand their weird way of playing Animal Crossing.
“All right,” Mal said, casting out their line with one hand. With the other, they slid their phone from the sofa arm.