Chapter Twenty-One The Haint History Fest
They set up as the sun went down.
Their setup was a bit cobbled together, but it worked: a handful of foldout tables borrowed from Emerson’s moms’ Pride-events stash; enough folding chairs for all of them, borrowed from the Haus; some Halloween-themed paper tablecloths Mal had bought from Dollar City using their pooled funds; and, of course, their zines (Mal’s among them, a last-minute decision), stacked neatly on the tabletop between jack-o’-lantern buckets full of candy, plastic spider rings, and glow-in-the-dark vampire fangs.
Next to the folks on either side of them, who had things like tents and lighting, their booth looked a little amateur, but Emerson assured Mal that this was part of its charm.
Even their tabling setup was full of rebellious DIY spirit.
Mal hoped that festival patrons would feel the same way.
They had a good spot, at least: close to the front of the event space near the Goose Girl Fountain, a towering bronze sculpture of a girl (tonight, wearing a seasonally appropriate laurel of autumn leaves) with a goose tucked under each arm, both of which spouted water from their beaks.
Mal had never been sure why she was there—other than for decoration, of course—but they eyed the geese with suspicion.
They were certain that there was something sinister about the statue under its turquoise patina, something that had little to do with the spookiness of the holiday.
As the sun went down just after five p.m., the festival’s start time, Mal held their breath—and the first of their patrons approached the table.
Maybe it was the bribe of free candy, or their lucky placement close to the front, but the MixxedMedia booth saw heavy traffic.
The staff had agreed to take shifts at the table so everyone could have a chance to enjoy the festival.
Mal (underdressed in a ghost-print sweater from the plus-size section of Walmart and some silvery makeup Parker had applied as they loaded in) and Emerson (dressed as a “glitter cat,” she said, which meant cat ears, painted-on whiskers, and anything sparkly she could find in her closet, by the looks of it) took the first shift, along with Sam, who had volunteered to support them, and one of their friends from college.
As staffers flitted to and from the booth, bringing goodies and craft finds and chatter about what Mal had to check out when it was their turn to wander, Mal talked to people who visited their table.
They explained what mini zines were and handed out take-home kits (a donation from one of the arts programs Emerson attended), sold a surprising number of zines (including the first copy of their own, to Emerson, who tipped them a kiss on the cheek), and talked to a couple of actual adults who seemed really interested in what they were doing.
Among them were the owner of Uncommon Grounds, Mal’s favorite coffee place, and the guy who ran the art bar around the corner.
They both asked to be added to the consignment list for the monthly zines—and asked if they could take a sampling of the mini zines for resale at their stores too.
“I think so?” Mal had answered.
“What they mean is,” Emerson cut in, practically bouncing out of her glittery cowboy boots, “hell yeah, we’d love that!”
Usually, so much time being On—how Mal thought of times when they had to keep it together and talk with tons of people all at once, like they were an actor on a stage—would leave them feeling fatigued.
(Often, even the daily performances of School and Work were enough to exhaust them.) But as Mal took a quick step back to take a sip from Emerson’s water bottle, they felt strangely energized instead.
Talking to people about something they cared about was actually really exciting.
And they had taken extra time with a pair of younger kids, unfolding a copy of their A Walk, Divergent zine to show them that yes, it really was one page, and that if they used one of the take-home kits, they could make one too.
As the kids rushed off with the little paper envelope of supplies in hand, the idea that the two little girls might make something because of their talk with Mal made them feel a little giddy.
Mal smiled and wondered what they might have done, at that young age, with a mini-zine take-home kit—and maybe with someone like themself to talk to, to encourage them to try.
A familiar voice broke through their thoughts. “This is the person of the hour.” Sam slid around from the other side of the U-shaped table setup, their college friend coming with them. “Mal, meet Emily Hartig. Em, meet Mal Flowers. Emily’s a big fan of what you’re doing here.”
“This is so cool, Mal,” Emily said. She was slim, with long red hair that was mostly wrapped up in her mummy costume. Pinned to one of her bandage wraps was a lesbian Pride flag. “Literally, I’m blown away.”
Mal resisted the urge to say she wasn’t literally blown away, and instead said “Thanks” like they were supposed to. Then they added the truth: “It was Emerson’s idea.”
“But y’all are a team,” Sam said. “Don’t let her take all the credit. Because she will, and she will run with it.”
“It’s true!” Emerson shouted over her shoulder, then turned back to the bewildered customer who was buying a copy of James’s vampire zine.
“She’s so great, though.” Mal smiled, the words mostly for themself. “She can take it.”
Emily turned to Sam and said, “We should do something like this at NKU, Sam. If these two will let us borrow the idea.”
“Huh?” Mal said, before they could process properly and say something that sounded smart.
“I’m in Sam’s program!” Emily beamed. “Or, well. We’re studying the same thing. Dr. Barnett would lose it for something this cool.”
“Oh,” Mal said, considering. “You both study zines?”
“Technically queer literary tradition and zine culture,” Emily corrected, in a tone that made Mal wonder if she and Sam had to clear that up often. “But yeah. There’s a couple of us, actually. I’ve seen a few of the usual suspects here tonight.”
Emily indicated two people browsing at the tables, both of whom looked like they would be right at home with the MixxedMedia staff: They, too, were colorfully and visibly queer. (At least, Mal assumed no one with a mullet as sick as the person at the far table’s could not be queer.)
“We always find our people,” Sam said, watching Mal. “We basically do what you do with MixxedMedia, but we get grades for it.”
Mal’s head spun. They hadn’t known this was something people could do at school.
When Sam had originally told them about their major, Mal had assumed it was a Just Them specialization.
The Plan relied on what Mal knew about college, which only extended so far, to the things they saw in media or at college fairs or that got talked up by their bored guidance counselor.
They’d assumed that college would be like school always was for them: something they tolerated (math, history, most things) with brief interludes of things they enjoyed (English, biology, and Collage, before it was canceled).
Mal had never considered that they could do something they actually liked, all the time, and get a degree for it.
Remembering the two girls they’d helped earlier, Mal wished they had told them about this. It felt like the sort of information other people needed to have.
“You can really do that?” they asked, hesitantly.
Sam and Emily exchanged a gentle laugh at the wonder in Mal’s voice.
“Really,” said Sam.
“Like really really,” said Emily.
“Could you…” Mal trailed off, feeling the urge to look over their shoulder as if they might be caught.
But behind them was only Emerson, talking animatedly with a couple and gesturing back over at Mal.
Whatever she was saying about them must have been good, because she was beaming.
Mal looked back to Sam. “Could you bring me some more information? About your program, I mean.”
“Yeah, I could super do that.” Sam nodded, like this was a casual statement and not a revolution. “I’ll have it for you at the Haus as soon as I can.”
When it came time for them to tap out and Nylan and Parker—dressed up as Sailor Uranus and Sailor Neptune, respectively—came to take over, Mal actually felt a little sad to leave the booth. It felt nice, being part of things here.
But Emerson was ready to wander.
“Come on, let’s go!” she shouted, a blur of glitter and motion twinkling under the string lights draped in the branches above. “I have about a million things I want to show you!”
And she did. Emerson, it turned out, was an expert Haint History Festival tour guide.
As she told Mal—at length, and often through a mouthful of whatever sweet treat she’d stopped to pick up along the way—she had come to this festival every year, minus her freshman one, for as long as she could remember.
Under Emerson’s guidance, Mal stopped at all the best booths, admiring handicrafts and hand-dipped toffee apples even though they couldn’t buy them.
With Emerson’s assurance that they wouldn’t get caught—she promised—they circled back for a second sample-size cup of free hot mulled cider.
They carefully dodged around adults in Halloween finery and little kids in their came-in-a-bag costumes, out for a night of trick-or-treating at neighborhood homes and small businesses.
Passing the row of food trucks, Mal debated splurging on a bratwurst with sauerkraut or some spam musubi, but in the end they decided that enjoying a handful of Emerson’s black-and-orange-sprinkled kettle corn would be enough.