Page 61 of I Saw You First

Oh, no. No, no, no. I meet Dad’s eyes, willing him to not say another word. Wil doesn’t know about the zine. Not that it’s a big deal, because what I do in my free time is my own business, but⁠—

“The magazine?” Wil asks, and there’s something tight and pinched in his tone. “What magazine?”

My cheeks heat. “Not a magazine. This guy I went to college with, Hal⁠—”

Mom cuts me off. “You don’t know about the magazine? Abbey, why doesn’t he know about the magazine? Here we go…” She reaches into her giant mahogany leather handbag and pulls out a sheath of bright lime-green papers.

Oh. No.

“Mom, really⁠—”

“Take one of these. And let me see if I have any older issues.”

Wil takes the zine and peers at the cover, a collage of grainy images: voters at the polls, an I Voted sticker, and a hand-drawn graphic of suffragettes. Rhodes on the race, the headline reads, and in smaller print below: Will women voters give Clinton the edge?

“You write for a zine.” It’s not a question. “Huh.”

“It’s a side gig,” I cry, “helping out a friend from college, building up my portfolio…” Damn. I shouldn’t have said that.

Mom pulls another stack from her bag. “Here’s the one about the Ruh-Roh show, although I have to say, I wish you would be more careful, Abbey.”

“The Ruh-Roh show?” Wil echoes and takes the offered zine.

“Jesus, Mom, how many do you have in there?”

Dad puffs up his chest. “We bought every copy they had at Rooted Market last week.”

Tamsa snickers. “Oh, yes, that Ruh-Roh article is very good. And funny!”

I glare at her. “Not helping,” I hiss, then turn back to my parents. “Look, I appreciate the support, but psycho logic has a very, very small print run. Like five hundred copies. You can’t buy every copy. What do you do, carry around a roll of quarters? And it’s not like selling out is going to make them print more. It’s like… it’s like…” I turn to Wil. “What am I trying to say? False something?”

“Artificial demand,” he says dryly. “Sort of.”

“Yes! Artificial demand! You can’t create demand by buying every copy and carrying them around in your handbag! Hal’s barely making enough to cover printing costs!”

“But we’re so proud of you, Abbey,” Mom says, “even if you did lose your job at TC Weekly, and even if you’re writing these clever little articles for free. I hand them out to friends at church and Jazzercise!”

Wow. I think she just insulted me. Multiple times.

“I get paid ten dollars an article,” I remind her. “Please, buy one copy if you have to. That’s it. One. Save the rest for the people who really want to read it. Your Jazzercise friends are not the target readership.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to reading these, Rhodes,” Wil says. There’s something just below the surface in his tone, and I can’t quite tell if it’s pride or disappointment or a little of both.

“You see?” Mom says. “You should be proud that you’re at least using your college degree!”

Tamsa snorts. “And on that note,” she says, “I’ve got to go. I’ve got a date.”

“Not the guy from Williams Pub?” I ask.

“God, no. One and done, remember?” She gives me a hug. “Grant Lee Buffalo’s playing at Seventh Street Entry next week. Want to go?”

“I’ll have to check my schedule.” And my bank account.

“We need to go, too, apple,” Dad says. “Come over for supper tomorrow night if you can. Glamma misses you.”

Tomorrow’s Sunday, ad set, which wipes me out. I hug my parents and turn to Wil after they leave. “Are you mad? About the zine?”

His eyes narrow as he stares at me for long seconds. I hold my breath. Please, please don’t be mad at me about this.