“Georgie. Where’s my Unabomber joke?”

“Who can be sure? Probably holed up in Montana.”

“That was a great joke that you cut.”

“It was a joke? See, it’d be a lot easier for me if you made your jokes funny. Then I wouldn’t get so confused.”

By junior year, Georgie and Seth were writing a weekly column together on page two of The Spoon. Georgie was finally starting to feel like she belonged on staff. Like she was good enough.

She shared a desk with Seth then, too; that’s when they first got used to it. Seth liked to have Georgie close enough that he could pull her hair, and Georgie liked having Seth close enough to kick.

“Shit, Georgie, that really hurt—you’re wearing Doc Martens.”

Georgie remembered the Unabomber tantrum because they were in the middle of it the first time she saw Neal down at The Spoon. Seth was telling her that he wanted their column to be more political. More “wry” . . .

“I can pull off wry, Georgie, don’t tell me I—”

“Who was that?” she interrupted him.

“Who?”

“That guy who just walked into the production room.”

Seth leaned back to see past her. “Which one?”

“Blue sweatshirt.”

“Oh.” He sat up again. “That’s the cartoon hobbit. You don’t know the cartoon hobbit?”

“No. Why do you call him that?”

“Because he does the thing—you know, the cartoon, at the back of the paper.” Seth had a copy of The Spoon and was writing his Unabomber joke in the margin of their column. “One down, four thousand ninety-nine copies to go.”

“That’s who writes Stop the Sun? The comic strip?”

“Writes. Draws. Scrawls.”

“That’s the funniest part of the magazine.”

“No, Georgie, we’re the funniest part of the magazine.”

“That’s Neal Grafton?” She was trying to look into the production room without turning her head.

“Indeed.”

“Why haven’t I seen him down here before?”

Seth looked up at her and lowered an eyebrow suspiciously. “I don’t know. He’s not much of a people person.”

“You’ve met him?”

“Do you have a crush on the cartoon hobbit?”

“I’ve barely even seen him,” she said. “I just think he’s crazy talented—I thought Stop the Sun was syndicated. Why do you call him the hobbit?”

“Because he’s short and fat and hobbity.”

“He’s not fat.”

“You’ve barely even seen him.” Seth reached over Georgie to grab her copy of The Spoon and started writing his joke on the inside cover.

Georgie tipped back in her chair and peeked into the production room. She could just see Neal hunched over a drafting table, half-obscured by a pole.

“We are the funniest thing in the magazine,” Seth mumbled.

Scotty brought back coffee, but it didn’t help.

Georgie had a headache. And a stomachache. And her hair still smelled like Heather’s sugary shampoo, even though she’d washed it again.

She told herself she was just tired. But it didn’t feel like tired—it felt like scared. Which didn’t make any sense. Nothing was wrong, nothing was coming. She just . . .

She hadn’t talked to Neal for two and a half days.

And they’d never gone this long without talking. Not since they’d met. Well, practically not since they’d met.

It’s not that things were always . . . (What word was she looking for? Hunky-dory? Smooth? Happy?) It’s not that things were always . . . easy between Georgie and Neal.

Sometimes, even when they were talking, they weren’t really talking. Sometimes they were just negotiating each other. Keeping each other posted.

But it had never been like this before. Radio silence.

There’d always been his voice.

Georgie would feel better if she could hear Neal’s voice.

When Seth ran out to get lunch, she holed up in their office to try Neal again. She dialed his cell number and waited, tapping her fingers on her desk.

“Hello?” someone said doubtfully—like the person wasn’t actually sure that this was a phone and that she was indeed answering it. Neal’s mom.

“Margaret? Hey, it’s Georgie.”

“Georgie, hi there. I wasn’t sure if the phone was ringing or if this was an iPod. I thought I might be answering an iPod.”

“I’m glad you risked it. How are you?”

“You know, Naomi was watching TV on this thing earlier. In the same room as a perfectly good television. We’re living in the future, I guess. It’s not even really shaped like a phone, is it? More like a deck of cards . . .”

Margaret was the only person who called Noomi by her given name. It always made Georgie wince—even though Georgie was the one who’d named her.

“I guess you’re right,” Georgie said. “I’ve never thought about it. How are you, Margaret? Sorry I called so late the other night.”

“Georgie, can you hear me?”

“I can hear you fine.”

“Because I don’t know where the microphone is—this phone is so small.”

“It is small, you’re right.”

“Do I hold it up to my ear or my mouth?”

“Um”—Georgie had to think about that, even though she was talking on the same style of phone—“your ear. I guess.”

“My cell phone flips open. It seems more like a real phone.”

“I think your mother has Asperger’s,” Georgie had said to Neal.

“They didn’t get Asperger’s in the ’50s.”

“I’m just saying maybe she’s on the spectrum.”

“She’s just a math teacher.”

“Margaret”—Georgie forced herself to smile, hoping it would make her sound less impatient—“is Neal around?”

“He is. Did you want to talk to him?”

“That would be great. Yes. Thank you.”

“He just took the girls over to Dawn’s. She’s got a cockatiel, you know, and she thought the girls might like to see it.”

“Dawn,” Georgie said.

Dawn, the girl next door. The literal girl next door. Dawn, Neal’s ex-almost-fiancée. (It shouldn’t count if there was never a ring, right? If it was just a summer-vacation verbal agreement?)

God. And country. And fuck.

Why couldn’t Neal have a string of ex-girlfriends? Girls that he’d talked to, girls that he’d dated. Girls he’d used for sex, then felt bad about later . . . Why did he just have to have Dawn?

Dawn always came by Neal’s mom’s house to say hi when Georgie and Neal were in town; she lived next door and took care of her parents.

Dawn had pretty brown eyes and smooth brown hair. She was a nurse. She was divorced. She brought the kids stuffed animals that made it back to California and lived on their beds.

Georgie’s head hurt. Her hair smelled like poisonous cupcakes.

“Amadeus!” Margaret said, like she was remembering something.

“Sorry?” Georgie asked, clearing her throat.

“Amadeus. That’s Dawn’s cockatiel. He’s quite a bird.”

“Maybe you could just tell him that I called.”

Margaret was quiet for a few seconds and then—“Oh, you mean Neal.”

“I do. Yeah.”

“Sure, of course, Georgie. I’ll tell him.”

“Thanks, Margaret. Tell him to call me back anytime.”

“Sure. Oh, wait, before you go—Merry Christmas, Georgie! I hope your new show gets picked up.”

Georgie paused. And remembered that she really did like Neal’s mom. “Thanks, Margaret. Merry Christmas. Hug those girls for me.”

“Georgie, wait, how do I hang up on you?”

“I’ll hang up on you. That’ll take care of it.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“I’m hanging up now, Margaret. Merry Christmas.”

“That’s funny, right?” Seth asked, then repeated a joke for the fourth time. “Is it funny? Or is it just weird?”

Georgie wasn’t sure. She was having a hard time staying focused.

“I need a break,” Scotty said. “I can’t even see straight.”

“Push through it,” Seth ordered. “This is where the magic happens.”

“This is where I go get frozen yogurt.”

“All you do is eat. You eat, then you start thinking about the next thing you’re going to eat.”

“Eating is the only thing that breaks the monotony,” Scotty said.

Seth’s eyebrows shot up. “This isn’t monotony. This is the f**king dream.”

“It will be,” Scotty said. “When I have some yogurt.”

“Georgie. Tell him. No frozen yogurt until he says something funny.”

Georgie was slouched down in her chair with her feet up on the table and her eyes closed. “Can’t talk. Too much magic happening.”

“Do you want frozen yogurt, Georgie?” Scotty asked from the door.

“No, thanks.”

She heard the door close. Then felt a pen bounce off her shoulder.

“You should take a nap,” Seth said.

“Hmmm.”

“We need a napping couch. Passing Time is going to have a napping couch. Remember the couch at The Spoon? That was a first-rate napping couch.”

Georgie remembered. It was gray velvet and worn smooth on the cushions. If Georgie was sitting on it, Seth would sit down right beside her, even if there was plenty of room. Even if there was no room at all. He liked to rest his head in her lap or on her shoulder. If he didn’t have a girlfriend, she’d let him. (He almost always had a girlfriend.)

Seth was a relentless flirt. Even with Georgie—maybe especially with Georgie.

For the first few months after they met, she found all the attention thrilling. And then—when she realized that Seth flirted with everyone, and that he was usually actively chasing another girl—it was heart-breaking.

And then it was just noise. Like his talking. Like his humming. Georgie liked it, even when she wasn’t paying attention. Sitting on the napping couch, Seth’s head on her shoulder, his wavy cherrywood hair tickling her ear . . .

They were sprawled out on the napping couch the second time Georgie saw Neal. Seth had a girlfriend at the time—leggy, cheekbony, actressy—so he was supporting his own head. Georgie stuck her elbow in his ribs. “There he is again.”

“Ow. Who?”

“The cartoonist,” she said.

“The hobbit?”

“I’m going to go introduce myself.”

“Why?”

“Because we work together,” Georgie said. “It’s what people do.”

“He doesn’t work here. He just turns in his cartoons here.”

“I’m going to introduce myself. And tell him how much I like his work.”

“You’ll wish you hadn’t,” Seth warned. “He’s a scowler. He’s the least friendly hobbit in the Shire.”

“Stop talking Tolkien at me. All I know is ‘Frodo lives.’”

Seth laid his head on her shoulder.

Georgie shrugged him off. “I’m going. To introduce myself.” She got off the couch.

“Fine,” he moped. “I hope you’re very happy together. Cute little hobbit couple with lots of roly-poly hobbit babies.”

Georgie turned back to him, but didn’t stop walking away. “I’m not hobbity.”

“You’re short, Georgie.” He spread out across the couch. “And round, and pleasant-looking. Deal with it.”

Georgie turned the corner into the production room and stopped. The writers almost never went back to the production room. The artists hung out back here—and the paste-up people on the nights that The Spoon was going to press.

Neal was sitting at a drafting table. He had a penciled comic strip laid out in front of him, and he was opening a bottle of India ink. There was a radio somewhere playing the Foo Fighters.

Georgie thought about going back to the couch.

“Hi,” she said instead.

Neal glanced up at her without lifting his head, then looked back at his comic. “Hi.”

He was wearing a black T-shirt under blue flannel, and his hair was dark and short, almost military-short.

“You’re Neal, right?”

He didn’t look up again. “Right.”

“I’m Georgie.”

“Are you?”

“Sorry?”

“Are you really?” he asked.

“Um, yes?”

He nodded. “I thought it was a pen name. Georgie McCool. Sounds like a pen name.”

“You know my name?”

Neal finally looked up at her. With round blue eyes and practically his whole head. “Your photo’s in The Spoon,” he said.

“Oh.” Georgie wasn’t usually smooth with guys—but she was usually smoother than this. “Right. So are you. I mean, your comic strip. I came back to talk to you about your comic.”

Neal was focused on his page again. He was holding an old-fashioned pen; it looked like a fountain pen with a long nib. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” she said. “I just . . . like it. I was going to tell you how much I like it.”

“Are you still going to?”