“Does that mean you won’t man the whiteboard either?”
“I’m not your secretary.”
“Yeah, but you don’t trust Scotty to take notes, and you can’t read my handwriting.”
Georgie stood up, reluctantly, found a dry-erase marker, and started updating their progress on the whiteboard. She actually really liked being the one who wrote things down. It was like being the decision-maker.
Back in college, Georgie would type while Seth swanned around The Spoon offices, thinking out loud. Then he’d be all righteous indignation when the magazine came back from the presses:
“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.