“He’s not funny,” Madison said. “Can you please tell him that he’s not funny?”

“Sorry you had to witness that.”

“I’ll ask about Seeta. And tell Murray I actually broke up with Sean, like, two months ago.”

“Sure. Uh, and . . . could you also maybe . . . Grace Town. Murray wants to know why she left East River.”

“Murray wants to know, does he?”

“He’s a passionately curious man.”

Madison closed her locker. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Approximately twenty-four hours later (Madison Carlson really didn’t screw around when it came to gossip), we were back in front of her locker.

“Did you speak to Seeta?” Murray said. “Has she taken a lover? Who must I kill?”

“When I talked to her, she mentioned a psychotic Australian ex-boyfriend who her dad called the cops on, but apart from that, no, Seeta is single,” said Madison.

“Everything’s coming up Milhouse.”

“You’re going to go to jail, Murray. Your obsession isn’t romantic, it’s disturbing.”

“Hey, it was her old man who called the cops, not her. She messaged me and said she wanted to talk, but then her folks confiscated her phone.”

“Whatever.”

“And Grace?” I said.

“Leave her alone, Henry. Trust me. You don’t want to get mixed up in that.”

“Now come on, Mads,” Murray said. “Don’t be cliché. You know your reluctance to divulge information is only going to make us more inquisitive. Help the plot move a little faster and spill the bloody beans already.”

“All I know is that her family’s screwed up, and there was something about a car accident a few months ago. That’s everything, okay?”

“For your time,” Murray said as he handed Madison another Pizza Hut coupon.

“Wow, this one is actually still valid.”

“Don’t say I never get you anything nice.”

Madison sighed and looked from the coupon to me and then back again. “Definitely don’t go to the East River track around nine p.m. on Tuesday nights. You definitely won’t see anything there.”

“East River track. Nine p.m. on Tuesday. Thanks,” I said. “Hey, while we’re here . . . would you wanna write for the newspaper? We need something along the lines of a Gossip Girl–style column.”

“I’d rather write film reviews or something.”

“Oh yeah? What would you want to review?”

“Modern classics, maybe? Fight Club, Inception, The Matrix, Pulp Fiction. All the good ones.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Did Lola put you up to this?”

“Up to what?”

“Uh. Never mind. That’d be awesome. No rush, we don’t go to print until early December. Thanks.”

“Yeah, thanks, cobber,” Murray said. He clapped her on the back.

“I hate you both,” said Madison, but her gaze lingered on Murray for a heartbeat too long, and I got the distinct impression that Madison Carlson did not hate him—not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.

• • •

It came that Wednesday evening. The first ever personal message from Grace, unprompted and not about the newspaper, popped up on my phone as I caught a bus home from Murray’s place close to midnight.

GRACE TOWN:

How was Simba? Did he face his demons and save the day?

I’d been to see The Lion King musical with Sadie and Ryan the night before. I’d only mentioned it to Grace once, in passing, maybe a week ago. It’d been a fun night. After the show we’d posed with a statue of Rafiki and gone to a place that made ice cream with liquid nitrogen near the theater in the city.

“Look, Henwee, look!” Ryan had said when the lady handed him a paper bowl of mint ice cream bigger than his head. “Life is grand,” he’d said very seriously as he inspected his dessert. Sadie and I had almost fallen over laughing.

HENRY PAGE:

It was good! But they added songs and stuff and I was like, “Next.” Then Scar was trying to bang Nala and it kinda ruined my childhood.

Oh wow. I could’ve lived without hearing that.

Exactly. And little things changed. Like Timon and Pumbaa dressed in drag and did the Charleston instead of the hula. Like, why change it? And Zazu doesn’t sing “I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts.”

That is an outrage. Please tell me Rafiki was still a BAMF, though?

Rafiki was still on fleek.

Did you just.

Do I have to remind you about #YOLO?

You win this round, Page.

So Lola just messaged me and told me she was very pleased with our modeling skills. Definitely one for the resume.

Naturally.

I believe I was even cut from one picture in favor of “Grace, copied three times.”

Lola has excellent taste.

Sometimes I wonder if there’s more to life than being really, really, really ridiculously good-looking.

We’ll have to test out your Blue Steel next time.

Exactly.

*looks at pagination*

What is this . . . a newspaper for ants?

HA.