Karen is familiar with second place. 

The first time she was deeply aware of the pain of second place, the taste of possibility on the tip of your tongue, that edge of sweetness that comes just before you can claim victory, was in the fifth grade. 

It was the final round of the county spelling bee and she added an extra ‘t’ to the word ‘charcuterie.’ A mistake that, at its genesis, was not because she didn’t know how to spell the French word related to assembling meat. It was because she didn’t follow appropriate spelling bee protocol when she stumbled, distracted by a crying baby in the audience. Didn’t tell the moderator that she was going to start over. She just kept going by repeating the letter to regain her focus. 

Afterwards, when the commotion of congratulating the winner had dissipated, Karen pled with the moderator to see her side of things. His kind eyes and tired smile answered before he did. “You’re clearly a strong speller, Ms. Filippelli. This time the other contender prevailed.”

Her mother’s (albeit, misguided) resolution was to have Karen learn French, in hopes it would bolster her confidence and prevent history from repeating itself. She was fluent by eighth grade, studied abroad her junior year of college. She rents French movies without subtitles and cleans while listening to French music solely because she can understand it without any help. But she still felt the flush of anger and frustration and crushed pride when she thought about that fifth grade spelling bee.   

As time went on, she became increasingly aware of the sting of second place. In oration, she gave great speeches but they weren’t amazing. On the track team her coach praised her speed and focus. But she never missed that he was always a little more pleased with her teammate who consistently had better times and didn’t have to work nearly as hard as Karen.  The pang of hurt was palpable every time he referred to the other girl as “a natural.” 

Karen wasn’t bothered that her grades weren’t the best; solid As, a few Bs, and that one C in chemistry she was almost grounded over. She wasn’t bothered that she was moderate in most team sports, blended in on the popularity spectrum. 

Second place only burned when it was something she cared about deeply.

She would watch the Olympics every two years, mildly intrigued with the events themselves but almost obsessive with the results. Especially those athletes who had a special interest story (a handicap sibling, a parent who passed away, an injury that threatened to derail their career) that premiered right before their event. Karen would sit, captivated and on the verge of tears, if they stood at the podium with anything less than gold. The American flag could be hanging in victory and the “Star-Spangled Banner” proudly blaring. Karen would shake her head, devastated for the Russian swimmer or the Canadian ice dancing couple who were clutching silver. Roommates, boyfriends, whoever would chuckle and ask why she put herself through the misery if she knew she was going to get upset over it. 

When she found herself mutually in second place, by her own design or choosing, she didn’t feel quite like a failure. In her senior year she went to prom with her best guy friend, Ray. Ray waited too long to ask Sara G (who ended up going up with some guy they barely knew) and Karen held out hope that Jess would ask her (but he never showed up at prom and she later heard that he was dating some girl in his church youth group who went to another school). So they went together and she didn’t feel like his second choice because, well, he was her second choice, too. And later that night, after drinking too much at Sara P’s after party, they remedied their fear of going to college as virgins. But she didn’t still didn’t feel like his second choice because, well, he was still her second choice.

At UConn the academic and social norms were more gray and trickier to navigate. When she tried to blend, she ‘lacked motivation.’ When she tried to stand out she was being ‘too assertive.’ Most of college felt like she was clinging for dear life to a pendulum that swung wildly between two extremes of either slothfully lazy or manically ambitious. As graduation loomed and she competed for coveted internships and then ‘real grown-up jobs,’ worry started to overwhelm her; for the first time ever she willingly admitted to herself that the old saying “second place is just the first place loser” might apply to her. 

Every job interview seemed to met with “Ms. Filippelli, we sincerely enjoyed speaking with you but there was one other candidate who…” or “Your qualifications are just what we’re looking for except…”

She finally accepted a sales job. It wasn’t what she wanted to do, exactly, but she’d already turned down enough offers like it, holding out for the offers she really wanted that, well, that weren’t being offered. So after a couple of different sales jobs she landed at Dunder Mifflin, the opportunity for growth, good benefits, and decent hours winning out over selling ad space for The Advocate, Stamford’s local newspaper. That was an industry dying faster than paper supplies. 

When she was overlooked for the promotion to Assistant Regional Manager, she was pissed. But when Jan and Josh explained that the guy who was transferring to the Stamford branch from Scranton had more experience, great numbers she knew it was no use. It was the spelling bee all over again.

And she wanted to hate Jim Halpert. She really did. She wanted to be unimpressed and annoyed with the stupid faces he made and not at all intrigued by the gigantic red circle around June 10th on his calendar, the spot he would occasionally flip to and stare at silently for a few seconds when he didn’t know she was watching. That was all she really wanted.

Karen laughs dryly to herself as she nears her place, recalling that feeling, a lifetime ago in Stamford. It’s 9:30 AM on Friday and she’s tried to keep herself busy this morning by visiting a new yoga class. She won’t go back because this is an unusual, although requested, day off during the week. The day following her interview in New York, the day she was supposed to wake up next to him, planning the next chapter of their lives that would get them out of Scranton. 

She should drive to her tiny rental house. The small two bedroom with a tiny backyard where she planted peppers and basil and one tomato plant. But she doesn’t. She just wants to have a quick look and his place isn’t far. She keeps going, driving the couple of blocks to drive past Jim’s house. Just to take a peak.

It’s a quick drive by, her adrenaline and the absence of Jim’s car keeping her foot steadily on the gas. The easiest path, she knows it by memory, is to make a right turn at the end of the street, another right onto the main road, and another series of short right turns until she’s back in the security of her own driveway.

But once she maneuvers the wheels onto the main road, she keeps driving straight. Karen’s not a stalker; Pam told her where she lives when they were planning the office Christmas party. (Karen grimaces to herself that, at the time, she’d been so thankful for Pam saving her from slipping into that place of self-doubt Angela had a knack for pushing her toward.) It’s not that Pam shared her exact address, but she mentioned an apartment complex, new and behind the shopping center with Wegman’s, Target, and the party supply store. With a pool and a green roof and under construction as new units were being built. 

Maybe he’s at the Y playing basketball. Maybe, like me, he needed to let out some physical energy so that he could think clearly about… his decisions.

Maybe he’s at his parents’, working with his dad on that deck remodel that he’s been helping with these last couple of weekends. 

Karen swallows a lump in her throat, desperate to think of more places where Jim could be on this Friday morning that they both requested off from work. Desperate to not think about how, after six months, she still doesn’t know where his parents live.

And it’s just as fast that she’s swallowing tears, willing herself not to fucking cry because there she is, parked on a service street that runs parallel to the apartment complex where she clearly sees his Subaru tucked cozily next to Pam’s blue Yaris. Gritting her teeth, she begs herself not to cry anymore; she did enough of that yesterday. 

Her phone buzzes from her purse in the passenger seat and she pinches her eyes shut to push away the wave of hope whispering, ‘Maybe it’s him, maybe he wants…’

“Hello?”

“Karen? Hi, it’s David Wallace. Is this a good time?”

Karen keeps her eyes closed because she hears it in his tone before he even tells her. Yesterday, when Jim gave her his doleful, somewhat unceremonious breakup speech, he’d let slip a little, “when David offered me the position, I just couldn’t see…” 

Somewhere on I-80, later than she should have been driving after a day like that, but unable to stay in the city and deal with her friends pitying and angered and ineffective rants, Karen held out hope. With Michael and Jim out of the running the job, at least, was hers, right?

But she’s listening to David hem and haw, and Karen is really tired of grown men stumbling over half-assed explanations about why she isn’t their first choice. Offering vague sentiments about the other person’s qualifications, the appropriate number of platitudes about her contribution to the company. 

“Karen, I think you have a bright future at Dunder Mifflin.”

Hearing that, Karen takes a deep breath. Maybe it’s that she feels a wave of humiliation as she remembers Wednesday night, using that same word when foolishly telling Jim they had no future in Scranton. Maybe it’s that she suddenly wonders which would be more painful to see: Pam and Jim stumbling out hand-in-hand or knowing what they are doing by not making an appearance. Maybe it’s because even now, all these years later, when her eyes scan over the word ‘charcuterie’ she still closes her eyes and silently, quickly spells it to herself. 

Karen cradles the phone between her chin and shoulder and shifts the gear out of park. “David, I appreciate you saying that.” As his tone shifts to end the call, Karen hears herself saying, “Actually, I’d really like to talk about my future with Dunder Mifflin and what other opportunities there might be. I can be in New York this afternoon. Would 3 PM work for us to meet?”

She might be in second place, but Karen Filippelli is no loser.