Jim Halpert wasn’t really paying attention to the game. He’d just missed an Eagles question—an Eagles question—and he couldn’t really bring himself to care. He knew he shouldn’t be this bothered when a girl…well, he was pretty sure he was a girl…he had met online had a date. He didn’t know if she was really a girl (though the squealing about the date “with a boy” was probably a sign). He didn’t know if she was within a thousand miles of Scranton, PA. He didn’t know if she was his age (though the many hints he’d carefully tracked in their conversations strongly suggested it—and only so many people had “lockers” after “gym.”). He didn’t know if she was even interested in him, let alone as interested as he’d realized he was in her. It shouldn’t matter.
But it did.
He couldn’t really concentrate at the thought of her being out, on a date, with some guy at her school. Some smooth-talking dude who apparently swept her off her feet, so much that she—cool, smart, funny MorganLaFey—was reduced to incoherence. He wanted to punch something. Or go shoot hoops. Or, god forbid, do his homework.
In fact, he thought he would. Maybe he could actually use this internet connection for what his parents thought he was using it for. He was the sort of student who could coast along getting As and the occasional B with only moderate effort, so much so that the concept of actually trying was becoming a little foreign. He was a master at doing the least effort for the most effect, and he really had meant to use AOL to help with that. After all, a quick Google or Altavista search could answer questions that would have taken hours in the library, and AOL’s News forums kept him up to date for Social Studies class. But mostly he’d ended up ignoring those resources, coasting by on a smile, an instinctive grasp of standardized testing, and an easy way with words to make sure he passed his classes and using AOL for trivia and chatting.
Mostly chatting recently. Mostly with Morgan.
Who was on a date.
Which he was really trying not to think about.
He liked her a lot. He’d noticed her early on in the trivia rooms, mostly keeping to herself except for occasional bursts of a wicked sense of humor he instantly found himself drawn to. He’d started playing the straight man, setting her up for cutting comments and bad jokes, reveling each time she’d take advantage of his lines to let her personality shine through. He’d been flattered beyond belief when she’d started going to the same trivia rooms at the same time, especially since some of her comments about life suggested someone about his age, with similar experiences. She was clearly extremely artistic—not just because of her easy answers about art history in the games but also because of something larger, something in her words that simply brightened whenever she described the world around her with an artist’s eye. He’d noticed it all the more once his silly chivalry about the sports game and his daring, hold-your-breath gamble of directly IMing with her had gotten them chatting.
He liked her. A lot. And he was pretty sure she felt equally comfortable with him. After all, she’d said “they could talk about anything.” Or was it “everything”? He was totally OK with the “mom-stuff” restriction too; it helped him avoid playing the high school boy with her and coming on too strong. Since they didn’t exchange identifiable information, they’d had to actually get to know each other, talking about real things like their likes and dislikes, their thoughts and dreams. And he had found out he was right about her art, right about her personality, right about everything. She was perfect.
Except that he literally didn’t know anything about her, from a demographic perspective. She knew he was in Scranton (or at least she should, from his username) but he didn’t even know that. He had started out hoping she was nearby. Now he dreamed about it. Except now she was on a date with some guy from her high school.
And if she was anywhere nearby, that might mean he knew the guy. And he honestly couldn’t think of anyone he knew who was worthy of her. Not even him, though he’d jump at the chance to prove himself wrong on that point. He didn’t even know what she looked like, but it didn’t really matter. She was Morgan. Morgan was beautiful, to him, no matter what. Though he wouldn’t have minded the chance to confirm that in person.
But right now her person was out on a date, and his person was sitting in his bedroom actually typing up an English essay that wasn’t due for three whole days. Which was, he supposed, better than playing another trivia game where he’d embarrass himself. Maybe next time he could forget what year the Phillies last won the World Series, or who Julius Erving played for. He couldn’t show his face in digital public until he’d gotten these feelings under control.
That resolution dissolved instantly when he heard the door-opening sound on his Buddy List and his incoming IM chime from the program he’d left on in the background.
MorganLaFey: worst. date. ever.
