Friday, October 11

How much time is too much to spend thinking about someone you just met?

I think when that someone is Pam Beesly, too much is never enough.

She’s easily the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, and I noticed her the moment she walked into the library. Her hair just cascaded around her in these perfect waves, her eyes were somehow warm and sparkling at the same time, and since I try to be a gentleman, I’ll just leave it at that.

But as much as I would love to, uh, express myself physically to her, I also want to learn everything about her. I felt so honored to get to talk to her that night because I feel like she’s a little out of my league. She seems so kind and smart and classy, and I felt like a bit of a gangly dork in comparison. I keep replaying our conversation over again in my head, during lectures, during weight training, while I’m walking to class. Thankfully not during practices, though, because I know my game would really suffer if that happened. Last year I only played in three games, but I hope to get more opportunities this year.

For the past two days, I’ve been trying to think of a reason to text Pam. We barely know each other, so is it weird for us to just hang out? Maybe not, considering the only friend we have in common is Angela Martin, who would probably make things even weirder.

Whatever. Maybe I’ll see if she wants to study together this weekend. She mentioned that last time, so that seems like a reasonable thing to ask. So I send her a text.

Hey Pam, I was wondering if you wanted to get together and study sometime this weekend. I have training tomorrow morning, but I’m basically free the rest of the time. Jim

God, am I totally pathetic? I just told her I don’t have anything going on this weekend, although I guess she was bound to find out sooner or later. Since my weekdays are so busy, I really try to dedicate the weekends to studying. To be fair though, I’m not a very social person in general, so my schedule is definitely a convenient excuse. Plus, I can’t afford to and don’t want to get involved in drinking and partying and all that stuff because I could lose my scholarship.

She responds a few minutes later: Hey Jim! I actually have a class all day tomorrow, but I’m free on Sunday. How’s 1:00 for you?

Wow, you have a class on Saturday? That’s gotta suck. 1:00 works great. I like the Starbucks at the Spectrum, if that’s okay with you.

Yeah, it’s not ideal. But I’m used to it by now. I like that Starbucks too. See you on Sunday :)

Somehow this did not take my mind off of Pam Beesly.

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Sunday, October 13

I spent a lot of Friday night and Saturday studying because I wasn’t sure how much I would get done today, although to be fair, I was kind of distracted then, too.

It’s a pretty hot day, which is something I will never understand about California. I swear October is way hotter than June. Anyway, I’m sweating more than I would like to be as I walk from the bus stop to Starbucks. I wish I had worn something other than a gray T-shirt, especially because I’m running late, and I have to jog slightly to get to the coffee shop by 1:00.

Pam is already there when I walk in, and she waves me over with a huge smile on her face. She’s sitting on a flimsy metal-framed sofa with her bag propped against a small table.

“Hey,” I say to her.

“Hey! This was the only spot that was open when I came in. I know it’s not great, but I didn’t want to sit at the bar. We can move if you need to, like, write by hand.”

Thankfully, I just have to work on my computer today. I thought it might be a good idea to do my chemistry homework yesterday, and it’s practically all drawing. “Oh, no, here is fine.” I sit down next to her. “What about you, though? You’re the artist, after all.”

Pam smiles at that. “Nah, I’m good. I’m just doing stuff for my animation class.”

“Oh, animation sounds cool.”

“Yeah, it’s definitely my favorite class. I want to go into video game design, so…” She shrugs modestly.

“That sounds awesome!” I say. “What made you interested in that?”

“Besides playing Legend of Zelda every day in middle school?”

I laugh at that. “Okay, fair enough. I’ve heard of Zelda, but I’ve never played it. My experience with video games begins and ends with Wii Sports.”

“Okay, well Zelda is pretty much the greatest video game ever. I’ll have to get you to play it with me. But the graphics are particularly good. Even the versions that came out in the eighties and nineties have really gorgeous graphics. I was pretty into art as a kid, like I always enjoyed drawing and painting and stuff, but video games were what really got me interested in art, and I started looking into things like animation and graphic design. It’s a competitive industry, but… I don’t know, I really want to be part of it.”

“That is… really cool,” I say lamely. “I wish I knew that much about what I want to do.”

She shrugs again. “Thanks. Sometimes it just takes time to figure out how to do what you’re passionate about.” I nod and she gives me another smile, which I think I’m becoming addicted to by now.

She falls silent as she digs into her work, and I take just the slightest pause to look at her. Her hair is curlier than it was the last time I saw her, which, I have to admit, I really like. She’s wearing a pair of those printed yoga pants that flare at the bottom, and she’s kicked off her shoes and is sitting with her feet tucked under her legs. I don’t know how she’s comfortable because I’m being generous when I call the piece of furniture we’re sitting on a “sofa,” but god she looks so cute. Her arm is also really close to mine, and whenever I try to scooch over and give her some space, the arm of the sofa digs into my back. So I guess I’ll just stay like this. What a shame.

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I actually get more done than I thought I would, and I smile because not only will I avoid my usual Sunday night cram session, I probably won’t have too many late nights in the library this week. In any other circumstances, I could never have dragged myself through four straight hours of homework, but with Pam working hard next to me, it felt totally natural.

We head outside a little after 5:00. “Where’d you park?” Pam asks, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.

“I took the bus. I don’t have a car here at school.”

She frowns slightly. “Why didn’t you tell me that? I would have picked you up.”

“That seemed like a lot to ask,” I say with a shrug.

“Well, I can at least take you home.”

I protest immediately. “Oh, that’s—”

“No, stop it, I’m taking you home. UC Irvine isn’t that far from here.”

She looks so determined that I decide not to argue with her, and I follow her to her car instead. I’m surprised to see that it’s a BMW. “Nice car.”

She grins sheepishly. “Thanks. Don’t get too excited though. It’s thirteen years old and has a lot of miles on it. I, uh, I’m not rich,” she says quickly. “Just lucky to have found a good car.”

I don’t like that she feels the need to justify owning a BMW because I would treat her the same regardless of how much money she or her family has. But I refrain from saying anything. “Did you buy it here in California?” I ask, opening the passenger door.

Pam nods. “Yeah, I bought it when I moved out here. Well, my parents and I went halfsies on it. I always feel bad taking money from them, but I couldn’t afford the whole thing myself, and I really needed a car.”

When she backs out of the parking spot, she does that thing where you put your hand on the headrest of the passenger seat and look out the back window. I’ve heard that that’s something girls like when guys do, but it’s pretty fucking adorable when Pam does it. Her hand is six inches from my face and I’m dying to touch it, but I won’t do that when she’s driving. Maybe another time.

I have a home game this Friday night, and I don’t want to jinx anything, but it’s quite likely that I’ll get to play because our starting shooting guard is recovering from a knee injury, and that’s the position I usually play. So, I really want to invite Pam to come watch, but I don’t want to seem too forward. Coming to see my game really seems like a “girlfriend” thing to do.

“So, do you have any games coming up?” she asks, turning onto the highway.

Oh, thank God. “I have one this Friday. Um, do you want to come?” I hope my voice sounds more casual than how I’m actually feeling.

“Uh, yeah, if that’s okay,” she says shyly, briefly taking her eyes off the road to look at me.

“Definitely,” I reply. “Although, it’s still a college basketball game, so it’s going to be pretty crowded.”

She deftly switches lanes amid a stack of cars. I have little tolerance for jokes about how women aren’t good drivers (or anything of that nature), but I’m still going to be impressed when a girl can maneuver her way through a California freeway.

“That’s okay, I don’t mind crowds. I don’t know much about basketball, though,” she explains. “My, uh… my boyfriend in high school played football, and my dad’s not particularly athletic. Bowling would a good sport for him. Watching bowling.”

I burst out laughing at that. “Wow, Beesly, a little hard on your old man!”

She giggles softly. “Oh, he’s great at other things. I really admire him. But, uh, he’s not good at sports.”

“Well, basketball’s not that complicated. Unlike football,” I add, because I can’t resist. “So there are these things called hoops—”

“Ha ha,” she drawls. “I got that much. But I know there are still, like, different kinds of fouls and stuff.”

“Just two. Well, no, three, I guess. But you don’t have to know everything to follow the game,” I assure her.

“Okay, if you say so,” she replies with a smile.

I’m instantly a little disappointed when we exit the highway because I know our time together is ending. I don’t technically have anything to do, because I’m actually in good shape with my homework, for once, and I don’t have any other games during the week. But I really don’t want to crowd her, and so I just steer her in the direction of my dorm.

“This was really fun,” I tell her. “Thank you for the ride home.”

She nods. “Of course,” she says softly.

I’m finding it difficult to get out of the car, and she doesn’t make any efforts to urge me on my way, but maybe she’s just being polite. I grit my teeth and prepare for her to say no. “Do you want to grab some dinner or something?”

She beams at me. “Yeah, I’d love to.”