A/N: Junior High now... not sure how grade nine works in some places, but from my experience, junior high is grades 7-9, so that's where they're at; specifically, grade 9. In a dark library. Oh the places you'll go... ;)

The halls are deathly silent as Jim walks the length of one towards his locker. He knows he shouldn't be in the hallway at all, at least not without a hall pass, but the substitute teacher in math class was a nimrod and he had a spare next class anyway, so he figured he'd skip out early and head to the arcade for a while before lunch. Stepping softly – his shoes are terribly squeaky – Jim finally makes it to his locker. The bell rings just as he pulls on the base to disengage the lock, and as the hallways fill up with six hundred junior high bodies crashing and smashing into one another, Jim smiles to himself for a job well done and grabs his coat, knowing he is free and clear.

He hears her crying before he sees her standing next to him. She is absently twirling the lock dial, and swipes at her eyes in anger when it won't open for her. Jim turns to look at her, concern written all over his face.

"Pam?" he asks.

She sniffles. Says nothing.

He tries again. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing!" she says, "I'm fine!"

"No you're not," Jim leans his lanky fourteen year-old body against the door of his locker. "Spill it, Beesly." It's only recently that they've been on a last-name basis with one another. He likes it. It feels familiar.

Pam huffs and lets her shoulders drop. She is silent for a long moment before she lifts her hand and digs around for her binder. "Jim, do you know that I like to paint?"

Jim is genuinely surprised. He smiles at Pam, "I had no idea."

"Well, I do. And I like it. And even though I'm not very good yet, I'd like to keep painting."

"So do it." It seems simple enough.

"But everyone makes fun of me."

Jim sighs and realizes how terribly un-simple it really is. "At least they don't call you Dumbo," he says, lifting up the fringes of his hair to reveal his protruding ears.

Pam smiles. It's all Jim wanted, anyhow. "Yeah, but your head will grow… or something…," she giggles a little and shifts her weight.

He puts his hand on her shoulder and she looks at him. "Tell me what happened, Pam."

She sighs again. "I did this painting to go along with my English project. A stupid book report on The Outsiders."

"Great book," Jim flashes Pam a thumbs up and she laughs, flashing him with her braces.

"Well… I get up in front of everyone to show them what I'd done…," she shrugs, "It was just a silly painting of the sunrise to go along with that line, 'Stay gold, Ponyboy,' or whatever… and I put gold paint and sparkles on it. I was pretty proud of it… and the teacher liked it… but then these girls started making fun of me, calling me teacher's pet and saying that the sparkles looked tacky."

Jim is silent; he can see that Pam is almost ready to cry again. "I'm sure those girls are the tacky ones," he offers.

"They ARE!" Pam insists before collapsing into herself again, "But it sucks all the same."

Jim smiles, "Wanna skip fourth period and go to the arcade with me?"

Pam shakes her head, "I don't feel like company right now. Thanks anyway."

Jim frowns. He knows he should stay with Pam because she seems pretty down. He knows that junior high bullies are the worst, especially when they're girls, because girls use psychological warfare on their enemies rather than their fists, and at this point Jim doesn't know which would be the better option. But he also knows how badly he's wanted to play Street Fighter all day long, and he has a pocketful of quarters just waiting to be spent.

But then Pam blinks and a tear falls through her interlaced lashes to land on her shirt sleeve, and Jim's decision is made. "Come on, Beesly. I wanna show you something."

He takes off down the hallway towards the library just around the corner. Pam is close behind, and they both try to avoid being knocked over by the crowds still rushing to get to class.

They reach the library door and duck into the alcove. Pulling a key out of his pocket, Jim grins. Pam's jaw drops. "Where did you get that?" she hisses.

"My math sub," he says, rolling his eyes as he unlocks the library door. The librarian has been away all week, and the library has been closed to students unless accompanied by a teacher. They are most definitely not accompanied by a teacher, so they opt to leave the lights off. Jim relocks the door and closes it behind it; it whooshes and closes with a click.

"Come on," he says, "Don't fall behind."

The bell rings, and the hallway din dies down. Jim can feel Pam near him; her flat ballet shoes pad softly across the tile floor as she follows. It is so quiet. Pam slips her hand into Jim's without warning, and he's frightened at first but soon his hand is tingling from the contact. They round another corner and Jim stops.

"What is it?" Pam asks.

"What is what?" Jim replies.

"What did you want to show me?"

Jim shrugs, "The library, of course." He gestures to the stacks, "These, Pamela, are called 'bookshelves', and these weighty tomes are commonly referred to as 'books'… ."

Pam smacks him across the shoulder and he laughs. "I'm not an idiot, Jim."

"Well I just wanted you to laugh and forget those mean girls in your class."

She smiles and looks down. "Do you come here often?" she asks, her voice muffled as the sound sinks into the cloth and leather that surround her.

"Once in a while," Jim says. He is on the other side of the shelf now, peering at her through an opening between books. He's not really lying; he wouldn't openly admit to everyone that he likes the library, and sometimes he really hates it in there. And even though he's more than a little embarrassed to admit the real reason why he goes to the library on occasion, he tells her anyway. "Sometimes I try and find the oldest book in the collection, just for kicks."

"Have you found it?" Pam asks. She sounds genuinely intrigued, and Jim flirts with the idea that maybe he's not so much of a nerd after all.

"I don't know. Every time I think I have, I go back and find another one that pre-dates it by a few years."

"What's the oldest you've found so far?"

"A copy of The Wizard of Oz from 1935," Jim announces proudly.

Pam lets out a low whistle, "That's gonna be tough to beat."

"Are you taking up the torch, my friend?"

"It appears I am," she says, scanning the shelves in the dark for the oldest looking tome. Jim laughs and begins searching on the other side. After a few minutes, they both have a few old books resting in their arms. They meet against the end of the 200s section, next to a prominent display about Greek mythology. Jim pretends to not be distracted by the voluptuous image of Aphrodite on her clam shell.

"What have you got?" he asks.

Pam is already deep inside her books, "1943… 1955… you?"

"1945… 1940… 1962?" he laughs, "I guess some books show their age more than others!"

"Guess so," Pam says as she flips the pages in the book in her hands. Suddenly she lets out an excited squeal, "Ooh! Look! 1932! Beat that, Halpert!"

He bows low, graciously. "Well done, Beesly. Well done."

Pam is still reading the page, "There's an inscription here."

Jim moves to stand next to her. "What does it say?"

"It's hard to tell. It's in pencil." Pam clears her throat, "To Hannah. All the pleasure you seek shall be found within the pages of a good book. With love, Albert."

"Neat," Jim says. He would have said more, but he's standing so close he can smell her shampoo and the scent is intoxicating.

"I wonder if they're still alive… ." Pam trails off.

"Who?" Jim asks to be polite; he doesn't really hear a word she's saying, and as long as Pam is standing this close to him, he won't care either.

"Hannah and Albert." Pam traces her fingers over the inscription, feeling the words, and Jim is sure he's never been more in love with her than that moment. "I wonder if they were in love."

"It says 'With love' doesn't it?" he breathes in and out, watching the way her hair dances in the diffused sunlight of the darkened library, like strands of copper.

"Yeah, but just loving someone is different than being in love, right?"

Jim didn't know. Whatever it was, he was sure he felt it, and it made him light-headed.

"I wonder if they got married… had kids… maybe they still live in Scranton."

Pam turned to face him, and found that they were standing so close to one another they almost bumped heads. She moves to back away and Jim reaches out to hold her there, just right, standing in front of him with just enough room between that they can feel the warmth of the other's body. He is gentle as he holds her shoulders, brushes his hands down her arms and letting go of her at the wrist. Pam looked up into Jim's eyes.

"Hey," he intones.

"Hey."

He gulps. The air is charged between them. It's hard to get a breath in. Her pinky finger brushes his hand and he shivers. Before he realizes it, she's kissing him and has her pinky locked around his. He kisses her back, squeezes her finger in his, feels energy spark wherever they touch. Just lips. He keeps one eye open just a little; he notices that she's kept hers closed. When she pulls away, it hurts; she lowers herself down off her tiptoes and licks her lips, and in the dim light, he's sure he sees her smiling. And suddenly, he's very thankful for the library.