Page 1 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
CHAPTER 1
another day of sun
At the end of last school year, I had to write a paper about my hometown. I started it by saying that summertime in Arcadia is what Christmas is in New York. A sight that must be seen to be believed.
Naturally, I got an A+, because truer words had never been spoken. Or, in this case, written.
The shops have punny names, such as The Codfather for people who want to indulge in some fish and chips, and Seas the Day for beachwear shoppers. The miniature golf course on the boardwalk is pirate-themed and has a realistic-looking shipwreck on hole nine. Gift shops sell board shorts and flip-flops in every color imaginable for more money than their worth.
And then there are the people. Shirtless men strolling into the post office to buy stamps. Children dashing around Lucky Leo’s Arcade and leaving damp footprints on the aged carpet. And thanks to the mayor, at the last town council meeting, he announced that shoes are now optional on the boardwalk from Memorial Day to Labor Day.
On this final weekend in June, rental cars and sand-dusted pickup trucks inch toward the beach with the patience of saints. Our family minivan, a powder blue that somehow manages topop against the sea of darker-colored vehicles, is caught in the thick of a traffic jam. The line of cars stretches down the road as far as the eye can see.
But it doesn’t faze Dad, who navigates the chaos with expert calm. One large hand dangles out the window, the other rests loosely on the top of the steering wheel. He doesn’t grumble when a rusty Jeep wedges itself two inches from our bumper. He doesn’t flinch when a driver gestures out his window with his middle finger. Because that’s Marcus Pryor for you. While he could make a career out of intimidating people, he’s nothing but a big softie.
At six-foot-three, he fills the driver’s seat in a way that makes the minivan look compact, and his arms are thick with muscle. He keeps his hair trimmed in a respectable flat-top and his eyes—deep brown and always alert—flick repeatedly to the rearview mirror to check on me and my brothers.
Today, he’s wearing his “Arcadia Knights” T-shirt, the faded red one with the championship patch on the sleeve. The shirt clings tighter than it used to, revealing the gentle curve of his dad-bod. His watch—an old G-Shock he’s had since the ’90s—beeps hourly, but he never resets it. He claims it keeps him “on his toes.” I think he just likes the sound.
He drums his thick fingers on the steering wheel as Chappell Roan’s “Hot to Go” plays on the radio. It’s not Dad’s usual style, but he lets me and my brothers choose the music on weekends, even if it sometimes makes him wince.
Beads of sweat slowly trickle down his forehead. They’re not from stress; they’re from the heat and the effort of keeping three boys and a new girlfriend happy on a beach day.
Diana and my dad met at some athletic directors’ conference a couple of months ago, and the way they’ve been joined at the hip lately reminds me of two teenagers who found each other atprom. It’s sweet in a way—even if it does leave me marginally envious, maximally nauseous.
I glance at her in the passenger seat and get why Dad’s gone all heart-eyes emoji over her. She’s a regular Marilyn Monroe, but with better posture and a college degree. Her sundress is pale yellow with tiny white flowers, and she’s wearing enormous sunglasses that cover half her face, giving her a timeless glamour. She’s the complete opposite of Mom, who was all sharp angles and quick movements, always rushing somewhere, including right out the door when my brothers and I were seven.
“Marcus, should we try the back road?” she asks, her voice soft but clear.
“Nah, it’ll clear up once we get closer,” Dad says, reaching over to briefly squeeze her hand.
I catch Adam’s eye in my peripheral, and he gives me a tiny smile. We both like Diana. She asks about our interests without making it an interrogation, and remembers our answers. Last week, she texted me a link to a bootleg of the original Broadway cast ofSpring Awakening. That’s girlfriend-of-the-year material right there.
“Oh!” Diana turns in her seat, her face lighting up. “Kevin, I forgot to tell you. My friend who works at the community theater said they’re doingLegally Blonde. You should audition.”
I sit up straighter, already mentally preparing my rendition of “Chip on My Shoulder.”
“Wait, they’re doing a musical about that movie with the pink lady?” Robbie asks. It’s his first contribution to the conversation all morning.
“It’s this extremely smart show about?—”
Adam cuts me off with a laugh. “Here we go. Musical Education Hour with Professor Kevin.”
“I’m just saying, it deals with themes of—” The minivan jolts, sending my stomach into my throat as the gridlock finally breaks.
Dad turns up the radio. “Beach parking lot, here we come!”
My brothers whoop, throwing their hands in the air, and I roll my eyes. Affectionately, of course. The three of us are triplets, born five minutes apart from each other. Adam arrived in the world first, Robbie second, and I was the big finish. But despite our similar looks—brown hair, brown eyes, and turned-up noses—the three of us couldn’t be more different.
Adam is the stoic one of the bunch—extremely smart and analytical, which is probably why he’s the quarterback of the Arcadia High School football team. He’s also six feet tall and muscular, and recently finished going through the growing pains of puberty.
Robbie is equally tall, but leaner, and on the football team, too, as the kicker. But where Adam prefers peace and quiet, Robbie is the very definition of a hyperactive golden retriever.
And then there’s me. The runt of the litter. Not nearly as tall, not nearly as fit. Yes, I have a slightly defined body, but that’s largely due to my years of dancing on stage. While sports are my brothers’ passion, the theater is mine. I have this far-fetched dream that one day I’ll end up on Broadway and earn the applause I’ve craved since the day I first sang a note. That I’ll see my name in lights and share the stage with the likes of Aaron Tveit, Jeremy Jordan, and Jonathan Groff.
There’s only one thing holding me back from making the dream a reality. I need to find the courage to break free from the shadows of the ensemble. All I’ve ever done is audition for roles where I can blend in rather than stand out. My lines, if any, are few and far between. And while I love being a part of something bigger than myself, I’m not ready to step forward. To make thatleap to center stage. To have a solo where every eye is fixed on me as I deliver each lyric with the conviction it deserves.
It’s not easy living in a family where sports talk dominates the dinner table and achievements are measured by touchdowns, not standing ovations. Adam and Robbie don’t understand what it means to lose yourself in a role completely, to become someone else entirely, even if only for a few hours. My extracurriculars are trivial compared to their athletic pursuits, but they’re everything to me.
