Page 107 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
“Give it time,” Adam repeats the phrase that’s become our household motto.
The fire burns lower as the night wears on. And then someone suggests we all jump from the trestle.
CHAPTER 24
defying gravity
Everyone gathers at the foot of the sleeping giant that is the trestle. It towers over us, a behemoth of beams and rusted bolts; a relic from a time when its maker didn’t imagine teenagers would one day use it as a rite of passage.
Moonlight glimmers on the steel rails, and the water far below is a black mirror, swallowing all sounds except our laughter.
I hang back, watching as my classmates swarm the rusty ladder that leads up to the tracks. The metal rungs are slick with evening dew, and more than one person slips on their way up, earning nervous laughter from the crowd below. The whole thing creaks under the newly added weight, making me wonder when this thing was last inspected.
“You coming?” Jameson asks, his hand finding mine in the semi-darkness.
“I’m considering my options,” I say, which is code forI’m terrified but trying to play it cool.
The trestle stretches across the narrowest part of the creek. I guesstimate it to be approximately thirty feet above the water. From down here, it doesn’t seem that high. But I know from years of watching videos of people making this jump that onceyou’re up there, looking down at the black water, those thirty feet might as well be three hundred.
“We don’t have to,” Jameson says, reading my hesitation perfectly. “We can stay down here and watch everyone else risk their necks.”
But that’s the thing—I’m tired of watching. Tired of being the one who stays safe on the ground while everyone else leaps. This entire summer has been about stepping out of my comfort zone and finding my voice. I dove into the ocean and survived. I sang for my peers and lived to tell the tale. Maybe this is merely another stage, another performance, another chance to be more than the scared kid in the ensemble.
“No,” I say, squeezing his hand. “I want to do this.”
We join the queue at the ladder. Up close, I can see that the rungs have been worn down by decades of teenage hands and feet. Someone’s carved “Class of ’93” into one of the support beams. Another inscription reads “Dylan + Kelly 4ever,” though the “Kelly” has been crossed out and replaced with “ Brenda.”
The climb is worse than I imagined. The ladder is completely vertical, and halfway up, I make the mistake of looking down. The ground is impossibly far away, the fire on the shore now nothing more than an orange speck. My hands are sweating, making each rung precarious.
“You’re doing great,” Jameson says from below me. “Just keep going.”
I focus on the next rung, then the next, until I’m finally hauling myself up onto the narrow walkway that runs along the tracks. The whole structure sways slightly in the breeze.
“Oh, God,” I breathe, pressing myself against the railing.
The walkway is maybe four feet wide, with waist-high railings on either side that are about as sturdy as toothpicks. The tracks themselves are long abandoned, with weeds growing up between the ties.
More people climb up behind us, and soon the trestle is crowded with what must be half our graduating class. Everyone’s giddy with adrenaline and the symbolism of it all—one last jump before senior year, one last moment of pure summer freedom.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Tyler’s voice booms from somewhere near the middle. “Welcome to the annual Leap of Faith!”
Everyone cheers, and the trestle shakes with the force of it. I grip the railing tighter.
“The rules are simple,” Tyler continues, clearly enjoying his role as master of ceremonies. “You jump, you survive, you become a legend. If you chicken out, you buy pizza for everyone next weekend.”
“That’s not a real rule!” someone protests.
“It is now!”
People line up along the edge. I know that the water is deep enough—generations of Arcadia kids have proven that—but knowing something intellectually and believing it while standing on a creaking railroad trestle are two completely different things.
“Together?” Jameson asks, moving closer to me.
I nod. We make our way to a clear spot on the edge. I take off my sandals, and my toes curl over the edge in apprehension.
“Wait,” Jameson says suddenly, reaching into his pocket. “Before we do this, I have something for you.”
I’m about to say that now is not the time for gift-giving, especially when I’m in the middle of having a panic attack, but then I see what he’s pulled out. A small silver charm bracelet, delicate and perfect, with two charms dangling from it—the comedy and tragedy masks. The universal symbols for theater.
