Page 12 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
He sprinted back to his seat while the class offered scattered, polite applause. Ms. Petrowski made some notes and called on the next student. But I couldn’t stop staring at Jameson. He was slumped in his chair, as frazzled as if he’d been shoved into awashing machine set to spin. His chest was heaving, and he kept running his fingers through his hair, turning it into a bird’s nest.
Seeing him this vulnerable and nervous, this human and real—it was as if someone had adjusted the focus on a camera, making him stand out among the unimportant stuff. Suddenly, he wasn’t a collection of statistics and achievements. He was a boy who got scared and licked his lips when he was anxious.
He was, in no uncertain terms, a boy with flaws.
The second timeJameson Hart stood out to me was during sophomore year at one of the football games. We were losing, but not by much. Halftime was nearly over, and I had this image in my head of Adam in the locker room, hyping up the team. Naturally, being a theater nerd, I envisioned it less as “Go, Team, Go!” and more as Riff singing about being a Jet inWest Side Story. The other players would be snapping their fingers as Adam’s voice filled the room with that same dangerous energy Russ Tamblyn had in the movie.
Jameson would be the lone holdout. Not because he would find it weird or anything, but because there’s always that one person who is the audience’s mouthpiece. The one who would say, “Hey, are we seriously breaking out into song?” But then, his foot would start tapping of its own accord. His shoulders would move up and down in time with the beat. And when the chorus returned, he’d push off the wall and throw himself into the number with more enthusiasm than his teammates.
The marching band’s fight song yanked me from my daydream of Jameson holding out the final note like a badass.The football team streamed back onto the field, a blur of garnet uniforms and gold helmets. I pulled my scarf tighter around my neck, and my breath formed little clouds in the frigid air as I let out a measly “woohoo!”
Dad was sitting on my left, pressed up against the railing. The metal bleachers were cold beneath our butts, but thankfully, we were wearing long johns under our jeans. A thermos of hot chocolate was balanced between his thick thighs. “I see them,” he said, nudging my elbow and pointing a gloved finger to where Adam and Robbie led the pack.
My eyes roamed past my brothers. Cheerleaders along the sidelines shook their pom-poms in the air. The crowd erupted, holding up signs for their favorite players. The smell of popcorn and hot dogs hung in the air, causing my stomach to growl. There was a sense of family, of love and camaraderie, that I only thought was possible in TV shows and movies.
As the team positioned itself strategically on the field, my eyes zeroed in on the player with the gold number eighty-five across his back.
I’d watched Jameson play dozens of times before, but tonight was different. I could feel it in the air, in my bones.In my heart.
When he shifted slightly on the turf, the stadium lights hit his helmet and created a halo effect around his head. His broad shoulders filled out the jersey in a way that made him less of a high school student and more of a gladiator preparing for battle. He crouched low, one hand gripping the ground to keep from teetering forward. His whole body vibrated with anticipation, waiting for Adam to snap the ball.
The instant the play was in motion, Jameson exploded off the line, his cleats kicking up tufts of dirt. The defense tried to keep up, but he was too fast for them. His long legs propelled him downfield, reminding me of Forrest Gump. He glanced over hisshoulder and spotted the ball spiraling toward him. He reached up into the sky, and the ball settled into his hands.
He quickly tucked the ball against his body and kept on running. He spun around the other team’s players, his body moving with the fluidity of a dancer. An equally massive player dove for his legs, but Jameson hurdled over him without breaking a sweat.
Dad shouted something about his technique, but I couldn’t hear him over the roar of the crowd. I had tunnel vision for the beautiful boy racing into the end zone, spiking the ball, and bringing us six points closer to victory.
“That boy’s hands are solid,” Dad said as we all sat back down to watch the next play.
But I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I was trying to rationalize the guy from English class with the one out there on the field. Where did all that nervous energy go? Did he use it as fuel? Was it as simple as this was something he knew like the back of his hand? Was it because this was for fun, and Shakespeare was for a grade?
As the game continued, I forgot about the cold, the hunger, even my brothers. I was too busy watching a warrior at work.
The third timeJameson Hart stepped out onto the stage of my adolescent consciousness, the entire town of Arcadia was wrapped in a thin layer of manufactured cobwebs and neon orange lights. This was October, and here, Halloween is less a holiday and more a competitive sport. The story goes that in 1994, a B-list director rolled into town and shot a supernaturalthriller called “Midnight in Arcadia.” The movie bombed, but it left a legacy: every autumn, we outdo ourselves, turning Main Street into a set piece from a cult classic nobody remembers.
The mayor gets in on it. The PTA holds annual “Ghoul’s Night Out” fundraisers. Every lawn is a graveyard, every tree is draped in toilet paper, and the storefront windows are painted with blood-red handprints courtesy of the third-grade art class. For four weeks, Arcadia eats, breathes, and sweats Halloween.
I always looked forward to it. My brothers had their traditions: Adam would always go as something hyper-masculine (last year, he was a tactical SWAT guy; the year before, an actual football coach), while Robbie oscillated between ironic gender bending costumes (Sexy Nurse, Miss Frizzle, Marilyn Monroe). Dad claimed he was “too old for this nonsense,” but each year, he’d don his old letterman jacket and go as “That Guy Who Peaked in High School.” It always got a laugh.
I tended toward the classics—skeletons, vampires, the occasional genderbent Disney villain—but this year, I was determined to up my game. Rita, my best friend and partner in all things dramatic, was planning to host a themed party at her house, and she’d been texting me costume ideas since Labor Day. I’d shot down “Sexy Shakespeare” but liked her suggestion of “Twins from The Shining” if only because we could wear matching blue dresses and deadpan our way through the evening.
But before I could fully commit, there was the annual pilgrimage to the Halloween Emporium, where my classmates spent at least one Saturday in October searching for the perfect costume. This was Arcadia’s answer to the Met Gala, and you didn’t want to show up underdressed.
Inside the store, the fog machine worked overtime, and the sound system blasted vintage Monster Mash remixes. The aisleswere a mix of cheap polyester capes, elaborate latex masks, and overpriced makeup kits. The place even smelled like a mixture of rubber, caramel apples, and retail desperation.
I was halfway through the “Creepy Doll” section when I spotted a familiar face: Jameson, with his little brother hovering nearby, already decked out in full werewolf regalia, though it was clearly three sizes too big.
I ducked behind a shelf of zombie brides and watched him for a minute. He wore a faded hoodie and jeans, his hair sticking up at odd angles. He was talking softly to his brother, helping him adjust the werewolf mask so it didn’t poke his ears.
I don’t know why I stood there, hiding. It’s not like he knew who I was.
“It’s the only werewolf costume they have left,” Ethan said, his voice cracking in a way that fourteen-year-old voices did.
Jameson crouched down to Ethan’s eye level, his thighs stretching the material of his sweatpants to their breaking point. Even in a squat, he still towered over his brother. “Hey, we’ll figure something out. Let me see those paws.”
Jameson tried to tighten the elastic band around Ethan’s wrist. It immediately hit the floor with a sad thud.
“See?” Ethan’s shoulders slumped. “It’s stupid. I’ll just be something else.”
