Page 14 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
I tug at my plain T-shirt. I tried on three different outfits before settling on this one—the least offensive option that still has me coming off as a poor man’s Fiyero. My ribs show throughthe fabric when I breathe too deep. My arms and legs are twigs compared to the tree trunks on display outside.
The theater kids should have been here by now. Diana promised she’d invited them all, but I count exactly zero familiar faces out there. Maybe they’re at Starbucks, running lines for the summer production ofLegally Blondethat I’m not even in because I came down with a summer cold right before auditions last week.
To pass the time alone, I sing to myself, the words fromDear Evan Hansencoming automatically. It’s the song about waving through a window, and watching everyone else live their lives while you’re stuck on the outside looking in.
I fleetingly wonder what would happen if I slipped out the front door and ghosted mid-party. Would they notice? Would anyone text? Or would they split the cake two ways and call it a win for Adam and Robbie?
Outside, someone cranks up the music, effectively cutting my “I Want” solo short. The bass thumps through the walls and shakes the floor. Robbie grabs the pool basketball and sinks a perfect shot while hanging upside down from the rim, legs spread wide and shaking his head with his tongue sticking out. Everyone cheers.
I sit on Adam’s bed and pull out my phone to scroll through Instagram. My classmates’ stories are full of beach trips and parties and “Happy birthday to the Pryor boys!” posts that feature exactly two-thirds of the Pryor boys. I’m cropped out of most of them. Only a stray elbow or shoulder hovers at the edge of the frames.
I screenshot one where you can make out my sneaker in the corner. Maybe I’ll upload it as my profile picture and caption it: Happy to Be Included (Partially).
The door handle jiggles. I freeze, ready to dart into Adam’s closet if necessary. But it’s only Diana, balancing a paper plate with a burger and chips.
“Found you,” she says softly. “Mind if I join the pity party?”
I scoot over. “It’s not a pity party.”
“No?” Diana sets the plate on Adam’s nightstand and sits beside me. “Because it looks to me like you’re having a solo production ofLes Misérablesup here.”
“More likeLittle Shop of Horrors,” I mutter. “I’m the plant that nobody wants to feed.”
Diana studies me with those sharp eyes of hers that see right through my deflection. “Your friends will show up.”
“They won’t. They’re probably at Kristofer’s pool party. His parents don’t care if he plays explicit Broadway cast recordings.”
Diana nods slowly. “Ah. The eternal teenage struggle. Well, I’ve brought you a burger in case you get hungry. Whenever you’re ready to join the party, we’ll all welcome you with open arms. Especially your brothers.”
She pats my shoulder and walks out. I stare at the burger. The smell of charred meat and toasted buns fills the room. My stomach growls loudly. I pick it up and take a bite. The flavors hit me all at once—perfectly seasoned beef, melted cheese, the tang of pickles. Dad sure does know his way around a grill.
I swiftly demolish the burger. The chips disappear next. My throat becomes dry and scratchy from all the salt. Wiping my hands on my shorts, I head downstairs. The house is eerily quiet. The muffled sounds of the party seep through the walls—splashing, laughter, and music that’s not from any Broadway soundtrack I’ve heard.
The living room calls to me, tempting me to curl up on the couch and lose myself inHamiltonfor the millionth time. To pretend that I’m in the room where it happens instead of hiding from a birthday party.
But first, I need water. Or maybe one of those fancy sodas Diana keeps stocked in the fridge.
I round the corner into the kitchen and stop dead.
The fridge door is wide open. Someone is bent over, rummaging through the shelves. The swimming trunks they’re wearing are loud enough to be seen from space, covered in cartoon flamingos wearing sunglasses. The person straightens up, holding a bottle of ketchup and a bottle of mustard in each hand. He nudges the fridge door closed with one enormous bare foot, then turns around. My brain short-circuits.
Jameson Hart stands in my kitchen.
Water drips from his blond hair onto his wide shoulders. He tilts his head when he spots me standing at the entryway. He studies me with those impossibly brown eyes of his until a slow recognition dawns on his face. He points the mustard bottle at me. “You’re Kevin, right?”
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.He knows my name?
All I end up doing is nodding.
“Happy birthday, man.” He flashes me an easy smile, and then he’s gone, stepping through the open sliding door to rejoin the party.
What just happened?
I need to sit down. I need water. Most importantly, I need to process the fact that the most popular guy at Arcadia High acknowledged my existence on my eighteenth birthday.
I fill a glass with water from the tap, drink it in three gulps, and then refill and drink again.
Get it together,Kevin.It was a normal human interaction. People speak words to each other all the time. They wish each other a happy birthday. They even wear flamingo swim trunks in other people’s kitchens.
