Page 15 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
Okay, maybe that last part isn’t so normal.
I carry my third glass of water to the living room and collapse on the couch. The remote is wedged between the couch cushions. Robbie’s doing, no doubt. I turn on the TV and navigate to Disney+ with practiced ease, findHamiltonand press play.
But even as the show starts, I can’t focus. My mind is stuck on those ten seconds in the kitchen. On Jameson’s voice wrapping around my name in a gentle hug. The casual point with the mustard bottle as if it’s the cool thing to do. The genuine smile, not the polite grimace people usually give when they’re trying to place who I am, because for all our differences, my brothers and I have the same face.
Outside, the party continues without me. Jameson has rejoined the crowd in the pool, probably already having shoved our brief encounter into a dark corner of his mind.
Because why would he remember the last ten seconds? I’m simply another face in the room, another name on the class roster.
I contort my body into a cross-legged position and try to lose myself in the familiar rhythms of “Alexander Hamilton.” It’s easier said than done. My eyes keep drifting to the window of their own accord, catching glimpses of pink flamingos and golden hair in the late afternoon sun.
Jameson’s voiceplays on a loop in my head.You’re Kevin, right? Happy birthday, man.
I glance at the clock. It’s 3:23 a.m. and, once again, my brain refuses to shut off. Above me, Robbie’s snoring reaches foghornlevels. I roll onto my side and pull the pillow over my head, but it doesn’t help. My mind keeps circling back to that moment in the kitchen. Dissecting it from every angle.
Jameson Hart knows my name.Not “Adam’s brother” or “one of the Pryor boys.”Kevin.
I’ve spent three school years perfecting the art of invisibility at Arcadia High. Of walking through hallways without making eye contact, of sitting in classrooms without drawing more attention than warranted. Of existing in spaces without really being there.
It’s not that I’m antisocial. I have my theater friends. My brothers. My safe spaces.
But outside of those bubbles, I’m a ghost.
My phone glows on the nightstand. I could text someone, but who? My theater friends are asleep, and I don’t have Jameson’s number to call and demand answers from him.
Sighing heavily, I get out of bed and tiptoe over to the desk. I open the laptop that Robbie and I share, and the bright screen nearly blinds me. Once my eyes have adjusted, I typeJameson Hartinto the search bar before I can stop myself.
Jameson’s Instagram pops up first. The most recent post is from yesterday—a photo of him and Ethan at the arcade. The caption reads:Little bro crushed me at air hockey. Again.
I keep scrolling. Beach photos. Football photos. Workout reels. A number of posts featuring dogs that aren’t his. I stop on a picture posted three weeks ago. It’s a group shot from a barbecue at Tyler’s house. I zoom in, scanning the faces. There’s Adam in the back row, Robbie’s doing bunny ears behind Matthew’s head. And Jameson is?—
“Stalking people at three in the morning? That’s a new low, Kev. Even for you.”
I jump five feet in the air. Adam leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his bare chest.
“I’m not stalking. I’m…” My voice trails off. I can’t think of a word that doesn’t belie the truth. Deciding to feed my curiosity in a roundabout way, I ask, “How’s football camp?”
Adam straightens, the perfect picture of surprise. He walks into the room and rests his butt against the desk. “Since when do you care about football camp?”
I close the laptop with what I hope is casual indifference and shrug. “I’m curious. Senior year’s coming up, right? I should probably get more invested in what you and Robbie do before it’s too late.”
“You want to bemoreinvested in football?” Adam’s voice drips with skepticism.
I blink innocently. “Yes.”
Adam studies me. I force myself to maintain eye contact by channeling every ounce of acting ability I possess. “Okay, weirdo.” He shifts his weight against the desk and crosses his legs at the ankles. “Football camp has beenintense. Coach Potter has us running two-a-days in the heat. Robbie and I are surviving, though. My arm strength’s up from last year—been hitting receivers forty yards away without breaking a sweat.”
Adam flexes. I roll my eyes and gesture for him to keep going.
“Robbie’s killing it on field goals. He nailed a fifty-two-yarder yesterday. Coach nearly cried. Said if Robbie keeps it up, he’ll have scouts coming to see him for sure.”
“That’s amazing!”
Adam nods, a proud expression on his face. It’s sweet. I’m not sure he’d love football nearly as much if he didn’t have Robbie playing the game with him.
“We’ve still got work to do, though,” Adam continues. “My footwork in the pocket needs cleaning up. I tend to get happy feet when the pressure comes.” He demonstrates with a shuffle that comes off as ridiculous in bare feet. “And Robbie still struggles with onside kicks. Can’t get the right bounce.”
I nod my head and make what I hope are appropriate understanding noises.
