Page 2 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
The radio DJ’s voice crackles over the airwaves with that fake enthusiasm that’s become synonymous withI hate my job, but it pays the bills. “It’s going to be another scorcher today, folks! The entire Eastern Seaboard is melting faster than ice cream on hot pavement. If you’re heading to Arcadia Beach, I hope you packed your patience along with your sunscreen. Traffic’s backed up for miles.”
The DJ drones on about record temperatures and heat advisories, but I’m already tuning it out. I crack open my copy ofWicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the Westand let myself sink into Elphaba’s world.
Twenty minutes later,we’re finally going the speed limit. But it’s short-lived. Dad slams his foot on the brake, and we all jerk forward. Thankfully, our seatbelts catch us, but not my book. Helplessly, I watch it fly forward and land somewhere in the disaster zone of phone chargers, granola bar wrappers, and…yuck, an old jockstrap. Whether it’s Dad’s from one of his beerleague football games or one of my brothers, I don’t want to know.
“Everyone okay?” Dad asks, glancing at Diana and then us in the backseat.
Nodding, I take a quick peek out the window to ensure we’re not going to move again and unbuckle my seatbelt. I dive forward to rescue my book, my fingers brushing the spine right as Robbie stretches out his legs. “Wait, Robbie, don’t?—”
Too late.Robbie’s massive foot comes down directly on Elphaba’s face. When he lifts it, he leaves behind a sweaty imprint of his sole across the cover, complete with five thick toes branded across the witch’s forehead.
“Oh, shit,” Robbie says, grimacing. “Kev, I’m sorry.”
I stare at the defaced book. “It’s fine,” I lie, picking it up delicately.
“We can get you a new one,” Adam offers. “I’m sure there’s a copy or two in one of the stores.”
“No, it’s fine.”
“You sure?” Robbie asks.
I breathe through my nose. “I said it’s fine.”
Tucking the book into my backpack, I buckle myself back up and stare out the window. Soon enough, Arcadia Beach appears.
The Atlantic Ocean stretches endlessly, the waves catching the sunlight and throwing it back in a million glittering pieces. The boardwalk runs parallel to the beach, a weathered wooden spine that holds up all of Arcadia’s summer glory. Beach Bum’s Taffy is the first shop, notable for its neon pink sign that flashes day and night. Next to it, Sandy Cheeks Swimwear—named years beforeSpongeBob SquarePantscame on the scene—displays mannequins in bikinis. There’s also Gull-ible’s Gift Shop, with its rotating display of seashell wind chimes and racks of floppy hats bigger than the ones Diana owns.
The Ferris Wheel sits at the end of the pier, its white metal frame stark against the clear blue sky. The wheel turns slowly, carrying riders up and around in a lazy circle. At the top, riders get a view of the entire coastline—or so the brochures claim. I’ve never been on it. Heights and I have an understanding: I don’t bother them, and they don’t make me vomit.
The pier itself is lined with game booths and food stands. I know from past visits that there’s a guy who guesses your weight (although he’s never gotten mine right), a ring toss that Robbie believes is one hundred percent rigged (I think he just sucks at throwing, hence why he’s a kicker), and a basketball game where Adam always wins giant stuffed animals he doesn’t want and ends up gifting to me.
Robbie sticks his face to the window and whines. “Finally. I can already taste the funnel cake.”
“You can taste diabetes?” Adam deadpans.
“Shut up, you obnoxious?—”
“Robert.” Dad glowers at Robbie through the rearview mirror. His brown eyes turn obsidian. The temperature in the car drops ten degrees within seconds.”
“Ooh! Dad used your full name,” Adam crows. “You must be getting on his last nerve.”
“I’m always on his last nerve. We can’t all be perfect angels like you, Adam.”
Adam opens his mouth to respond, but I put my AirPods in, because I don’t want to hear it. I let theLa La Land soundtrackput me half to sleep.
Being a theater kid means having an active imagination. Viewing my life as a Tony-winning musical is a survival mechanism, not a phase. Whenever the world gets to be too much—like now, with my brothers bickering—I let everything dissolve into the opening fanfare of a Broadway overture.
I imagine the Playbill featuring me in silhouette, the night sky behind me, a sparkler in my hand. Lin-Manuel Miranda would write the songs. The choreography would be developed by whoever didNewsieson Broadway. But honestly, the creative team can be whoever, as long as the show gets rave reviews.
As for my family and who they’d play, Adam would obviously be the All-American golden boy with a hidden vulnerability. Think Link Larkin fromHairspray, but with more football and less hair gel. Robbie would be the comic relief, who manages to upstage everyone without trying. Dad, with his booming voice, would be the grumpy but lovable patriarch whose number near the end of Act One brings down the house. Diana would be harder to cast, though. Maybe she’d be the surprise emotional anchor, the one who turns a throwaway solo into one of the most memorable songs of the night.
I’d be the quirky supporting character that the audience loves, but rarely remembers by the time the curtain falls. The role wouldn’t come with a lot of lines, but it would have a killer tap dance solo.
I’m pulled from my fantasy where we all sing about summer, as if we’re competing against a snowman about why it’s our favorite season, when Dad navigates the minivan into the parking lot.
The scene can only be described as pure chaos. Cars circle like sharks. A family loaded down with coolers and beach chairs weaves around other families. Horns blare, kids cry, middle fingers go flying. It’s another wonderful day at Arcadia Beach.
“There!” Diana sees a spot near the back of the lot. “Quick, hon!”
