Page 21 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
“If you’re done playing footsie, I made you both an appointment at Hudson’s for eleven.” He checks his watch. “That gives you about thirty minutes to get dressed and get downtown.”
“Haircuts?” Robbie groans. “But I like my hair the way it is.”
“You’re turning into a sheepdog,” Dad says flatly. And he’s not wrong. Robbie’s growing a mullet. “Both of you are. It mightonly be mid-July, but no child of mine is going to go back to school looking like they’ve been living in the wilderness all summer.”
I run my fingers through my hair and can’t help but agree that it has gotten shaggy. But Hudson’s Barber Shop means sitting in those ancient vinyl chairs while Mr. Hudson tells the same stories about his glory days and asks about girlfriends I don’t have.
“Can’t we go somewhere else?” I ask hopefully.
“Hudson’s been cutting Pryor hair for twenty years,” Dad says with finality. “Now, get moving. You know how Main Street can get on Saturdays.”
Robbie pulls his feet off the table with exaggerated slowness, making sure to “accidentally” kick my shin in the process. I swat at him, but he dances out of reach.
“Last one dressed has to sit in the chair by the window,” he calls, already sprinting for the stairs.
The chair by the window at Hudson’s is legendary for all the wrong reasons. It’s where Mr. Hudson puts whoever he wants to show off to the constant stream of pedestrians walking by. Last time, it was Adam who was stuck there. Half the football team walked by and saw him in a cape and foil in his hair and laughed their asses off. They posted the pictures they took on Instagram, and as the saying goes, the internet is forever.
I scramble after Robbie, taking the stairs two at a time. Behind us, the weatherman’s voice drifts from the TV. “Remember, folks, after today, you’ll want to keep those umbrellas handy…”
I throwon the first clean clothes I can find—aHamiltonT-shirt and basketball shorts that have seen better days. By the time I make it downstairs, Robbie’s already jangling the minivan keys and wearing his signature smirk.
“Window seat for you, slowpoke,” he says.
I grab my wallet from the counter. “You still can’t parallel park to save your life.”
He gapes at me. “I’ve been practicing!”
“On what,Grand Theft Auto?”
He flips me the bird, and we head out of the house to the minivan parked crooked in the driveway. As I buckle myself into the passenger seat, Robbie adjusts the driver’s seat approximately seventeen times. Dad was the last one to drive, and even though Robbie and Adam are approaching him in height, they still have a ways to go in the muscle mass department.
Main Streeton a Saturday morning is absolute mayhem. Families push strollers between shops while their kids clutch melting ice cream cones despite it being barely even noon. Teenagers gather outside the Beans & Dreams coffee shop, their laughter mixing with the moody music drifting from inside. Agolden retriever tied to a lamppost barks at a passing skateboarder. The flower shop has buckets of sunflowers on display, their yellow heads turned toward the sun that the dimpled weatherman promises won’t last.
“There!” I point to an open spot right in front of Hudson’s. “Between the red truck and that Mini Cooper.”
Robbie’s knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. “I got this.”
He absolutely doesnot“got this.”
His first attempt involves pulling up so far past the spot that we’re practically in Pennsylvania. He throws the van in reverse, cuts the wheel hard, and somehow manages to mount the curb with the back tire. A woman walking her poodle jumps back and glares at us.
“Sorry!” I call through the window while Robbie mutters curses that would make Dad ground us both.
Attempt number two fares no better. This time, he doesn’t pull forward enough. When he backs up, we end up perpendicular to the curb and blocking the entire lane. Drivers come to a screeching halt and lay on their horns.
“Robbie, maybe I should?—”
“I’ve got it!” Robbie’s face is turning an interesting shade of purple. He pulls forward again, this time clipping the red truck’s side mirror with ours, folding it in with a sad little click.
“Robbie!”
“It’s fine! They’re supposed to do that!” He’s sweating now, despite the AC blasting. On attempt number three, he somehow manages to get the van at a forty-five-degree angle. The front end still sticks into traffic, and the back end is about three feet from the curb.
“This is painful to watch,” I say.
“Shut up and let me concentrate.”
Finally, on attempt number four—or is it seven?I’ve lost count—Robbie manages to wedge the van into something resembling a parked position. We’re crooked and way too far from the curb, but at least we’re no longer blocking traffic.
