Page 3 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
Dad guns it, beating out a red convertible that honks angrily at us. “Alright, team,” he says, putting the van in park. “Beach rules: stay together, reapply sunscreen every two hours, and nobody goes farther than the second sandbar.”
“Dad, we’re almost eighteen,” Adam reminds him.
“And yet, somehow, I still spend an hour trying to collect all of you when it’s time to go.”
“Geez, Dad. You make us sound like we’re Pokémon,” Robbie quips with a roll of his eyes.
“If that’s what you all are, can you evolve into mature grown men, please?”
“Ooh, burn!” Adam jests.
Snickering, I step out of the van and do a hop-skip dance toward the sand. The parking lot asphalt is already hot enough to cook eggs. In the distance, I swear I can hear someone playing the musical number from my fantasy.
It makes me smile.
This volleyball is a cruel mistress.And I’m pretty sure she hates me too.
“Kevin,” Adam groans, “you have to hit the ball. Not dodge it like it’s a grenade.” He demonstrates for the hundredth time how to bump the volleyball with his forearms.
“I am hitting it,” I say, even though we both know my second-to-last attempt sent the ball careening into a family’s sandcastle fortress. The kids are still glaring at me.
Robbie retrieves the offending object from where it rolled near the water. “Maybe we should start with something easier. You know how to breathe, right?”
“Ha. Ha.” I adjust my stance to better my chances with the next serve and take in my surroundings.
The volleyball courts at Arcadia Beach are prime real estate. Six nets stretch across the sand. Each one is occupied by players with tanned bodies, toned limbs, and who can dive and spike with the grace of dolphins.
Adam tosses the ball up and serves it gently toward me. I shuffle sideways and put my arms out, ready to make contact.
As the ball floats through the air in slow motion, I realize that this is it. My moment. I’m going to make this volleyball my bitch.
SLAP!The ball bounces off my wrist and smacks me in the face.
“Ow!” I stumble backward, arms pinwheeling as I try not to fall on my ass. “Freaking A! Why does it hurt so much? It’s air wrapped in leather!”
“Actually, it’ssyntheticleather,” a familiar voice calls out. “Real leather would absorb too much moisture from the beach.”
I turn around, gingerly touching my nose to ensure it’s not broken, and see Tyler Washington approaching. Behind him, Matthew Chambers carries a balled-up beach towel under one arm. Both of them are over six feet tall and built like a brick house, and are the best friends and teammates of my brothers.
“Hey, guys!” Matthew’s voice is loud enough to be heard from space. “Mind if we join?”
I don’t answer him because all of my attention is on the fact he’s wearing the shortest shorts known to mankind. The ones you see in ’80s movies that show off more thigh than should be allowed.
“Sure,” Adam says. “We’re trying to teach Kevin the basics.”
“Emphasis on trying,” Robbie adds.
I need to say something, not stand here in a stupor with my mouth hanging open. “Your legs are really defined, Matthew.”
The beach goes silent. The waves stop lapping. The cars stop honking. Even the seagulls stop squawking as all eyes land on me.
Matthew’s face turns the color of a perfectly ripe tomato. Tyler doubles over with laughter. Adam pinches the bridge of his nose. Robbie facepalms himself hard enough to make his eyes cross. And I melt into the sand.
“I mean…” I scramble for words that’ll salvage the situation. “From all the football. The running. You run a lot. With your legs. Which you have. Two of them.”
Tyler falls to the ground, wheezing. “Oh my—Kevin, please. Keep going.”
“Thanks?” Matthew croaks, blushing furiously. He tugs at the hem of his shorts to make them longer. “I, uh, do a lot of squats.”
