Page 44 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
“Crossword puzzles,” I repeat flatly. At this point, why not? Maybe he also nurses birds with broken wings and speaks fluent French.
“Yeah, and he’s teaching himself guitar. Says it helps with hand-eye coordination or something.” Ethan rolls his eyes. “I think he just wants to be able to play campfire songs when we go to the lake.”
Each new detail is another weight added to my already overwhelming crush. I imagine Jameson strumming a guitar by firelight, his voice carrying across dark water. I bet it’s silky smooth, like Michael Bublé or John Mayer. I have to dig my nails into my palm to stay grounded.
“Sounds like he’s good at everything,” I say.
“Noteverything.” Ethan’s expression turns mischievous. “He’s terrible at video games; I’m talking embarrassingly bad. I can beat him with my eyes closed. And don’t get me started on his dancing.”
“He can’t dance?” This feels important in some way, like finding a crack in marble.
“Oh, man, it’s painful. At our aunt’s wedding last year, I thought he was being electrocuted.” Ethan demonstrates with some truly awful arm movements. “But he does it anyway because he says confidence is half the battle.”
I glance over at the field and watch him high-fiving teammates. “What about dating?” The question escapes my lips before I can catch it.
Ethan raises an eyebrow. “What about it?”
“I mean, he must have girls throwing themselves at him constantly.” I gesture vaguely at the field, where he’s now doing jumping jacks that should be illegal in public if you’re wearing shorts as short as his.
“I guess? He doesn’t date much anymore. He’s focused on school, football season, and getting into a good college.” Ethan shrugs. “He’s been single since he broke up with Alison Harper last year. She moved to Boston, and they decided long distance wasn’t worth it.”
Alison Harper. I vaguely remember her. She was the student council president with dreams of attending Harvard. She was always kind, which would explain why Jameson would have dated her.
“Do you have any other burning questions about my brother?”
“What? No. I was?—”
“Relax.” He waves off my stammering. “I’m messing with you. It’s nice having someone to talk to up here.”
The whistle blows for a water break. Players scatter toward the sidelines, grabbing bottles and towels. Jameson pours half his water over his head, then shakes. The droplets catch the sunlight, and I have to stop staring before I do something stupid like sigh out loud.
“Have you read any of those books I recommended yet? The ones from Pages & Prose?”
Ethan stares at me with a confused expression. “What books?”
My heart stops thumping. “The young adult novels.Cemetery Boys, Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda?Your brother said he was getting them for you.”
“He never gave me any books.” Ethan’s forehead wrinkles. “When was this?”
“Last week. During the rain. He came into the bookstore and asked for recommendations for you. Said you wanted to try young adult romance.”
Ethan shakes his head slowly. “I never asked him to get me books. I mean, I like reading, but I’m more into sci-fi and fantasy stuff. Dragons and spaceships, you know?”
The heat from the bleachers intensifies as I replay the bookstore conversation in my head. There’s no way I could have misinterpreted anything. He literally said he was looking to get some books for Ethan. He’d asked questions and listened to my recommendations, and walked out with an armful of novels.
“That’s weird,” I say.
“Maybe he forgot?” Ethan suggests, but he sounds doubtful. “Jameson’s pretty good about remembering stuff, though. Especially if he went to the trouble of buying them.”
A new thought creeps into my brain, one that’s completely ridiculous. There’s no way Jameson Hart saw me enter the bookstore and followed me in solely to strike up a conversation. That’s the kind of thing that happens in movies, not real life. Notto theater kids who can barely utter a coherent sentence around attractive people.
“Yeah, he probably forgot,” I echo, but my voice sounds strange, even to me.
Down on the field, practice resumes. Jameson catches another pass, and this time, when he jogs back, he glances up at the bleachers. Our eyes meet for half a second before I quickly look up, pretending to be fascinated by a cloud in the shape of a lopsided turtle.
“You okay?” Ethan asks. “Your face is getting red. Do you need water?”
“It’s the sun. I burn easily,” I lie. My brain is too busy reanalyzing everything to come up with better excuses.
