Page 51 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
“How?”
“It just was.”
“Come on, Kev,” Robbie says, swimming over to me and wrapping me up in a hug. “When’s the last time we all hung out together?” He rests his chin on my shoulder and pouts at me. “Plus, you love the drive-in. Remember when we sawThe Greatest Showmanthere a few years ago and you cried during ‘This Is Me?’”
“Everyone cried during ‘This Is Me.’”
“I didn’t,” Adam says, raising his hand.
“That’s because you have no soul,” Rita informs him primly. She turns to me with eyes that promise future hurt if I don’t agree. “We’re going. This is happening. The universe is handing you a perfect opportunity on a silver platter.”
“A perfect opportunity for what?” my brothers ask simultaneously.
“To kill us with heat,” I mutter, not daring to tell them the truth.
Two hours later,I’m in the back seat of the minivan with Rita, watching Arcadia transform from a beach town to something more rural. The sun hangs low and fat on the horizon, painting nature in shades of amber and rust.
Adam navigates us through downtown, past the gazebo where the community band plays on Sundays, past Santo’s Pizza with its orange pizza sign flickering. The sidewalks are still crowded with people, despite the record temperatures.
“What do you guys think? Keep the AC on or windows down?” Adam asks, his hand hovering over the controls.
“Windows,” Robbie says immediately. “I need actual air, not this recycled stuff.”
Adam obliges, and warm wind rushes through the van. It’s not exactly refreshing, but I get it. Rita’s hair escapes from its bun in wild tendrils that whip around her face.
We pass the high school, empty and somehow smaller looking without students filling its halls. The football field sits silent, its lights dark, the bleachers empty except for the ghosts of games past.
“Remember when you threw that sixty-yard touchdown against Central?” Robbie asks Adam. “That was insane.”
“Hart caught it,” Adam reminds him.
God, even Jameson’s last name makes my pulse quicken. I focus on the scenery in an attempt to calm my hormones. The houses grow farther apart, separated by stretches of grass burned brown by the vicious sun. Someone’s sprinkler sends arcs of water across a dehydrated lawn, creating brief rainbows in the evening light.
The road soon becomes winding, following the lazy path of Archer’s Creek. Through the trees, I see that the water is low between the exposed rocks.
“God, even the creek has given up,” Rita observes, peering out her window. “This weather is apocalyptic.”
We pass Miller’s Farm Stand, closed for the evening but with signs advertising sweet corn and tomatoes. The red barn needs painting; its color faded to the soft pink of an old scar. Next comes the veterinary clinic where we took our childhood dog, then the nursery with its greenhouse glowing in the dimming light.
“I’m gonna play some music,” Robbie says, already reaching for the auxiliary cord.
“No,” Adam and I say in unison.
“What? Why not? My playlist is fire.”
“Your playlist is a crime against humanity,” I tell him. “Last time you had the aux, you played that remix of ‘Baby Shark’ for twenty minutes.”
“It’s catchy!”
Rita laughs. “Let Kevin pick. He has the best taste.”
I scroll through my phone in search of something that fits the mood. The opening notes of “Summer Breeze” by Seals and Crofts fill the van, and even Robbie doesn’t complain.
The landscape continues to shift as we drive. Corn stalks stand like tired soldiers in neat rows. A red-tailed hawk circles overhead, riding thermals in the still air. The sky deepens from amber to violet, that magic hour when the world resembles a painting.
“There’s that house,” Rita says suddenly, pointing to a Victorian mansion set back from the road. “The one everyone says is haunted.”
It does look haunted in this light, all Gothic towers and gingerbread trim gone to seed. The windows are dark, reflecting the sunset in its empty eyes.
