Page 6 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
“You’re on,” Adam says, but he lets me win anyway.
I slide into the red vinyl booth and take in the diner. The checkered linoleum floor is covered in scuff marks and mysterious stains. The air smells of bacon grease and coffee strong enough to wake the dead. Above us, fluorescent lights buzz and flicker, casting the diner in a harsh, unnatural light that makes everyone look slightly ill.
The walls are covered in faded photographs of Arcadia through the decades. There’s the boardwalk before Hurricane Sandy, the old roller rink that burned down when Dad was a kid, and the grand opening of this very diner sometime in the ’70s. A jukebox sits silent in the corner, its chrome surface reflecting distorted versions of the few other patrons.
Two truckers hunch over coffee at the counter, their backs to us. In the far booth, a young couple shares a plate of fries, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. The hiss of the coffeemachine and the scrape of a spatula on the grill from the kitchen add a little spice to the subdued atmosphere.
Adam slides in across from me and immediately grabs the laminated menu from behind the napkin dispenser. The plastic is sticky with what I hope is syrup. He flips through it, reading every item with scrutiny. His brows pinch and his lips pucker as though he’s tasted something sour.
A woman emerges from behind the counter, and I recognize her as Mindy, the waitress who’s been here since the dawn of time. She’s in her mid-sixties, with graying hair pulled back in a ponytail and tired eyes that say she’s seen it all. Her uniform is mint green with a name tag that’s barely hanging on by one corner.
She approaches our table with the weariness of someone six hours into a twelve-hour shift. “What can I get you boys?” Her voice is raspy from years of cigarette breaks.
“Belgian waffle with blueberries,” Adam says, setting down the menu. “And coffee. Black.”
“French toast, scrambled eggs, and hash browns,” I add. “Orange juice, please.”
Mindy doesn’t write anything down. She simply nods and shuffles away, her white sneakers squeaking on the linoleum.
Once she’s out of earshot, I lean forward on my elbows. “Why couldn’t you fall asleep?”
Adam shifts in his seat, suddenly fascinated by the sugar packets. “I was still wired, I guess. Couldn’t shut my brain off. Even tried watching some”—he pauses, his ears turning pink—“videos to relax.”
I bite back a laugh. “Videos. Right. Very relaxing, I’m sure.”
“Shut up.” He throws a sugar packet at me, which I dodge. “What about you? You’ve been tossing and turning for days.”
The truth sits heavy on my tongue. “Senior year stuff, mostly. Everything’s about to change, and I don’t know if I’m ready for it.”
“Change how?”
I trace patterns in the condensation on the table from someone’s previous water glass. “We’re supposed to have it all figured out by now, right? College applications, career goals, five-year plans. But I still feel like I’m playing pretend half the time.”
“Nobody has it figured out,” Adam says. “Not really.”
“You do. Football scholarship to Arcadia U, business major, probably take over Dad’s job someday as athletic director once your golden days are over.”
“That’s what everyoneexpects.” His voice drops. “Doesn’t mean it’s what I want.”
Before I can ask what he means, Mindy returns with our drinks. She sets them down without ceremony and disappears again. I sip my orange juice and study my brother’s face. In the harsh diner light, I notice the circles under his eyes, the tension in his jaw.
“What do you want then?” I ask quietly.
Adam wraps his hands around his coffee mug. “I don’t know,” he says, although to me it sounds like a lie. “That’s the problem. Everyone sees me as this perfect athlete with an entire life mapped out. But sometimes I think about doing something completely different. Teaching, maybe. Or coaching little kids instead of playing.”
“You’d be good at that.”
“Yeah?” He looks up at me with vulnerability. Something he rarely allows himself to be.
“Remember when you taught that kid at the beach how to throw a spiral last summer? You were so patient with him.”
A small smile crosses his face. “His dad was being such a jerk about it. Kid was only seven.”
“And you made him feel like Tom Brady by the end of the day.”
We sit in comfortable silence until Mindy brings our food. The French toast is perfect—golden brown and dusted with powdered sugar. The eggs are fluffy, the hash browns crispy. Adam drowns his waffle in syrup until it’s practically floating.
“What about you?” he asks between bites. “Still planning to do theater at Arcadia U?”
