Page 75 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
Normally, I’d dig my heels in and make up some excuse about needing more water or having to use the bathroom. Butthat echo of confidence from my imaginary performance still hums in my chest. Plus, I want to see what happens when Jameson Hart attempts to dance.
The living room is chaos. Rita’s in the center, demonstrating what must be a combination of the running man and something she definitely made up on the spot. Matthew and Tyler are attempting to copy her with varying degrees of failure. Robbie pushes Jameson into the circle, and I position myself where I can watch without being too obvious about it. The second Jameson starts moving, I understand what Ethan meant about the wedding.
It’s not that he’s terrible exactly. It’s that his body is dancing to a different song. His arms pump to a beat that exists only in his head, while his feet shuffle in a pattern that defies all known laws of rhythm. His hips—oh god, his hips—move like he’s trying to hula-hoop while also avoiding invisible lasers.
It’s the most beautifully disastrous thing I’ve ever seen.
“See?” Jameson shouts over the music, catching me staring. “Told you I was bad!” But he’s grinning, completely unbothered by his lack of coordination. There’s something freeing about watching someone be this terrible at something and not care at all.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m moving too. Not the choreographed, precise movements from musicals, but something looser and less controlled. I let the beat guide me instead of counting it out in my head. My shoulders roll, my hips sway, and for once, I’m not thinking about hitting my marks perfectly.
“Yes, Kevin!” Rita appears beside me, grabbing my hands and spinning me. “This is what I’m talking about!”
The crowd presses closer, and suddenly I’m in the middle of it all—not performing for anyone, just moving because it feels good. Jameson’s still doing his alien interpretive dance nearby,and whenever our eyes meet, we both crack up. At some point, Adam joins us, executing the world’s stiffest two-step. Even he’s laughing, though, especially when Robbie attempts some sort of breakdancing move that ends with him ripping his pants.
The hours blurtogether in a haze of music and movement. My shirt sticks to my back with sweat, and my legs burn from dancing, but I don’t want to stop. This is what I’ve been missing at all those parties I skipped—not the drinking or the showing off, but this feeling of being part of something, of letting go.
Eventually, though, the heat becomes too much. Tyler suggests moving outside, and everyone agrees. We spill onto the deck and down to the fire pit near the lake’s edge, where its orange flames dance against the darkness.
I collapse onto one of the logs arranged around the fire, my legs grateful for the break. Rita drops down beside me, then Robbie next to her. Adam claims a spot on Robbie’s other side. Tyler appears with an armful of blankets from the pool house, passing them around before settling across from us. I’m secretly elated when Jameson joins me on my other side rather than sitting on Tyler’s log. Our knees touch under the flannel he drapes over both of us. Matthew comes out a few minutes later with drinks and completes the circle.
“Two weeks,” Tyler says, breaking the comfortable silence. “Two weeks until senior year.”
“Don’t remind me,” Matthew groans. “I haven’t even started my summer reading.”
“There was summer reading?” Robbie’s voice pitches up in panic.
“For AP Lit,” Adam says. “Which you’re not taking because, you said, and I quote, ‘reading is for people who can’t catch footballs.’”
“I stand by that statement.”
Rita laughs, leaning into Robbie’s shoulder. “You’re going to regret that when college applications ask about your coursework.”
“That’s what Kevin’s for,” Robbie says. “He’ll help me write my essays, right?”
“For a price,” I say. “My editorial services don’t come cheap.”
“What, like five bucks?”
“Try fifty.”
“Per essay?”
“Per paragraph.”
Jameson shifts slightly, his leg pressing more firmly against mine. I take a sip from my cup of water—how Matthew knew, I couldn’t say—and try not to read too much into it.
“What about you, Hart?” Tyler asks. “Ready for senior year?”
Jameson’s quiet for a moment, staring into the fire. “I guess. It’s weird, knowing it’s the last time for all of it. Last first day of school, last homecoming, last season…”
“Don’t get all sentimental on us,” Matthew says, but his voice is softer than usual.
“I’m serious, though. Next year at this time, we could all be scattered across the country.” Jameson’s hand rests on his knee, inches from mine under the blanket. I fight the urge to grab it. “I know we’ll make promises to keep in touch, to see each other when we come home for the holidays, but sometimes…it’s unrealistic. Sometimes, we don’t come home. Sometimes, we get new phones, new numbers, and forget to share them. Sometimes, we…move on.
“Geez, this got heavy fast,” Tyler says after a bout of silence as we reflect on Jameson’s sad truth. “Someone tell a joke or something.”
“Jameson can show us his dancing again,” I suggest without thinking.
