Page 8 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
There’s no escaping bullies, no matter how progressive a town may be. While some kids grow up and become respectable people in society, others are destined to be the villain in someone else’s story.
Take Derek Davis, for example. Two years ago, he cornered me in the restroom, irate that I’d managed to nail him with a dodgeball. A feat that surprised me more than anyone else. But when I stupidly stood my ground, I found myself up close and person with Derek’s massive fist.
“It was worth it,” Adam says, chuckling. “Nobody makes my brother bleed.”
“Except when you accidentally elbow me during family football.”
“We call that character building.”
I snort. “Is that what we’re calling the time Patrick Watson gave me an atomic wedgie in the locker room? I walked funny for a week.”
“Youalwayswalk funny.”
“Rude.” I kick his shin again, this time on purpose. He shucks off one of his flip-flops and scratches me with his toenails in retaliation. “At least I don’t walk around like I’m carrying invisible watermelons under my arms.”
“That’s muscle mass, theater nerd.”
“The lunch money thing was worse,” I admit after a beat. “Being hungry sucks more than being sore.”
“Robbie and I made sure Derek never looked your way again, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, but I’m not made of glass, Adam. I can handle myself.”
“We know.” Adam’s voice is softer now. “But you’re our brother.”
I shake my head. “I don’t need bodyguards.”
Adam says nothing, no doubt believing that I do.
The rest of our meal passes in easier conversation. Adam tells me about how Tyler finally saved enough money to buy himself a car. I tell him about Rita’s plan to get a tattoo on her foot now that she’s eighteen and doesn’t need her parents approval.
After we finish eating, Adam leaves cash on the table, and we head back out into the quiet. This time, I don’t need to hold his arm. The darkness isn’t as threatening with a full stomach.
“Thanks,” I say as we get back in the minivan. “For this.”
“You’re my brother, Kevin. I will always be here for you.”
The way he says it, I get the sense that I should be reading between the lines. But I’m too sleepy from all that food to suss out what my brother is really trying to tell me.
CHAPTER 3
whistle while you work
It’s the Monday after the Fourth of July, which can only mean one thing. From now until the end of August, the house is mine all day, Monday through Friday. Adam and Robbie are at football camp, and Dad has his lifeguard job at the Arcadia Beach Club—which, yes, is as preppy and weird as it sounds.
If you’ve never spent a summer alone in a suburban house, let me paint a picture for you: pajamas become formalwear, breakfast is eaten at noon, and every surface becomes a stage. I’ve performed in this house with the confidence of a seasoned showman, and I have the imaginary Tony awards to prove it.
Sometimes I blast show tunes because the acoustics in the house is incredible. Other times, I grab Diana’s hairbrush and pretend there’s an audience in the kitchen.
The truest highlight of my solo summers, though, is the cleaning. I know, I know—what kind of teenager voluntarily scrubs a house? But there’s something intensely satisfying about the transformation. When I was little, my grandma used to say that if you clean well enough, the room thanks you by becoming warmer, brighter, more alive.
Of course, the other reason I clean is for the thrill of the snoop. I’ve made it a personal mission to learn the location of every hidden item from late-night snacks and money stuffed under the mattresses, to love notes folded into impossible shapes, then shoved inside worn sneakers.
You learn a lot about people from what they choose to hide, but snooping does have its downsides. I once found a shoebox in the back of Dad’s closet, filled with vintagePlayboymagazines. I got grounded for that discovery.
Today, though, I’m not in the mood for scandal, not right away, at least. The house is a disaster zone.
In the kitchen, I load the dishwasher with last night’s dinner plates and this morning’s protein shake bottles. The counter gets a thorough wipe-down, as does the microwave, which has suspicious splatter marks from what must’ve been one of Robbie’s late-night burrito experiments.
