Page 13 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart

hair

M ornings are supposed to be peaceful . But this is the Pryor House, where that word is a foreign concept.

I’m sprawled on the couch in the living room with my bare feet propped up on the coffee table.

The morning news drones on, the weatherman—this ridiculously handsome guy with dimples that could rival Jameson’s—gesturing at the map behind him with practiced enthusiasm.

“Folks, I hope you’ve got your rain boots out because Mother Nature’s about to deliver quite the soaking to Arcadia.

” His dimples deepen when he smiles. The way they crease his cheeks reminds me of how Jameson’s face transforms when he laughs.

Something I’ve only seen once or twice in the cafeteria, but have remembered forever.

Now that I think about it, this weatherman also has that boy-next-door charm that Jameson does. The one that makes you want to trust whatever he’s selling, even if it’s a week of torrential downpours.

“Our latest models show this system moving in much faster than we initially predicted,” the weatherman continues, pointing to a massive swirl of green, orange, and red on the map.

“We’re predicting the rain to come as early as tonight, with heavy bands moving through continuously for the next seven days.

Rainfall totals could reach six to eight inches by week’s end. ”

I wiggle my toes, watching the weatherman’s dimples disappear as his expression turns serious. “Today will be your last chance to enjoy the sunshine, so make the most of it. Beach conditions will be perfect this morning.”

The couch suddenly lurches as Robbie vaults over the back, landing with all the grace of a rhinoceros. His foot connects with mine, sending both my feet flying off the coffee table.

“Move it, shrimp,” he says, immediately claiming the wooden prime real estate for himself.

“Hey! I was here first!” I retaliate by planting my heel on his ankle and pushing hard. Soon, we’re in a full-on foot war, our legs tangling as we fight for coffee table dominance. His feet may be twice the size of mine, but I have better flexibility from all those years of dance.

“Is that all you got?” Robbie taunts.

“I’m just getting started!”

We’re both laughing and grunting, the weather report forgotten as we battle. I get one foot firmly planted on the table, victorious for about two seconds before Robbie’s foot comes crashing down on top of mine—gently, of course—and pins it.

“Boys!”

We freeze mid-fight. Dad stands in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing his typical Saturday morning attire—basketball shorts and an old Arcadia Knights T-shirt.

“If you’re done playing footsie, I made you both an appointment at Hudson’s for eleven.” He checks his watch. “That gives you about thirty minutes to get dressed and get downtown.”

“Haircuts?” Robbie groans. “But I like my hair the way it is.”

“You’re turning into a sheepdog,” Dad says flatly. And he’s not wrong. Robbie’s growing a mullet. “Both of you are. It might only be mid-July, but no child of mine is going to go back to school looking like they’ve been living in the wilderness all summer.”

I run my fingers through my hair and can’t help but agree that it has gotten shaggy. But Hudson’s Barber Shop means sitting in those ancient vinyl chairs while Mr. Hudson tells the same stories about his glory days and asks about girlfriends I don’t have.

“Can’t we go somewhere else?” I ask hopefully.

“Hudson’s been cutting Pryor hair for twenty years,” Dad says with finality. “Now, get moving. You know how Main Street can get on Saturdays.”

Robbie pulls his feet off the table with exaggerated slowness, making sure to “accidentally” kick my shin in the process. I swat at him, but he dances out of reach.

“Last one dressed has to sit in the chair by the window,” he calls, already sprinting for the stairs.

The chair by the window at Hudson’s is legendary for all the wrong reasons.

It’s where Mr. Hudson puts whoever he wants to show off to the constant stream of pedestrians walking by.

Last time, it was Adam who was stuck there.

Half the football team walked by and saw him in a cape and foil in his hair and laughed their asses off.

They posted the pictures they took on Instagram, and as the saying goes, the internet is forever.

I scramble after Robbie, taking the stairs two at a time. Behind us, the weatherman’s voice drifts from the TV. “Remember, folks, after today, you’ll want to keep those umbrellas handy…”

I throw on the first clean clothes I can find—a Hamilton T-shirt and basketball shorts that have seen better days. By the time I make it downstairs, Robbie’s already jangling the minivan keys and wearing his signature smirk.

“Window seat for you, slowpoke,” he says.

I grab my wallet from the counter. “You still can’t parallel park to save your life.”

He gapes at me. “I’ve been practicing!”

“On what, Grand Theft Auto ?”

He flips me the bird, and we head out of the house to the minivan parked crooked in the driveway.

As I buckle myself into the passenger seat, Robbie adjusts the driver’s seat approximately seventeen times.

Dad was the last one to drive, and even though Robbie and Adam are approaching him in height, they still have a ways to go in the muscle mass department.

Main Street on a Saturday morning is absolute mayhem.

Families push strollers between shops while their kids clutch melting ice cream cones despite it being barely even noon.

Teenagers gather outside the Beans & Dreams coffee shop, their laughter mixing with the moody music drifting from inside.

A golden retriever tied to a lamppost barks at a passing skateboarder.

The flower shop has buckets of sunflowers on display, their yellow heads turned toward the sun that the dimpled weatherman promises won’t last.

“There!” I point to an open spot right in front of Hudson’s. “Between the red truck and that Mini Cooper.”

Robbie’s knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. “I got this.”

He absolutely does not “got this.”

His first attempt involves pulling up so far past the spot that we’re practically in Pennsylvania. He throws the van in reverse, cuts the wheel hard, and somehow manages to mount the curb with the back tire. A woman walking her poodle jumps back and glares at us.

“Sorry!” I call through the window while Robbie mutters curses that would make Dad ground us both.

Attempt number two fares no better. This time, he doesn’t pull forward enough. When he backs up, we end up perpendicular to the curb and blocking the entire lane. Drivers come to a screeching halt and lay on their horns.

“Robbie, maybe I should?—”

“I’ve got it!” Robbie’s face is turning an interesting shade of purple. He pulls forward again, this time clipping the red truck’s side mirror with ours, folding it in with a sad little click.

“Robbie!”

“It’s fine! They’re supposed to do that!” He’s sweating now, despite the AC blasting. On attempt number three, he somehow manages to get the van at a forty-five-degree angle. The front end still sticks into traffic, and the back end is about three feet from the curb.

“This is painful to watch,” I say.

“Shut up and let me concentrate.”

Finally, on attempt number four— or is it seven? I’ve lost count—Robbie manages to wedge the van into something resembling a parked position. We’re crooked and way too far from the curb, but at least we’re no longer blocking traffic.

“Nailed it,” Robbie says, turning off the engine.

“If by ‘nailed it’ you mean ‘barely avoided causing a ten-car pileup,’ then sure.”

We climb out, and I catch the red truck’s driver watching us from across the street. Robbie gives him a thumbs-up. The man does not return it.

Hudson’s Barber Shop hasn’t changed since probably 1962.

The spinning barber pole out front has faded from its original red, white, and blue to a new palette of pink, beige, and baby blue.

A brass bell jingles when we push through the door, and the smell hits me immediately—aftershave, hair tonic, and something mysteriously medicinal.

The black-and-white checkered floor is scuffed from decades of foot traffic.

Four barber chairs, the old-fashioned kind with cracked red leather and chrome fixtures, line one wall.

The ancient mirrors bend reality just enough that my already-awkward body stretches like saltwater taffy in places it definitely shouldn’t.

But instead of Mr. Hudson’s familiar grumpy face greeting us, it’s two guys who can’t be much older than us behind the reception desk. They glance up from their phones when we enter.

“Hey, you must be the Pryor boys,” the taller one says. He has a tattoo sleeve and gauges in his ears—definitely not Mr. Hudson’s usual hire. “I’m Jake. This is Connor. Mr. H is in Florida for two weeks, so we’re covering.”

“Thank God,” I mutter, earning me an elbow to the ribs from Robbie.

“Who wants the window seat?” Connor asks. He’s shorter, with bleached tips and a nose ring.

I glance at the dreaded window chair. The thought of sitting there on display like a mannequin while strangers walk by and judge my haircut in progress makes me want to cry.

Robbie must notice my apprehension because he bounds over to it before I can move. “I’ll take this one. I love to people watch.”

I shoot him a grateful look and settle into the chair next to him. He winks back.

Connor wraps the cape around my neck. “So what are we doing today?”

He runs his lithe fingers through my mess of hair. Maybe it’s because he’s kinda cute that the action causes my toes to curl in my sandals. Something that never happens when Mr. Hudson does the same move.

“Just a regular buzz cut. Nothing fancy,” I tell him.

“You sure? I could do something with more style. Maybe leave it longer on top?”

“Nope. Buzz it all. Number three guard should work.”

Beside me, Jake consults with Robbie.