Page 17 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart

a trip to the library

I ’m about to lose it. I’ve reorganized my Playbill collection twice and my bookshelf by spine height, and I still can’t shake off this crawling sensation under my skin.

Down in the basement, Adam and Robbie have turned into cave trolls.

They’ve been glued to the TV since breakfast, controllers in hand, surrounded by empty Gatorade bottles and chip bags, wearing nothing but their boxers.

The synthetic gunfire from Call of Duty echoes up through the floorboards, louder than my music blaring from the boombox on the desk.

They’re perfectly content with wasting away their crappy week, which makes zero sense to me.

These are the guys who usually can’t sit still for five minutes without tossing a football or doing push-ups.

“How are they okay with this?” I mutter to myself, pacing my room for the hundredth time while drowning my sorrows in the Wicked soundtrack.

The rain hammers against my window. I press my forehead against the cool glass and nearly bawl my eyes out.

No beach. No boardwalk. No salt air or freedom to go wherever my feet will take me.

I try to imagine myself as Gene Kelly, splashing through puddles with that infectious smile. But even my imagination is waterlogged today. The musical number in my head keeps stuttering—the choreography is all wrong, and the orchestra plays off-key.

I need to get out. I need fresh air. I need something other than these four walls and the endless patter of rain.

A knock on my door makes me jump. Dad pokes his head in and smirks at my deranged expression. I probably look like Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange.

“You okay there, kiddo?” He steps fully into the room, dressed in flip-flops, jeans, and a polo despite having nowhere to go.

“How are Adam and Robbie fine with being trapped inside?” I whine, walking over to my bed and falling dramatically onto it. “They’re the athletic ones. Shouldn’t it be them climbing the walls?”

Chuckling, Dad grabs the desk chair, turns it around, and sits.

“People cope differently. Your brothers can zone out with video games. You, on the other hand, need a place to move.” He wiggles his hips and studies me with those dad eyes that understand too much.

“Want to get out of here? I have to run some errands that’ll take me past the bookstore.

Thought we could make a pit stop, my treat. ”

I practically launch myself off the bed. “Yes! God, yes. Please. I’ll get my shoes.”

When I get downstairs, Dad is already in his “weekend errands” mode, which means he’s got his wallet, phone, and keys already in his pockets, a list written in Sharpie, and he’s humming something that might be a fight song or maybe “Smelly Cat.” I barely have time to put on my raincoat before I’m hustled out to the minivan.

The inside of the car smells of pine air freshener, and the gym bag in the back seat that Dad swears he took to the cleaners.

He has the AC going, but it can’t keep up with the humidity, so the windows fog up.

The windshield wipers are going berserk at high speed, and every few blocks, Dad has to lean forward and squint through the mess.

“Flooded intersection up ahead. Do we go for the risk, or play it safe?” He glances at me theatrically, waiting for my input.

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re not driving a Jeep, Dad. Play it safe.”

“A wise call, Kev. That’s why you’re the brains of the operation.

” He grins, clicks on the hazard lights, and detours down Sycamore instead.

The streets are empty, but the gutters are overflowing.

Water gushes over the curbs, carrying little rivers of leaves and plastic soda caps to only God knows where.

I watch it all slide by, the world outside warped through streaks of rain and fogged glass.

The usual Main Street bustle is erased. Stores have dark windows and hand-lettered signs that say they’re closed due to the weather.

The bakery has its lights on, but nobody is inside except the owner, counting muffins in a tray.

Even the pizza place has the chairs flipped up and the delivery car pulled right up to the door, windshield wipers frozen in mid-swipe.

Dad kills the radio and lets the silence fill the car.

I find myself enjoying the nothingness. Every so often, he drums his fingers on the steering wheel and shoots me a sideways glance.

I rest my chin on my hand and focus on the way the water beads and runs down the glass, how the world outside resembles a watercolor someone left out in the rain.

I try not to think about Mom. How she used to make rainy days a big production before she left us—hot chocolate, blanket forts, dance parties in the kitchen. I try not to let it ruin the moment, but the memory keeps poking at me, insistent.

At the intersection, the light turns red and Dad eases us to a stop.

I fidget with my seatbelt. “Can I ask you something weird?”

“You know I like weird.”

That he does. Last Halloween, he dressed up as Riff Raff from The Rocky Horror Picture Show and scared all the kids in the neighborhood.

“How do you know when you have a crush on someone? Like, a real crush, not just thinking someone’s cute?”

Dad’s eyebrows rise slightly, but he keeps his eyes on the road when the light turns green.

“That’s not weird at all. Pretty normal question for someone your age.

I guess for me, it’s when you can’t stop thinking about them.

When you find yourself wanting to share good news with them before anyone else. ”

“But what if they don’t even know you exist? Or they do, but you’re a wallflower to them?”

Dad pulls into a parking spot near the Pages & Prose bookstore. He turns off the engine but doesn’t move to get out yet. “You know, when I first met Diana, I thought she was way out of my league.”

“Diana?” I can’t hide my surprise. Dad and Diana are so natural together, as though they’ve known each other forever.

“Oh, yeah. We met at that athletic director’s conference last spring, remember? She was presenting on Title IX compliance in this power suit, commanding the whole room. And there I was, in a polo shirt that had some mustard stains on it.”

I try to picture Dad intimidated by anyone, and it doesn’t compute. He’s a behemoth of a man. “But you talked to her anyway?”

“Actually, she talked to me first. I was drinking coffee during a break and dribbled it down my chin. She handed me napkins and made a joke about the conference coffee.” Dad smiles at the memory. “We ended up having lunch together. Then dinner.”

“But how did you know it was more than just casual conversation?”

Dad considers this. “I couldn’t stop thinking about her laugh and the way she explained complicated policies as though she was telling a story.

I found myself searching for her at each session and being disappointed when we weren’t in the same workshops.

” He turns to look at me directly. “When someone takes up that much real estate in your brain, when their opinions matter more than others, that’s when you know. ”

“What if they’re completely different from you?”

“Well, look at it this way. Diana runs athletic programs for an entire school district. I work at a high school and sometimes teach PE. On paper, we shouldn’t work, but different doesn’t mean incompatible. Sometimes, different is exactly what you need. Now, are you ready to head inside?”

I nod. We get out of the van and dash through the rain to the bookstore. The bell above the door chimes as we enter, and the familiar smell of books and coffee wraps around me in a warm hug.

Pages & Prose is one of those perfect independent bookstores that sells new and used novels. It features creaky wooden floors and shelves that touch the ceiling. Small couches line the perimeter, and a small bakery is located in the back.

“I’m going to browse the sports section,” Dad says. “Take your time.”

Nodding, I wander toward the young adult section, running my fingers along the spines as I go. But Dad’s words keep echoing in my head. When someone takes up that much real estate in your brain…

I scoff. If that’s the case, then Jameson Hart has become the landlord of my entire mind.

Every blond guy I see makes me do a double-take.

I can’t put mustard on anything without thinking about him pointing the bottle at me.

Even football, which I’ve successfully ignored for eighteen years, suddenly matters because it’s his thing.

I pull two books at random off the shelf—one ends up being The Miseducation of Cameron Post —and flip through their pages.

The corners are soft from countless readings, and someone has penciled notes in the margins.

I cringe, but to each their own. I’m debating whether to add it to my collection when I hear a voice that has my heart nearly flying out of my mouth.

“Excuse me, could you tell me where I can find the young adult section?”

My head snaps up. That’s Jameson Hart’s voice, coming from the front desk. My fingers go numb, and the other book slips from my hands, hitting the floor with a thud that sounds way too loud in the quiet bookstore.

“Oh, you’re in luck,” the worker replies. “It’s right around that corner.”

No, no, no. This cannot be happening.

I scramble to pick up the book. Maybe if I hide behind the shelf and pretend to be deeply engrossed in—I glance at the spine— The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue. Perfect. Nothing says “please don’t talk to me” like intently studying a book about historical gay adventures.

Footsteps approach. Fee-fi-fo-fum. I hold my breath and stare at the back of the book until the words blur.

“Oh! Hi, Kevin!”