Page 19 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart

our little secret

“ W hy did we agree to this again?” Adam grumbles, squinting through the windshield at the downpour as we pull into the Food Lion parking lot.

“Because Dad said he’d make us clean out the garage if we didn’t go,” I reply. “Plus, Robbie’s acting as if he’s about to die of starvation.”

The rain has been coming down in buckets for the last four days. I half-expect to see fish swim by as Adam navigates puddles that threaten to turn into a new Great Lake. Even worse than this soggy weather, though, is the lack of food in the house.

Between Adam’s intense workout regimen, Robbie’s constant snacking, Dad’s obsessive need to maintain his muscle mass, and my stress-induced munching, we’ve transformed into a pack of ravenous wolves.

My family has always been able to consume a frightening amount of food. But we’re now at the point where the fridge and the pantry shelves are almost bare. Gone are the cartons of milk, the bags of chips, and the emergency stash of Ramen noodles we saved for the apocalypse.

Adam pulls into a parking spot and turns off the engine. “Let’s make this quick.”

We grab the reusable shopping bags from the back seat and run like hell toward the store.

The automatic doors whoosh open, and we’re greeted by a blast of arctic air that makes my wet T-shirt cling to my skin.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting the merchandise in a specific shade of grocery-store pale.

I grab a cart with a squeaky wheel and pull out my phone to check the list Dad texted me. “Cereal aisle first. Three boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios, two Frosted Flakes, and one of those protein cereals Dad pretends tastes good.”

Walking down the cereal aisle, I grab the boxes while Adam wanders to the Pop-Tarts display, examining it with unusual intensity.

As I wait for him to pick one of the many flavors, my mind drifts back to the bookstore, where Jameson listened as I rambled about books.

He could have stopped me at any time and said, “Dude, you’re boring me,” but he didn’t.

He was genuinely interested in what I had to say.

He was grateful for the recommendations and for my willingness to help him find books for his brother.

We move to the produce section next, where the misters spray a fine mist over the vegetables. I resist the urge to stick my hand under them; I’m already wet as it is.

Adam bags apples with mechanical precision while I hunt for the specific type of bananas Dad wants—“not too green, not too spotty.” When I find them, I gently add them to our cart and move on.

“Hey, Adam?” I test the weight of a cantaloupe, pretending to know what I’m testing for. “When do you go back to football practice?”

“As soon as this rain stops. Why?” He doesn’t look up from the tomatoes he’s now inspecting.

“Just wondering.” I place the cantaloupe in the cart and grab a bag of baby carrots before heading down the snack aisle.

Adam loads up on Dad’s protein bars, while I toss in bags of pretzels and those weird veggie straws that Diana loves.

As we keep walking, my mind drifts a few aisles away from where my body is.

I keep thinking about the way Jameson smiled at me as I talked about books, how easy he made it seem to exist. I replay the moment when he laughed, right after I joked about being born with jazz hands.

I’ll admit, there was a split-second where I worried he’d think I was a freak for saying such a thing, but he didn’t.

He grinned so wide I swear his whole face got involved.

I’ve never seen someone so entertained by a stupid joke.

When I’m this way with my brothers, it usually results in me getting a noogie or being subjected to physical torment until I cry “uncle.”

It’s weird, but the memory sinks into my bloodstream and gives me a tiny shot of confidence.

Maybe not enough to convert me into the “chill” guy who says what he means and doesn’t second-guess every syllable, but enough to keep me in forward motion.

I wonder if Jameson’s even thinking about me after all that, or if he’s already moved on with his life.

A throat being cleared snaps me out of my reverie, and I realize I’m hugging the cart for support like it’s a life preserver.

I’m also blocking the aisle, and an elderly lady is glaring at me from behind her bifocals.

My face burns. Adam should be making fun of me by now, but when I turn around, he’s not even there.

I check behind a display of trail mix and spot him halfway down the next aisle, deep in debate with himself over two identical boxes of graham crackers.

I try to catch his attention, but he’s zeroed in.

I might as well be invisible—which is kind of the story of my life when I’m not on stage or in a group photo.

Still, I can’t bring myself to care much right now, too busy replaying every Jameson Hart moment in high definition.

I get why Robbie obsesses over his latest crushes; the feeling is both terrifying and kind of incredible.

“I need to hit the bathroom,” Adam announces when I walk up to him. He throws both boxes of crackers into the cart.

“Same.” My bladder has been protesting since we left the house, but I’ve been too distracted by thoughts of bleached hair to notice.

The Food Lion bathroom is exactly what you’d expect—harsh lighting, beige tiles, and that weird pink soap that doesn’t quite smell of anything identifiable. Adam takes the urinal on the left, and I take the one on the right. The automatic flush sensors blink their beady red eyes at us.

I clear my throat. “So, um, I was thinking…”

“Dude, seriously?” Adam’s head whips toward me. “We’re peeing. This is not conversation time.”

“I know, I know, but”—the automatic flush goes off prematurely, making me jump—“I want to come to your next practice. When the rain stops.”

Adam’s stream falters for a second. “You’re talking to me about football practice while we’re at the urinals?”

“Just hear me out.” I focus on the graffiti someone scratched into the tile. “Remember how you said I could come watch? Back when we talked about me being more invested?”

“Kevin, this is weird even for you.”

“I’m serious! I want to see what you and Robbie do at practice.” The words tumble out faster now. “I want to understand the plays better, see the drills, watch how the team works together.”

The lie settles in my stomach like bad meat, but it’s better than admitting I want to watch Jameson Hart run around in short shorts.

Adam finishes his business and moves to the sink.

I follow shortly after. A slow smile spreads across his face as he eyes me in the mirror.

“Well, damn. Yes, of course, you’re welcome to come.

Coach Potter won’t mind.” He grabs paper towels from the dispenser.

“Fair warning, though; it’s not exactly thrilling for spectators.

Lots of repetitive drills, water breaks, and standing around as someone gets screamed at. ”

“I’ll bring a book.” And sunglasses. Dark ones. Purely for sun-protection purposes.

“Oh, and Ethan usually sits in the bleachers during practice. Hart’s little brother,” he adds, reminding me when I don’t need to be.

“You guys could hang out and get to know each other.” Adam tosses his paper towel into the trash.

“Kid’s cool. You’d probably get along.” He holds the door open for me.

“Just don’t turn it into some weird musical in your head, okay? ”

Too late. I’m already choreographing the number—something about dreams coming true on the fifty-yard line. But Adam doesn’t need to know that.

We return to our abandoned cart to find a woman examining our selections with undisguised judgment. She purses her lips at the mountain of junk food before shuffling away with her basket of sensible vegetables.

“Pasta aisle next,” I announce, checking the list again. “Dad wants five boxes of spaghetti and three jars of sauce.”

The rest of our shopping trip passes in a blur of grabbing items and dodging other rain-soaked shoppers. By the time we reach the checkout line, our cart has been stocked for a fallout shelter.

The teenage cashier’s eyes widen as she scans. “Having a party?” she asks, running three packages of hot dogs across the scanner.

“We’re a family of men,” Adam replies with a shrug.

The mounting total makes me wince, but Dad gave us his credit card for this exact reason. While Adam loads the items into the reusable shopping bags, I mentally prepare myself for another sprint through the rain.

The drive home is quieter. Adam focuses on the road while I stare out at the waterlogged world, already planning what I’ll wear to practice. Something casual but not too casual. Something that says “supportive brother” and not “desperate weirdo.”

When we pull into the driveway, Robbie shows up at the front door, face beaming and wiggling his butt in a happy dance. “Finally! I was about to start gnawing on the furniture.”

Between the three of us, we haul all the groceries inside in one trip. It’s a point of pride in the Pryor household—never make two trips when you can destroy your circulation with grocery bag handles instead.

As we unpack, Robbie attacks a bag of chips as though he hasn’t eaten in days. “What took you guys so long?”

“Kevin wanted to have a heart-to-heart in the Food Lion bathroom,” Adam says, tossing boxes into the pantry.

Robbie pauses mid-chew. “That’s a new one.”

“I want to come to your next practice,” I tell him, organizing the canned goods by type because someone has to bring order to this chaos. “Adam said it was okay.”

“Really?” Robbie’s face lights up. “That’s awesome! You can see my new kicking technique. I’ve been working on this thing where I?—”

He launches into an explanation that involves a lot of foot movements and terms I don’t understand. His enthusiasm is infectious, though, and I end up nodding along.