Page 2 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart

The Atlantic Ocean stretches endlessly, the waves catching the sunlight and throwing it back in a million glittering pieces.

The boardwalk runs parallel to the beach, a weathered wooden spine that holds up all of Arcadia’s summer glory.

Beach Bum’s Taffy is the first shop, notable for its neon pink sign that flashes day and night.

Next to it, Sandy Cheeks Swimwear—named years before SpongeBob SquarePants came on the scene—displays mannequins in bikinis.

There’s also Gull-ible’s Gift Shop, with its rotating display of seashell wind chimes and racks of floppy hats bigger than the ones Diana owns.

The Ferris Wheel sits at the end of the pier, its white metal frame stark against the clear blue sky.

The wheel turns slowly, carrying riders up and around in a lazy circle.

At the top, riders get a view of the entire coastline—or so the brochures claim.

I’ve never been on it. Heights and I have an understanding: I don’t bother them, and they don’t make me vomit.

The pier itself is lined with game booths and food stands.

I know from past visits that there’s a guy who guesses your weight (although he’s never gotten mine right), a ring toss that Robbie believes is one hundred percent rigged (I think he just sucks at throwing, hence why he’s a kicker), and a basketball game where Adam always wins giant stuffed animals he doesn’t want and ends up gifting to me.

Robbie sticks his face to the window and whines. “Finally. I can already taste the funnel cake.”

“You can taste diabetes?” Adam deadpans.

“Shut up, you obnoxious?—”

“Robert.” Dad glowers at Robbie through the rearview mirror. His brown eyes turn obsidian. The temperature in the car drops ten degrees within seconds.”

“Ooh! Dad used your full name,” Adam crows. “You must be getting on his last nerve.”

“I’m always on his last nerve. We can’t all be perfect angels like you, Adam.”

Adam opens his mouth to respond, but I put my AirPods in, because I don’t want to hear it. I let the La La Land soundtrack put me half to sleep.

Being a theater kid means having an active imagination. Viewing my life as a Tony-winning musical is a survival mechanism, not a phase. Whenever the world gets to be too much—like now, with my brothers bickering—I let everything dissolve into the opening fanfare of a Broadway overture.

I imagine the Playbill featuring me in silhouette, the night sky behind me, a sparkler in my hand. Lin-Manuel Miranda would write the songs. The choreography would be developed by whoever did Newsies on Broadway. But honestly, the creative team can be whoever, as long as the show gets rave reviews.

As for my family and who they’d play, Adam would obviously be the All-American golden boy with a hidden vulnerability.

Think Link Larkin from Hairspray , but with more football and less hair gel.

Robbie would be the comic relief, who manages to upstage everyone without trying.

Dad, with his booming voice, would be the grumpy but lovable patriarch whose number near the end of Act One brings down the house.

Diana would be harder to cast, though. Maybe she’d be the surprise emotional anchor, the one who turns a throwaway solo into one of the most memorable songs of the night.

I’d be the quirky supporting character that the audience loves, but rarely remembers by the time the curtain falls. The role wouldn’t come with a lot of lines, but it would have a killer tap dance solo.

I’m pulled from my fantasy where we all sing about summer, as if we’re competing against a snowman about why it’s our favorite season, when Dad navigates the minivan into the parking lot.

The scene can only be described as pure chaos. Cars circle like sharks. A family loaded down with coolers and beach chairs weaves around other families. Horns blare, kids cry, middle fingers go flying. It’s another wonderful day at Arcadia Beach.

“There!” Diana sees a spot near the back of the lot. “Quick, hon!”

Dad guns it, beating out a red convertible that honks angrily at us. “Alright, team,” he says, putting the van in park. “Beach rules: stay together, reapply sunscreen every two hours, and nobody goes farther than the second sandbar.”

“Dad, we’re almost eighteen,” Adam reminds him.

“And yet, somehow, I still spend an hour trying to collect all of you when it’s time to go.”

“Geez, Dad. You make us sound like we’re Pokémon,” Robbie quips with a roll of his eyes.

“If that’s what you all are, can you evolve into mature grown men, please?”

“Ooh, burn!” Adam jests.

Snickering, I step out of the van and do a hop-skip dance toward the sand. The parking lot asphalt is already hot enough to cook eggs. In the distance, I swear I can hear someone playing the musical number from my fantasy.

It makes me smile.

This volleyball is a cruel mistress. And I’m pretty sure she hates me too.

“Kevin,” Adam groans, “you have to hit the ball. Not dodge it like it’s a grenade.” He demonstrates for the hundredth time how to bump the volleyball with his forearms.

“I am hitting it,” I say, even though we both know my second-to-last attempt sent the ball careening into a family’s sandcastle fortress. The kids are still glaring at me.

Robbie retrieves the offending object from where it rolled near the water. “Maybe we should start with something easier. You know how to breathe, right?”

“Ha. Ha.” I adjust my stance to better my chances with the next serve and take in my surroundings.

The volleyball courts at Arcadia Beach are prime real estate. Six nets stretch across the sand. Each one is occupied by players with tanned bodies, toned limbs, and who can dive and spike with the grace of dolphins.

Adam tosses the ball up and serves it gently toward me. I shuffle sideways and put my arms out, ready to make contact.

As the ball floats through the air in slow motion, I realize that this is it. My moment. I’m going to make this volleyball my bitch.

SLAP! The ball bounces off my wrist and smacks me in the face.

“Ow!” I stumble backward, arms pinwheeling as I try not to fall on my ass. “Freaking A! Why does it hurt so much? It’s air wrapped in leather!”

“Actually, it’s synthetic leather,” a familiar voice calls out. “Real leather would absorb too much moisture from the beach.”

I turn around, gingerly touching my nose to ensure it’s not broken, and see Tyler Washington approaching.

Behind him, Matthew Chambers carries a balled-up beach towel under one arm.

Both of them are over six feet tall and built like a brick house, and are the best friends and teammates of my brothers.

“Hey, guys!” Matthew’s voice is loud enough to be heard from space. “Mind if we join?”

I don’t answer him because all of my attention is on the fact he’s wearing the shortest shorts known to mankind. The ones you see in ’80s movies that show off more thigh than should be allowed.

“Sure,” Adam says. “We’re trying to teach Kevin the basics.”

“Emphasis on trying,” Robbie adds.

I need to say something, not stand here in a stupor with my mouth hanging open. “Your legs are really defined, Matthew.”

The beach goes silent. The waves stop lapping. The cars stop honking. Even the seagulls stop squawking as all eyes land on me.

Matthew’s face turns the color of a perfectly ripe tomato. Tyler doubles over with laughter. Adam pinches the bridge of his nose. Robbie facepalms himself hard enough to make his eyes cross. And I melt into the sand.

“I mean…” I scramble for words that’ll salvage the situation. “From all the football. The running. You run a lot. With your legs. Which you have. Two of them.”

Tyler falls to the ground, wheezing. “Oh my—Kevin, please. Keep going.”

“Thanks?” Matthew croaks, blushing furiously. He tugs at the hem of his shorts to make them longer. “I, uh, do a lot of squats.”

“Cool. Squats. Those are good for your health.” Stop talking, Kevin. Better yet, stop living.

Adam clears his throat. “So. Volleyball?”

“Right. Yes. The ball of volley.” Why am I still talking?

For the next hour, Matthew and Tyler help turn our pathetic game into something Olympic.

Tyler sets up plays with the precision of a chess master.

Matthew spikes with enough force to create small craters in the ground.

Adam and Robbie manage to hold their own, thanks to years of athletic coordination.

And I barely stay alive through sheer willpower.

“Kevin, you’re overthinking it,” Matthew coaches after I send the ball into the next court. “Let your body take control.”

I’m grateful that my uncontrollable forwardness hasn’t scared him off.

Had this been anywhere else in the world, I’d have gotten a fist to the face.

But Arcadia isn’t like other towns. We have a Pride parade every June that rivals anything you’d see in bigger cities.

Our mayor officiated his son’s wedding to another man on the beach last summer.

The high school has a thriving Gay-Straight Alliance.

And various pride flags fly from storefronts year-round.

I know how lucky I am to live in a town where I can be exactly who I am.

The only thing that’s missing is a boyfriend to call my own.

It’s not that I haven’t put myself out there—no, it’s exactly that.

I’m as awkward as a newborn giraffe. Nobody wants to be with someone who causes secondhand embarrassment on a daily basis.

I need to be way less of a disastrous mess before I can be with someone who understands me and my thousands of theater references a day.

Doesn’t mind that I imagine my life as a Broadway show.

Won’t judge me for crying when Tony dies in West Side Story, and is patient enough to deal with my inability to play any sport invented by humans.

Adam’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. “It’s your turn to serve, Kev.”

I take the ball from Robbie. Everyone gets into position. All I have to do is pretend I’m in A Chorus Line , and this is another audition where I have to prove I can do more than sing.

I toss the ball up, swing my arm, and make contact. The ball sails over the net in a perfect arc. Tyler bumps it to Matthew, who sends it back to me. Adam and Robbie jump to block. The ball ricochets off Robbie’s hands and lands in bounds on Tyler and Matthew’s side. Everyone gawks.

I shrug, silently pleased with myself. “What can I say? I’m a natural.”