Page 27 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart

summer nights

D anny and Sandy are at the drive-in. I’d laugh at the irony if my brain wasn’t currently screaming at me to say something, anything, to the gorgeous boy sitting eighteen inches away from me.

My fingers drum against my thigh in a nervous rhythm I can’t control. The Honda’s interior grows smaller with each passing second, and I swear I can feel the heat radiating off Jameson’s body even though the AC is blasting.

Open your mouth and speak , I tell myself. You’re literally watching people sing their feelings. This is your wheelhouse.

Sandy’s voice floats through the speakers.

“So,” Jameson says suddenly, turning slightly in his seat to face me. The dashboard light catches his eyes, making them appear molten. “How did you get into all of this anyway?”

My heart skips a beat. He’s asking about me. “Um…” I scramble to organize my thoughts. “My dad, believe it or not. Which is weird because he’s this big athletic guy, right? Played football in high school and college and almost went pro. But he loves old movie musicals.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, when my brothers and I were six or seven, he bought this stack of DVDs from a garage sale. West Side Story, Annie, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. ” I smile at the memory.

“Adam and Robbie watched them once and got bored, but I was completely obsessed. I made him play the “It’s the Hard-Knock Life” scene from Annie probably fifty times. ”

Jameson’s laughter fills the small space between us. “I bet you learned the choreography.”

“Oh, I did. Every single step.” I demonstrate a few hand movements from the number, pretending to scrub a dirty floor and nearly smack the window in the process. “I performed it for anyone who would watch. The mailman, the pizza delivery guy, our elderly neighbor, who just wanted to walk her dog.”

“That’s adorable.”

Heat creeps up my neck at him calling me adorable. “My brothers thought it was weird.”

“Your brothers are idiots,” Jameson says matter-of-factly. “What happened after that?”

On screen, Danny is now singing about being alone at the drive-in, but I barely register it. Jameson’s interested in this story. My story. My childhood. His body is angled toward me, one arm draped over the steering wheel, giving me his undivided attention.

“I kept collecting musicals. Begged my dad to take me to the record store in the city to buy every cast recording I could find. Learned all the parts—male, female, ensemble; it didn’t matter.

” I laugh, remembering. “But the real moment, the one where my family knew I was a lost cause, was The Sound of Music incident.”

“ The Sound of Music incident?” His eyebrows rise. “That sounds serious.”

“Oh, it was.” I shift in my seat, finding myself becoming more comfortable as I tell Jameson my life story.

“I was eleven, and I’d done something—I can’t even remember what now.

Probably argued with my brothers or didn’t clean my side of the room.

Anyway, Dad grounded me. No TV, no computer, had to stay in my room all weekend. ”

“Harsh.”

“Right? So, I’m up there, stewing in my preteen angst, when I remembered we’d watched The Sound of Music at this very drive-in the week before.” I gesture toward the screen. “I started thinking about Maria, how she didn’t fit in at the abbey and found her place with the Von Trapp family.”

Jameson’s grin widens. “Oh no. What did you do?”

“I packed a bag,” I say, covering my face with my hands at the memory. “Threw in some clothes, my Annie CD, and a box of Pop-Tarts. Then I marched downstairs and announced to my entire family that I was running away to be a governess.”

He loses it. Full-on belly laughs that shake the whole car. “A governess? In Arcadia? Seriously?”

“I was very serious! I told them I’d find a family with seven children who needed someone to teach them to sing.

” I’m laughing now, too, the embarrassment fading into fondness.

“I made it as far as the end of our street—singing ‘I Have Confidence,’ mind you—before I realized I had no idea where to find seven children who needed governing.”

“What did your dad do?”

“He found me sitting on the curb, eating my cherry Pop-Tarts and crying. He sat down next to me and said, ‘You know, Kevin, Maria left the Von Trapps because she thought she didn’t belong, but she did. Maybe you belong with us too.’”

“That’s sweet.”

I nod. “And then he said, ‘So come home, because none of the families around here can afford a governess. The economy’s rough.’”

Jameson laughs again. “Practical dad humor. I love it.”

“After that, they accepted that the theater was in my blood. Dad took me into the city to see Broadway shows and signed me up for summer camps. No one ever questioned it again.”

“I love that. You found something you love and went all in. That’s incredibly brave.”

Our eyes meet, and something shifts in the air between us. The movie plays on, but it’s nothing more than background noise.

“Thanks,” I say. “Most people don’t get it.”

“I get it,” he says. “Maybe not with theater, but finding that thing that makes it all make sense? Yeah. I get it.”

The leather seat squeaks as he settles back. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that has my fingers itching to fix it. “I can’t clean the bathroom without humming ‘Beauty School Dropout’ thanks to my mom.”

The image of Jameson Hart scrubbing a toilet while singing about teenage failure is so unexpectedly perfect that I file it away immediately.

The movie continues, and we provide colorful commentary, pointing out costume details and laughing at the outdated slang. Every once in a while, our arms brush on the center console, but neither of us pulls away.

“Okay, important question,” Jameson says as Rizzo sings about there being worse things she could do. “Which T-Bird would you be?”

“Oh, definitely Putzie,” I answer without hesitation. “He’s got that wholesome energy but can still hang with the cool kids.”

“Solid choice. I always related to Doody.”

“The one who gets drunk Sonny to do the mooning prank?” I turn to stare at him. “That’s so random.”

“What? He’s funny! And clearly the most creative of the group.

” He defends his choice with mock seriousness.

“Plus, I love a good mooning prank in a movie. You know,” he drops his voice to such an extremely low octave that I have to lean in to hear what he has to say.

“I’ve been known to give a good mooning now and then. ”

“What?!” My eyes grow wide, my mouth dropping open as every cell in my brain explodes picturing Jameson mooning.

And then his face breaks out into a grin, and he belly laughs again. “I’m kidding! You should have seen your face, man.”

I exhale and lean back. “Right. Very funny; you nearly got me there.”

He brushes a tear from the corner of his eye. “I mean, I’d moon if the opportunity arose, but it’s not something I’ve ever done.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever done such a thing either,” I tell him, still unable to picture anything other than Jameson’s full moon. “But it makes sense that you’d be game to do something no one would expect of you.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, cocking his head.

I smirk. “I heard you love to watch British baking shows.”

Jameson’s eyes bug out of his head. “How did you—Ethan. Of course.”

“He was very informative,” I snicker.

“I’m going to kill him,” Jameson mutters, but he’s smiling. “What else did my two-timing brother tell you?”

I think back to that day on the bleachers. The day I began to see Jameson as more than an athlete. “That you cry at dog movies.”

He scoffs playfully. “Everyone cries at dog movies. That’s called being human.”

“And that you’re terrible at video games.”

“Okay, that one’s fair.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “My hand-eye coordination is apparently only good for catching footballs and baking cookies. Put a controller in my hands and I’m useless.”

“And the dancing,” I add because I can’t help myself.

He groans, covering his face with just one hand because it’s that big. “He told you about the wedding?”

“In great detail.”

“I’m never living that down.” He peeks at me through his long fingers. “Would you believe me if I told you that I’ve improved. I can do the Electric Slide without causing injury now.”

“High bar you’ve set there.”

“Hey, we can’t all be born with jazz hands like some people.”

It isn’t until the movie is close to ending that I realize how comfortable this night has been. Sitting here with Jameson, trading jokes and gentle teasing as if we’ve done this a thousand times before.

“This is nice,” I say without thinking, then immediately want to take it back.

But Jameson nods in return, his expression serene in the flickering light from the screen.

After the movie, Robbie’s voice cuts through the parking lot chaos, loud enough to be heard from three states over. “Ice cream! We need ice cream immediately!”

“It’s nine-thirty at night,” Adam points out.

“The perfect time for ice cream,” Rita chimes in. “The boardwalk place is open until midnight.”

Tyler, Matthew, and Ethan emerge from the Jeep, all stretching dramatically.

“Did someone say ice cream?” Matthew asks. “Because I could destroy a double fudge sundae right now.”

“Ethan’s lactose intolerant,” Jameson mentions, but his brother is already shaking his head.

“I’ll suffer for soft serve,” Ethan declares. “It’s worth it.”

And that’s how we end up in a convoy heading toward the boardwalk, windows down, the night air finally cooled to something bearable. We’re quiet at first, the way people get at the end of a good movie or a long day.

Rita scrolls through her phone, her hair pooled over one shoulder, occasionally snorting at some meme and shoving it into my face.

Robbie and Adam are bickering about the merits of post-movie frozen custard versus soft serve.

But even their voices are lower than usual, the way you talk late at night to avoid waking ghosts.