Page 4 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart

Two truckers hunch over coffee at the counter, their backs to us.

In the far booth, a young couple shares a plate of fries, their heads bent together in quiet conversation.

The hiss of the coffee machine and the scrape of a spatula on the grill from the kitchen add a little spice to the subdued atmosphere.

Adam slides in across from me and immediately grabs the laminated menu from behind the napkin dispenser. The plastic is sticky with what I hope is syrup. He flips through it, reading every item with scrutiny. His brows pinch and his lips pucker as though he’s tasted something sour.

A woman emerges from behind the counter, and I recognize her as Mindy, the waitress who’s been here since the dawn of time.

She’s in her mid-sixties, with graying hair pulled back in a ponytail and tired eyes that say she’s seen it all.

Her uniform is mint green with a name tag that’s barely hanging on by one corner.

She approaches our table with the weariness of someone six hours into a twelve-hour shift. “What can I get you boys?” Her voice is raspy from years of cigarette breaks.

“Belgian waffle with blueberries,” Adam says, setting down the menu. “And coffee. Black.”

“French toast, scrambled eggs, and hash browns,” I add. “Orange juice, please.”

Mindy doesn’t write anything down. She simply nods and shuffles away, her white sneakers squeaking on the linoleum.

Once she’s out of earshot, I lean forward on my elbows. “Why couldn’t you fall asleep?”

Adam shifts in his seat, suddenly fascinated by the sugar packets. “I was still wired, I guess. Couldn’t shut my brain off. Even tried watching some”—he pauses, his ears turning pink—“videos to relax.”

I bite back a laugh. “Videos. Right. Very relaxing, I’m sure.”

“Shut up.” He throws a sugar packet at me, which I dodge. “What about you? You’ve been tossing and turning for days.”

The truth sits heavy on my tongue. “Senior year stuff, mostly. Everything’s about to change, and I don’t know if I’m ready for it.”

“Change how?”

I trace patterns in the condensation on the table from someone’s previous water glass. “We’re supposed to have it all figured out by now, right? College applications, career goals, five-year plans. But I still feel like I’m playing pretend half the time.”

“Nobody has it figured out,” Adam says. “Not really.”

“You do. Football scholarship to Arcadia U, business major, probably take over Dad’s job someday as athletic director once your golden days are over.”

“That’s what everyone expects .” His voice drops. “Doesn’t mean it’s what I want.”

Before I can ask what he means, Mindy returns with our drinks. She sets them down without ceremony and disappears again. I sip my orange juice and study my brother’s face. In the harsh diner light, I notice the circles under his eyes, the tension in his jaw.

“What do you want then?” I ask quietly.

Adam wraps his hands around his coffee mug.

“I don’t know,” he says, although to me it sounds like a lie.

“That’s the problem. Everyone sees me as this perfect athlete with an entire life mapped out.

But sometimes I think about doing something completely different.

Teaching, maybe. Or coaching little kids instead of playing. ”

“You’d be good at that.”

“Yeah?” He looks up at me with vulnerability. Something he rarely allows himself to be.

“Remember when you taught that kid at the beach how to throw a spiral last summer? You were so patient with him.”

A small smile crosses his face. “His dad was being such a jerk about it. Kid was only seven.”

“And you made him feel like Tom Brady by the end of the day.”

We sit in comfortable silence until Mindy brings our food. The French toast is perfect—golden brown and dusted with powdered sugar. The eggs are fluffy, the hash browns crispy. Adam drowns his waffle in syrup until it’s practically floating.

“What about you?” he asks between bites. “Still planning to do theater at Arcadia U?”

I push my eggs around. “Maybe. Or maybe I should apply somewhere else. Somewhere with a real theater program.”

“Like where?”

“NYU. Juilliard. Carnegie Mellon.” The names feel impossible on my tongue. “Places where I could learn from professionals.”

Adam takes a sip of his coffee. “You’re talented enough.”

“I’ve never even had a lead role.”

“Because you never audition for them.” He points his fork at me. “You hide in the ensemble because it’s safe. But I’ve seen you perform. You could carry a whole show if you let yourself try.”

The truth of his words stings. “What if I try and fail?”

“Then you fail. But at least you’ll know.” He reaches across the table and steals a hash brown. “Besides, you’re a Pryor. We don’t give up that easy.”

I smile. “When did you get so wise?”

“Must be all those ‘relaxing’ videos.”

We both crack up, earning a glare from Mindy.

“Sometimes I wish I could be more like you and Robbie,” I say once we settle down.

“What, devastatingly handsome?” Adam pretends to flip his hair over his shoulder.

“No,” I snicker. “Popular. You guys never have to worry about getting shoved into lockers or having your lunch tray knocked out of your hands.”

Adam shifts uncomfortably. “Kev…”

“It’s true, though. You’re the quarterback. Robbie’s the kicker. The town worships the ground you walk on. Nobody messes with you because you win state championships.”

Adam puts down his utensils, folds his arms across his chest, and leans back in his seat. His eyes narrow as he pins me with that big brother stare. The one that says he thinks I’m being a whiny baby.

“I’m not complaining,” I assure him. “I’m stating facts. Theater kids aren’t exactly high on the social food chain, you know.”

“You’re going to be famous one day,” he says. “Then all those jerks will be bragging about how they went to school with the Kevin Pryor.”

My chest warms at his confidence. “You think so?”

“Mark my words.”

“A Tony winner wouldn’t get atomic wedgies,” I muse. “Or have his script stolen and thrown in the toilet.”

Adam’s mouth pops open. “That happened?”

Oops. I hadn’t meant to let that slip. I wave it off. “Last spring, during tech week for Once on This Island. ”

Adam’s jaw tightens, and his fist clenches. “Who?”

I place my hand over his and tell him to relax. “Doesn’t matter. Mr. Rodriguez printed me a new copy.”

“Kevin,” he huffs. “ Who? ”

“It’s fine . The show must go on and all that jazz.” I stretch out my legs beneath the table and accidentally kick Adam in the shin. “Sorry.”

“You need to tell us when that kind of shit happens.”

“And let you get suspended again? Pass.”

There’s no escaping bullies, no matter how progressive a town may be. While some kids grow up and become respectable people in society, others are destined to be the villain in someone else’s story.

Take Derek Davis, for example. Two years ago, he cornered me in the restroom, irate that I’d managed to nail him with a dodgeball. A feat that surprised me more than anyone else. But when I stupidly stood my ground, I found myself up close and person with Derek’s massive fist.

“It was worth it,” Adam says, chuckling. “Nobody makes my brother bleed.”

“Except when you accidentally elbow me during family football.”

“We call that character building.”

I snort. “Is that what we’re calling the time Patrick Watson gave me an atomic wedgie in the locker room? I walked funny for a week.”

“You always walk funny.”

“Rude.” I kick his shin again, this time on purpose. He shucks off one of his flip-flops and scratches me with his toenails in retaliation. “At least I don’t walk around like I’m carrying invisible watermelons under my arms.”

“That’s muscle mass, theater nerd.”

“The lunch money thing was worse,” I admit after a beat. “Being hungry sucks more than being sore.”

“Robbie and I made sure Derek never looked your way again, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, but I’m not made of glass, Adam. I can handle myself.”

“We know.” Adam’s voice is softer now. “But you’re our brother.”

I shake my head. “I don’t need bodyguards.”

Adam says nothing, no doubt believing that I do.

The rest of our meal passes in easier conversation. Adam tells me about how Tyler finally saved enough money to buy himself a car. I tell him about Rita’s plan to get a tattoo on her foot now that she’s eighteen and doesn’t need her parents approval.

After we finish eating, Adam leaves cash on the table, and we head back out into the quiet. This time, I don’t need to hold his arm. The darkness isn’t as threatening with a full stomach.

“Thanks,” I say as we get back in the minivan. “For this.”

“You’re my brother, Kevin. I will always be here for you.”

The way he says it, I get the sense that I should be reading between the lines. But I’m too sleepy from all that food to suss out what my brother is really trying to tell me.