Page 47 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart

defying gravity

E veryone gathers at the foot of the sleeping giant that is the trestle. It towers over us, a behemoth of beams and rusted bolts; a relic from a time when its maker didn’t imagine teenagers would one day use it as a rite of passage.

Moonlight glimmers on the steel rails, and the water far below is a black mirror, swallowing all sounds except our laughter.

I hang back, watching as my classmates swarm the rusty ladder that leads up to the tracks.

The metal rungs are slick with evening dew, and more than one person slips on their way up, earning nervous laughter from the crowd below.

The whole thing creaks under the newly added weight, making me wonder when this thing was last inspected.

“You coming?” Jameson asks, his hand finding mine in the semi-darkness.

“I’m considering my options,” I say, which is code for I’m terrified but trying to play it cool .

The trestle stretches across the narrowest part of the creek.

I guesstimate it to be approximately thirty feet above the water.

From down here, it doesn’t seem that high.

But I know from years of watching videos of people making this jump that once you’re up there, looking down at the black water, those thirty feet might as well be three hundred.

“We don’t have to,” Jameson says, reading my hesitation perfectly. “We can stay down here and watch everyone else risk their necks.”

But that’s the thing—I’m tired of watching.

Tired of being the one who stays safe on the ground while everyone else leaps.

This entire summer has been about stepping out of my comfort zone and finding my voice.

I dove into the ocean and survived. I sang for my peers and lived to tell the tale.

Maybe this is merely another stage, another performance, another chance to be more than the scared kid in the ensemble.

“No,” I say, squeezing his hand. “I want to do this.”

We join the queue at the ladder. Up close, I can see that the rungs have been worn down by decades of teenage hands and feet.

Someone’s carved “Class of ’93” into one of the support beams. Another inscription reads “Dylan + Kelly 4ever,” though the “Kelly” has been crossed out and replaced with “ Brenda.”

The climb is worse than I imagined. The ladder is completely vertical, and halfway up, I make the mistake of looking down. The ground is impossibly far away, the fire on the shore now nothing more than an orange speck. My hands are sweating, making each rung precarious.

“You’re doing great,” Jameson says from below me. “Just keep going.”

I focus on the next rung, then the next, until I’m finally hauling myself up onto the narrow walkway that runs along the tracks. The whole structure sways slightly in the breeze.

“Oh, God,” I breathe, pressing myself against the railing.

The walkway is maybe four feet wide, with waist-high railings on either side that are about as sturdy as toothpicks. The tracks themselves are long abandoned, with weeds growing up between the ties.

More people climb up behind us, and soon the trestle is crowded with what must be half our graduating class. Everyone’s giddy with adrenaline and the symbolism of it all—one last jump before senior year, one last moment of pure summer freedom.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Tyler’s voice booms from somewhere near the middle. “Welcome to the annual Leap of Faith!”

Everyone cheers, and the trestle shakes with the force of it. I grip the railing tighter.

“The rules are simple,” Tyler continues, clearly enjoying his role as master of ceremonies. “You jump, you survive, you become a legend. If you chicken out, you buy pizza for everyone next weekend.”

“That’s not a real rule!” someone protests.

“It is now!”

People line up along the edge. I know that the water is deep enough—generations of Arcadia kids have proven that—but knowing something intellectually and believing it while standing on a creaking railroad trestle are two completely different things.

“Together?” Jameson asks, moving closer to me.

I nod. We make our way to a clear spot on the edge. I take off my sandals, and my toes curl over the edge in apprehension.

“Wait,” Jameson says suddenly, reaching into his pocket. “Before we do this, I have something for you.”

I’m about to say that now is not the time for gift-giving, especially when I’m in the middle of having a panic attack, but then I see what he’s pulled out.

A small silver charm bracelet, delicate and perfect, with two charms dangling from it—the comedy and tragedy masks. The universal symbols for theater.

“Jameson,” I breathe.

“I bought this for your birthday,” he says, his voice soft enough that only I can hear him. “But I was too scared to give it to you then. Thought it might be weird, you know? Some random guy from the football team giving you jewelry.”

“You’ve had this since my birthday?”

He nods, looking unsure, which is not an expression I’m used to seeing on Jameson Hart.

“I saw it at that little shop downtown and immediately thought of you. But then I chickened out, and then summer happened, and then the boat thing happened, and I could never find the right moment. I thought about giving it to you at the animal shelter, but was afraid that one of the dogs would try and eat it.”

“So you think the right moment is on top of a death trap?” I ask, but I’m smiling so hard my face hurts.

“Actually, yeah.” He takes my wrist gently, fastening the bracelet with careful fingers. “Because in about thirty seconds, we’re going to jump off this thing together. And if I die, I want you to remember that I’ve been thinking about you for a lot longer than just this summer.”

“What about if I die?”

“You’re not going to die, Kevin. You’re going to live .”

The way he says live , I know he’s not talking about surviving the jump.

I stare down at the bracelet. It’s the perfect weight—substantial enough to know it’s there, but not heavy enough to be annoying. It’s thoughtful and personal and everything I never knew I wanted.

“I love it,” I say.

Jameson’s face breaks into the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. “Now, are you ready to jump?”

“Not even a little bit.”

He takes my hand, interlacing our fingers. “You jump, I jump?”

“And you’ll never let go?”

“Never.” He winks.

Screams of terror and exhilaration echo across the lake as bodies plummet into the darkness. Each splash is followed by triumphant whooping as jumpers surface, confirming they’ve survived.

“On three?” Jameson suggests.

I nod, gripping his hand tighter. The bracelet presses against my wrist, a reminder of all that’s led to this moment.

“One,” we say together.

I think about Robbie, probably watching from below, still angry but still my brother.

“Two.”

I think about Adam, willing to fly across the country to find himself.

“Three!”

And then I think about myself. Holding hands with the boy who has my heart, jumping into the unknown.

For a second, we’re suspended in the air. Smiles on our faces, and a song in our hearts.

The world drops away—the trestle, the party, all the complicated, messy, beautiful things that make up our lives. There’s only me and Jameson and the terrifying freedom of falling.

Then we hit the water.

It’s shockingly cold, driving all the air from my lungs. We plunge deep, our hands torn apart by the impact. Suddenly, I’m alone in the dark water, disoriented and scared.

I kick my feet and break the surface, sucking in air. My head whips around, searching for my boyfriend. But I should have already known—Jameson is never far away. He’s treading water beside me, his hair plastered to his head and his smile illuminated in the darkness by his incredibly white teeth.

“We did it!” I laugh, the adrenaline making me feel nothing less than invincible.

“We did it,” he agrees, pulling me close.

All around us, the chaos and shouts from the trestle echo across the water, but I couldn’t care less. The two of us are in the center of the lake, suspended in the aftershock of doing something death-defying.

The cold that seeps into my bones doesn’t chill me as expected. Because being next to Jameson Hart is akin to standing too close to an open flame. The bracelet on my wrist is slick and heavy, and when I lift my arm, the two tiny masks glint in the moonlight, evidence that this isn’t a dream.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline or the fact that my heart is a helium balloon trying to break loose from my rib cage, but I don’t overthink my next move.

I lean in, water streaming from my hair and my nose burning with lake, and kiss him. My boyfriend.

I’d practiced this moment a thousand times in my head, but the reality is better than I could have ever imagined. Sure, it’s awkward at first because we’re both treading water, bumping noses, chins, and limbs. But it’s also perfect…because it’s us.

A part of me wants to break the kiss so that I can scream at the top of my lungs that I’m making out with Jameson Hart. But then he places one large hand on the side of my face, and suddenly, all the oxygen in my body escapes me.

His touch is tender and warm, holding me as if I’m the most valuable piece of jewelry in the world.

His tongue sweeps across mine in an intricate dance I didn’t know he knew.

My legs wind themselves around his waist, and his other hand grips my thigh and squeezes.

Our bodies slot together perfectly, two puzzle pieces finally finding their match.

When I open my eyes, stars swim above us, doubled in the ripples of the lake. Our classmates are still jumping, shrieking, and making as much noise as possible. Jameson pulls back, and I get the distinct impression that he’s memorizing every inch of me for later.

I’m waiting for the chorus of whoops and jeers that always follows a kiss at a party, but here in the shadowy water, no one notices. Or if they do, they pretend not to care. I find that I love it, because that means this moment is all mine.