Page 77 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart

“We should do this again, pull an all-nighter, the eight of us,” Robbie says quietly. “Before school starts.”

“Definitely,” Rita agrees, her head still on his shoulder.

But we all know we won’t. This night—this perfect, unexpected night—can’t be recreated.

A mosquito lands on my arm, and I swat it away. The spell breaks slightly. Matthew stands and stretches, his back poppingaudibly. “I should probably head home before my mom sends out a search party.”

“Yeah,” Adam agrees. “We should all probably…”

“Five more minutes,” Tyler says.

So we sit there for five more minutes that stretch into ten, then fifteen, until it’s almost noon and none of us has gone home.

CHAPTER 18

i want to hold your hand

Once again, the bleachers burn through my shorts. But I barely notice this time because Jameson caught another pass that defies the laws of physics.

The football field below me is full of players running drills in their practice jerseys. But without Ethan here to keep me company—he has a stomach bug—I’m merely the weird theater kid watching practice by himself.

Jameson lines up for another route, and I track his every move. His muscles coil before he explodes off the line. His hands reach for the ball as if he’s plucking clouds from the sky. His face lights up when he makes the catch.

I’m suddenly reminded of that scene inAcross the Universewhere Prudence sits in the bleachers, watching the cheerleader she has a crush on, while singing “I Want to Hold Your Hand” with longing in her voice.

Before I can stop myself, the lyrics slip out of me, barely a whisper.

Jameson jogs back to the huddle. He high-fives Matthew, and my rib cage constricts around my heart.

What would it be like to have him look at me the way he does at that football? To be the thing he reaches for with such certainty?

God, I’m pathetic.Sitting here, some lovesick character, singing Beatles songs to a boy who probably views me as nothing more than his teammate’s brother. The guy he ate tacos with once. The guy he texts about jellyfish and breakfast foods.

“Please tell me you’re not serenading the football team.”

I flinch so hard I almost topple from the bleacher. Rita stands at the bottom, holding a lacy, pink parasol. Her sundress is the color of lemonade, and she’s grinning at me.

“Rita! You scared the shit out of me!”

“Good. Someone needs to save you from yourself.” She climbs the steps and settles in beside me, angling the parasol to shade us both. “Also, your Prudence impression needs work. You’re supposed to be yearning, not dying.”

“Thanks for the notes, director.” I scoot over to give her more room. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, obviously. Your dad said you’d be here.” She follows my gaze to where Jameson is stretching, his shirt riding up slightly. “Ah. Still pining, I see.”

“I’m not pining. I’m observing.”

“You were singing ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’ while staring at him. That’s textbook pining.”

I slump forward, resting my elbows on my knees and my chin in my palms. “We still haven’t finished our conversation from the beach. I tried to convince him that he could text me what he wanted to say, but he’s adamant that it has to be in person.”

I’ve never wanted something this badly before. I don’t know how I got here. My summer began in the same way it always does, with me concerned about what the fall production would be. Then this boy—the one with golden hair, the one they call Mr. Popular—wished me a happy birthday. Who knew such asimple greeting would turn me into a lovesick teenager? Into someone who wants nothing more than to become the center ofhisuniverse.

Down on the field, Jameson makes another spectacular catch. He smiles bright enough to give the sun a run for its money. My chest tightens, becoming too small for everything I’m experiencing—love, agony, acceptance.

“You know what I want? I want someone to like me, to not treat me as the third Pryor boy or the theater kid. As me, Kevin Pryor.”

Rita’s expression softens. She sets down the parasol and takes my hand.