Page 8 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
The mayor gets in on it. The PTA holds annual “Ghoul’s Night Out” fundraisers.
Every lawn is a graveyard, every tree is draped in toilet paper, and the storefront windows are painted with blood-red handprints courtesy of the third-grade art class.
For four weeks, Arcadia eats, breathes, and sweats Halloween.
I always looked forward to it. My brothers had their traditions: Adam would always go as something hyper-masculine (last year, he was a tactical SWAT guy; the year before, an actual football coach), while Robbie oscillated between ironic gender bending costumes (Sexy Nurse, Miss Frizzle, Marilyn Monroe).
Dad claimed he was “too old for this nonsense,” but each year, he’d don his old letterman jacket and go as “That Guy Who Peaked in High School.” It always got a laugh.
I tended toward the classics—skeletons, vampires, the occasional genderbent Disney villain—but this year, I was determined to up my game.
Rita, my best friend and partner in all things dramatic, was planning to host a themed party at her house, and she’d been texting me costume ideas since Labor Day.
I’d shot down “Sexy Shakespeare” but liked her suggestion of “Twins from The Shining” if only because we could wear matching blue dresses and deadpan our way through the evening.
But before I could fully commit, there was the annual pilgrimage to the Halloween Emporium, where my classmates spent at least one Saturday in October searching for the perfect costume. This was Arcadia’s answer to the Met Gala, and you didn’t want to show up underdressed.
Inside the store, the fog machine worked overtime, and the sound system blasted vintage Monster Mash remixes. The aisles were a mix of cheap polyester capes, elaborate latex masks, and overpriced makeup kits. The place even smelled like a mixture of rubber, caramel apples, and retail desperation.
I was halfway through the “Creepy Doll” section when I spotted a familiar face: Jameson, with his little brother hovering nearby, already decked out in full werewolf regalia, though it was clearly three sizes too big.
I ducked behind a shelf of zombie brides and watched him for a minute. He wore a faded hoodie and jeans, his hair sticking up at odd angles. He was talking softly to his brother, helping him adjust the werewolf mask so it didn’t poke his ears.
I don’t know why I stood there, hiding. It’s not like he knew who I was.
“It’s the only werewolf costume they have left,” Ethan said, his voice cracking in a way that fourteen-year-old voices did.
Jameson crouched down to Ethan’s eye level, his thighs stretching the material of his sweatpants to their breaking point. Even in a squat, he still towered over his brother. “Hey, we’ll figure something out. Let me see those paws.”
Jameson tried to tighten the elastic band around Ethan’s wrist. It immediately hit the floor with a sad thud.
“See?” Ethan’s shoulders slumped. “It’s stupid. I’ll just be something else.”
“Whoa, hold up.” Jameson plucked the paw off the ground and studied it. “You’ve been talking about being a werewolf since August, remember? You made me watch all those old Universal monster movies and everything.”
“Yeah, but?—”
“No buts. We’re problem-solvers, right? That’s what Mom always says.” Jameson stood up and surveyed the surrounding costumes critically. His forehead wrinkled in concentration. It wasn’t until black spots swam before my eyes that I realized I’d been holding my breath, watching him think.
Suddenly, his face brightened—a smile spreading across his face like wildfire. It wasn’t the practiced smile he wore at school or after a game. It was pure and unguarded, something reserved only for those important to him.
What I wouldn’t do to have that smile beaming down on me.
“I’ve got it,” Jameson said with a snap of his fingers.
“We’ll say it’s a body-swap thing.” He ran down the aisle and plucked a costume from the rack.
“Like, some weird Halloween magic happened, and now your werewolf costume has grown way too big, and my costume”—he held up a ballerina outfit, a pink, frilly thing—“has shrunk.”
“But you’ll look ridiculous!”
“That’s the point.” Jameson ruffled his brother’s hair. “Everyone will be too busy laughing at me in tights to notice your costume hangs off you. Plus, we’ll win the costume contest for most creative.”
My chest grew warm, and I pressed my hand against it, wondering if I was having a heart attack at seventeen. But no, it was just my stupid heart reacting to Jameson Hart being the sweetest big brother.
“You’d do that?” Ethan sounded so hopeful; it made my eyes well up with tears.
“Dude, I’d wear a banana costume if it made you happy. Come on, let’s go purchase these and then get some ice cream.” He threw an arm around his brother and steered him toward the checkout counter.
I stayed frozen in place, processing. This was the same guy who caught touchdown passes with his eyes closed.
The same guy who wasn’t a fan of public speaking.
And now I could add, “would humiliate himself in a tutu to make his little brother happy,” to the growing list of reasons why Jameson Hart was more than how he presented himself to be.
“Hey, Kevin!” Robbie’s voice cuts through my memories. “You’ve been wiping that same spot for the last five minutes.”
I glance down at the dust rag in my hand and the shiny section of the table. “I was being thorough.”
“Well, be thorough with some food,” Adam says. “We’re ordering pizza. You want your usual?”
I nod. My usual is Margherita pizza, which they mock me endlessly for. According to Robbie, real men don’t eat pizzas with “leaves” on them.
As my brothers and their teammates debate better toppings, I excuse myself to use the bathroom. After relieving my bladder, I wash my hands and splash cold water on my face. My reflection stares back at me.
Brown eyes, brown hair, average everything. Nothing like Jameson Hart with his impossible height and sunshine hair.
When I return to the living room, they’re deep in conversation about Jameson’s grounding being lifted. “Two weeks for one party,” Tyler says. “His mom doesn’t play around.”
“But it wasn’t even that wild,” Matthew adds. “There was only one case of beer opened.”
“Still, he took the fall. Didn’t rat out the buyer,” Adam says.
I silently scoff. On top of everything else, Jameson Hart is also noble. He probably helps old ladies cross the street and nurses birds with broken wings in his spare time.
The conversation continues, but I stop listening. My mind keeps drifting back to that English class. To the boy who stood in front of the room, trying hard to keep it together.
Maybe I’ve been going about this all wrong. Instead of doing my best not to think about Jameson Hart, perhaps I should have been leaning into it and acknowledging the truth that I’ve been dancing around for nearly three years.
I have a crush on Jameson Hart.