Page 9 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
waving through a window
I t’s a truth universally acknowledged that any triplet’s birthday party in possession of multiple interests must be in want of a cohesive theme. Or at least that’s how Jane Austen would have put it if she had to plan a triplet’s birthday bash.
The backyard is a hot mess. Football pennants hang next to Broadway posters. Gaming controllers sit on tables covered in musical note confetti. Pool floats of giant Xbox controllers and inflatable footballs keep bumping into already-deflating treble clefs.
I press my forehead against Adam’s bedroom window, observing it all from a distance.
The pool sparkles in the afternoon sun, filled with my brothers’ friends.
Dad holds court by the grill, flipping burgers.
Diana hobnobs with the aunts and uncles.
Tyler executes a perfect backflip off the diving board.
Matthew follows with something that’s either a cannonball or an attempt to drain the entire pool.
The girls shriek and laugh, their bodies gleaming with sunscreen and pool water.
I tug at my plain T-shirt. I tried on three different outfits before settling on this one—the least offensive option that still has me coming off as a poor man’s Fiyero.
My ribs show through the fabric when I breathe too deep.
My arms and legs are twigs compared to the tree trunks on display outside.
The theater kids should have been here by now.
Diana promised she’d invited them all, but I count exactly zero familiar faces out there.
Maybe they’re at Starbucks, running lines for the summer production of Legally Blonde that I’m not even in because I came down with a summer cold right before auditions last week.
To pass the time alone, I sing to myself, the words from Dear Evan Hansen coming automatically. It’s the song about waving through a window, and watching everyone else live their lives while you’re stuck on the outside looking in.
I fleetingly wonder what would happen if I slipped out the front door and ghosted mid-party. Would they notice? Would anyone text? Or would they split the cake two ways and call it a win for Adam and Robbie?
Outside, someone cranks up the music, effectively cutting my “I Want” solo short.
The bass thumps through the walls and shakes the floor.
Robbie grabs the pool basketball and sinks a perfect shot while hanging upside down from the rim, legs spread wide and shaking his head with his tongue sticking out. Everyone cheers.
I sit on Adam’s bed and pull out my phone to scroll through Instagram.
My classmates’ stories are full of beach trips and parties and “Happy birthday to the Pryor boys!” posts that feature exactly two-thirds of the Pryor boys.
I’m cropped out of most of them. Only a stray elbow or shoulder hovers at the edge of the frames.
I screenshot one where you can make out my sneaker in the corner. Maybe I’ll upload it as my profile picture and caption it: Happy to Be Included (Partially).
The door handle jiggles. I freeze, ready to dart into Adam’s closet if necessary. But it’s only Diana, balancing a paper plate with a burger and chips.
“Found you,” she says softly. “Mind if I join the pity party?”
I scoot over. “It’s not a pity party.”
“No?” Diana sets the plate on Adam’s nightstand and sits beside me. “Because it looks to me like you’re having a solo production of Les Misérables up here.”
“More like Little Shop of Horrors ,” I mutter. “I’m the plant that nobody wants to feed.”
Diana studies me with those sharp eyes of hers that see right through my deflection. “Your friends will show up.”
“They won’t. They’re probably at Kristofer’s pool party. His parents don’t care if he plays explicit Broadway cast recordings.”
Diana nods slowly. “Ah. The eternal teenage struggle. Well, I’ve brought you a burger in case you get hungry. Whenever you’re ready to join the party, we’ll all welcome you with open arms. Especially your brothers.”
She pats my shoulder and walks out. I stare at the burger.
The smell of charred meat and toasted buns fills the room.
My stomach growls loudly. I pick it up and take a bite.
The flavors hit me all at once—perfectly seasoned beef, melted cheese, the tang of pickles.
Dad sure does know his way around a grill.
I swiftly demolish the burger. The chips disappear next.
My throat becomes dry and scratchy from all the salt.
Wiping my hands on my shorts, I head downstairs.
The house is eerily quiet. The muffled sounds of the party seep through the walls—splashing, laughter, and music that’s not from any Broadway soundtrack I’ve heard.
The living room calls to me, tempting me to curl up on the couch and lose myself in Hamilton for the millionth time. To pretend that I’m in the room where it happens instead of hiding from a birthday party.
But first, I need water. Or maybe one of those fancy sodas Diana keeps stocked in the fridge.
I round the corner into the kitchen and stop dead.
The fridge door is wide open. Someone is bent over, rummaging through the shelves.
The swimming trunks they’re wearing are loud enough to be seen from space, covered in cartoon flamingos wearing sunglasses.
The person straightens up, holding a bottle of ketchup and a bottle of mustard in each hand.
He nudges the fridge door closed with one enormous bare foot, then turns around. My brain short-circuits.
Jameson Hart stands in my kitchen.
Water drips from his blond hair onto his wide shoulders. He tilts his head when he spots me standing at the entryway. He studies me with those impossibly brown eyes of his until a slow recognition dawns on his face. He points the mustard bottle at me. “You’re Kevin, right?”
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. He knows my name?
All I end up doing is nodding.
“Happy birthday, man.” He flashes me an easy smile, and then he’s gone, stepping through the open sliding door to rejoin the party.
What just happened?
I need to sit down. I need water. Most importantly, I need to process the fact that the most popular guy at Arcadia High acknowledged my existence on my eighteenth birthday.
I fill a glass with water from the tap, drink it in three gulps, and then refill and drink again.
Get it together , Kevin. It was a normal human interaction. People speak words to each other all the time. They wish each other a happy birthday. They even wear flamingo swim trunks in other people’s kitchens.
Okay, maybe that last part isn’t so normal.
I carry my third glass of water to the living room and collapse on the couch. The remote is wedged between the couch cushions. Robbie’s doing, no doubt. I turn on the TV and navigate to Disney+ with practiced ease, find Hamilton and press play.
But even as the show starts, I can’t focus.
My mind is stuck on those ten seconds in the kitchen.
On Jameson’s voice wrapping around my name in a gentle hug.
The casual point with the mustard bottle as if it’s the cool thing to do.
The genuine smile, not the polite grimace people usually give when they’re trying to place who I am, because for all our differences, my brothers and I have the same face.
Outside, the party continues without me. Jameson has rejoined the crowd in the pool, probably already having shoved our brief encounter into a dark corner of his mind.
Because why would he remember the last ten seconds? I’m simply another face in the room, another name on the class roster.
I contort my body into a cross-legged position and try to lose myself in the familiar rhythms of “Alexander Hamilton.” It’s easier said than done. My eyes keep drifting to the window of their own accord, catching glimpses of pink flamingos and golden hair in the late afternoon sun.
Jameson’s voice plays on a loop in my head. You’re Kevin, right? Happy birthday, man.
I glance at the clock. It’s 3:23 a.m. and, once again, my brain refuses to shut off.
Above me, Robbie’s snoring reaches foghorn levels.
I roll onto my side and pull the pillow over my head, but it doesn’t help.
My mind keeps circling back to that moment in the kitchen. Dissecting it from every angle.
Jameson Hart knows my name. Not “Adam’s brother” or “one of the Pryor boys.” Kevin.
I’ve spent three school years perfecting the art of invisibility at Arcadia High. Of walking through hallways without making eye contact, of sitting in classrooms without drawing more attention than warranted. Of existing in spaces without really being there.
It’s not that I’m antisocial. I have my theater friends. My brothers. My safe spaces.
But outside of those bubbles, I’m a ghost.
My phone glows on the nightstand. I could text someone, but who? My theater friends are asleep, and I don’t have Jameson’s number to call and demand answers from him.
Sighing heavily, I get out of bed and tiptoe over to the desk. I open the laptop that Robbie and I share, and the bright screen nearly blinds me. Once my eyes have adjusted, I type Jameson Hart into the search bar before I can stop myself.
Jameson’s Instagram pops up first. The most recent post is from yesterday—a photo of him and Ethan at the arcade. The caption reads: Little bro crushed me at air hockey. Again.
I keep scrolling. Beach photos. Football photos.
Workout reels. A number of posts featuring dogs that aren’t his.
I stop on a picture posted three weeks ago.
It’s a group shot from a barbecue at Tyler’s house.
I zoom in, scanning the faces. There’s Adam in the back row, Robbie’s doing bunny ears behind Matthew’s head. And Jameson is?—
“Stalking people at three in the morning? That’s a new low, Kev. Even for you.”
I jump five feet in the air. Adam leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his bare chest.