Thirteen Reasons Why (10 page)
Read Thirteen Reasons Why Online
Authors: Jay Asher
Then Play again.
Nothing.
I roll my thumb over the volume dial. The static in the headphones gets louder so I turn it back down. And I wait.
Shh! . . . if you're talking in the library.
Her voice, it's a whisper.
Shh! . . . in a movie theater or church.
I listen closer.
Sometimes there's no one around to tell you to be quiet . . . to be very, very quiet. Sometimes you need to be quiet when you're all alone. Like me, right now.
Shh!
At the crowded tables that fill the rest of the room, people talk. But the only words I understand are Hannah's. The other words become a muffled background noise occasionally tipped by a sharp laugh.
For example, you'd better be quietâextremely quietâif you're going to be a Peeping Tom. Because what if they heard?
I let out a breath of air. It's not me. Still not me.
What if she . . . what if I . . . found out?
Guess what, Tyler Down? I found out.
I lean back in my chair and close my eyes.
I feel sorry for you, Tyler. I do. Everyone else on these tapes, so far, must feel a little relieved. They came off as liars or jerks or insecure people lashing out at others. But your story, Tyler . . . it's kind of creepy.
I take my first sip of coffee.
A Peeping Tom? Tyler? I never knew.
And I feel a little creepy telling it, too. Why? Because I'm trying to get closer to you, Tyler. I'm trying to understand the excitement of staring through someone's bedroom window. Watching someone who doesn't know they're being watched. Trying to catch them in the act of . . .
What were you trying to catch me in the act of, Tyler? And were you disappointed? Or pleasantly surprised?
Okay, a show of hands, please. Who knows where I am?
I set down my coffee, lean forward, and try to imagine her recording this.
Where is she?
Who knows where I'm standing right now?
Then I get it and shake my head, feeling so embarrassed for him.
If you said, “Outside Tyler's window,” you're right. And that's A-4 on your maps.
Tyler's not home right now . . . but his parents are. And I really hope they don't come outside. Fortunately, there's a tall, thick bush just below his window, similar to my own window, so I'm feeling pretty safe.
How are you feeling, Tyler?
I can't imagine what it was like for him to mail out these tapes. To know he was sending his secret into the world.
There's a meeting of the yearbook staff tonight, which I know involves a lot of pizza and gossip. So I know you won't be home until after it gets all nice and dark. Which, as an amateur Peeping Tom, I appreciate very much.
So thank you, Tyler. Thanks for making this so easy.
When Tyler heard this, was he sitting here at Monet's, trying to look calm while sweating up a storm? Or was he lying in bed staring bug-eyed out his window?
Let's take a peek inside before you get home, shall we? The hallway light's on so I can see in pretty well. And yes, I see exactly what I expectedâthere's a bunch of camera equipment lying around.
You've got quite a collection here, Tyler. A lens for every occasion.
Including nightvision. Tyler won a statewide contest with that lens. Firstplace in the humor category. An old man walking his dog at night. The dog stopped to pee on a tree and Tyler snapped the picture. Nightvision made it look like a green laser beam blasting out of the dog's crotch.
I know, I know. I can hear you now. “Those are for the yearbook, Hannah. I'm the student-life photographer.” And I'm sure that's why your parents were fine spending that kind of cash. But is that the only way you use this stuff? Candid shots of the student body?
Ah, yes. Candid shots of the student body.
Before coming out here, I took the initiative to look up “candid” in the dictionary. It's one of those words with many definitions, but there's one that's most appropriate. And here it is, memorized for your pleasure: Relating to photography of subjects acting naturally or spontaneously without being posed.
So tell me, Tyler, those nights you stood outside my window, was I spontaneous enough for you? Did you catch me in all my natural, unposed . . .
Wait. Did you hear that?
I sit up and lean my elbows on the table.
A car coming up the road.
I cup my hands over both ears.
Is it you, Tyler? It sure is getting close. And there are the headlights.
I can hear it, just under Hannah's voice. The engine.
My heart definitely thinks it's you. My God, it's pounding.
The car's turning up the driveway.
Behind her voice, tires roll across pavement. The engine idles.
It's you, Tyler. It's you. You haven't stopped the engine so I'm going to keep talking. And yes, this is exciting. I can definitely see the thrill.
It must have been terrifying for him to hear this. And it must be hell knowing he's not the only one.
Okay, listeners, ready? Car door . . . and . . .
Shh!
A long pause. Her breathing is soft. Controlled.
A door slams. Keys. Footsteps. Another door unlocks.
Okay, Tyler. Here's the play-by-play. You're inside the house with the door shut. You're either checking in with Mom and Dad, saying everything went great and this is going to be the best yearbook ever, or they didn't buy enough pizza and you're heading straight for the kitchen.
As we wait, I'm going to go back and tell everyone how this all began. And if I'm wrong with the timeline, Tyler, find the other people on these tapes and let them know that you started peeping way before I caught you.
You'll do that, right? All of you? You'll fill in the gaps? Because every story I'm telling leaves so many unanswered questions.
Unanswered? I would've answered any question, Hannah. But you never asked.
For example, how long were you stalking me, Tyler? How did you know my parents were out of town that week?
Instead of asking questions, that night at the party, you started yelling at me.
Okay, confession time. The rule around my house when the parents are away is that I'm not allowed to date. Their feeling, though they won't bring themselves to say it, is that I might enjoy the date too much and ask the boy to come inside.
In previous stories, I told you that the rumors you've all heard about me weren't true. And they're not. But I never claimed to be a Goody Two-Shoes. I did go out when my parents weren't home, but only because I could stay out as long as I wanted. And as you know, Tyler, on the night this all began, the boy I went out with walked me all the way to my front door. He stood there while I pulled out my keys to unlock the door . . . then he left.
I'm afraid to look, but I wonder if people in Monet's are staring at me. Can they tell, based on my reactions, that it's not music I'm listening to?
Or maybe no one's noticed. Why would they? Why should they care what I'm listening to?
Tyler's bedroom light is still off, so either he's having a detailed conversation with his parents or he's still hungry. Fine, have it your way, Tyler. I'll just keep talking about you.
Were you hoping I'd invite the guy in? Or would that have made you jealous?
I stir my coffee with the wooden stick.
Either way, after I went insideâalone!âI washed my face and brushed my teeth. And the moment I stepped into my room . . .
Click.
Click.
We all know the sound a camera makes when it snaps a picture. Even some of the digitals do it for nostalgia's sake. And I always keep my window open, about an inch or two, to let in fresh air. Which is how I knew someone was standing outside.
But I denied it. It was way too creepy to admit to myself on the very first night of my parents' vacation. I was only freaking myself out, I said. Just getting used to being alone.
Still, I wasn't dumb enough to change in front of the window. So I sat down on my bed.
Click.
Click.
Such an idiot, Tyler. In middle school, some people thought you were mentally challenged. But you weren't. You were just an idiot.
Or maybe it wasn't a click, I told myself. Maybe it was a creak. My bed has a wooden frame that creaks a little. That was it. It had to be a creak.
I pulled the blankets over my body and undressed beneath them. Then I put on my pajamas, doing everything as slowly as possible, afraid whoever was outside might snap another picture. After all, I wasn't totally sure what a Peeping Tom got off on.
But waitâanother picture would prove he was there, right? Then I could call the police and . . .
But the truth is, I didn't know what to hope for. My parents weren't home. I was alone. I figured ignoring him was my best option. And even though he was outside, I was too afraid of what might happen if he saw me reaching for the phone.
Stupid? Yes. But did it make sense? Yes . . . at the time.
You should've called the cops, Hannah. It might have stopped this snowball from picking up speed. The one you keep talking about.
The one that ran over all of us.
So why was it so easy for Tyler to see into my room to begin with? Is that what you're asking? Do I always sleep with my shades wide open?
Good question, victim-blamers. But it wasn't that easy. The window blinds were kept at an angle exactly as I liked them. On clear nights, with my head on the pillow, I could fall asleep looking at the stars. And on stormy nights I could watch lightning light up the clouds.
I've done that, fallen asleep looking outside. But from the second floor, I don't need to worry about people seeing in.
When my dad found out I kept the blinds openâeven a crackâhe walked out to the sidewalk to make sure no one could see me from the street. And they couldn't. So he walked from the sidewalk, straight across the yard, up to my window. And what did he find? That unless they were pretty tall and standing right outside my window on their tiptoes, I was invisible.
So how long did you stand like that, Tyler? It must have been pretty uncomfortable. And if you were willing to go through all that trouble just to get a peek at me, I hope you got at least something out of it.
He did. But not what he wanted. Instead, he got this.
Had I known it was Tyler at the time, had I snuck under the blinds and looked up to see his face, I would've run outside and embarrassed the hell out of him.
In fact, that brings up the most interesting part of . . .
Wait! Here you come. We'll save that story for later.
I push my mug of coffee, not even half-finished, to the far end of the table.
Let me describe Tyler's window for the rest of you. The shades are all the way down, yet I can see in. They're made of bamboo, or fake bamboo, and between each stick are varying amounts of space. If I stand on my tiptoes, like Tyler, I can reach a fairly wide-open gap and see in.
Okay, he's turning on the light and . . . he shuts the door. He's . . . he's sitting on the bed. He's yanking off his shoes and . . . now his socks.
I groan. Please don't do anything stupid, Tyler. It's your room, you can do what you want, but don't embarrass yourself anymore.
Maybe I should warn him. Give him a chance to hide. To undress underneath the covers. Maybe I should tap on the window. Or pound or kick on the wall. Maybe I should give him the same paranoia he gave me.
She's getting louder. Does she want to get caught?
After all, that's why I'm here, right? Revenge?
No. Revenge would have been fun. Revenge, in a twisted way, would have given me some sense of satisfaction. But this, standing outside Tyler's window, satisfies nothing. My mind is made up.
So why? Why am I here?
Well, what have I said? I just said I'm not here for me. And if you pass the tapes on, no one but those of you on the list will ever hear what I'm saying. So why am I here?
Tell us. Please, Hannah. Tell me why I'm listening to this. Why me?
I'm not here to watch you, Tyler. Calm down. I don't care what you're doing. In fact, I'm not even watching you right now. My back's against the wall and I'm staring at the street.
It's one of those streets with trees on either side, their branches meeting high above like fingertips touching. Sounds poetic, doesn't it? I even wrote a poem once comparing streets like this to my favorite childhood rhyme: Here is the church, here is the steeple, open it up . . . yadda, yadda, yadda.
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