Thirteen Reasons Why (11 page)

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Authors: Jay Asher

BOOK: Thirteen Reasons Why
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One of you even read that poem I wrote. We'll talk about that later.
Again, it's not me. I didn't even know Hannah wrote poetry.
But I'm talking about Tyler now. And I'm still on Tyler's street. His dark and empty street. He just doesn't know I'm here . . . yet. So let's wrap this up before he goes to bed.
At school the next day, after Tyler's visit to my window, I told a girl who sat in front of me what happened. This girl's known for being a good listener, and sympathetic, and I wanted someone to be afraid for me. I wanted someone to validate my fears.
Well, she was definitely not the girl for that job. This girl's got a twisted side that very few of you know about.
“A Peeping Tom?” she said. “You mean, a real one?”
“I think so,” I told her.
“I always wondered what that'd be like,” she said. “Having a Peeping Tom is kind of . . . I don't know . . . sexy.”
Definitely twisted. But who is she?
And why do I care?
She smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Do you think he'll come back?”
Honestly, the thought of him coming back never occurred to me. But now it was freaking me out. “What if he does?” I asked.
“Then you'll have to tell me about it,” she said. And then she turned back around, ending our conversation.
Now, this girl and I had never hung out. We took a lot of the same electives, we were nice to each other in class, and sometimes we talked about hanging out, but we never did.
Here, I thought, was a golden opportunity.
I tapped her on the shoulder and told her that my parents were out of town. How would she like to come over and catch a Peeping Tom?
After school I went home with her to grab her stuff. Then she came over to my house. Since it was a weeknight and she was probably going to be out late, she told her parents we were working on a school project.
God. Does everyone use that excuse?
We finished our homework at the dining room table, waiting for it to get dark outside. Her car was parked out front as bait.
Two girls. Irresistible, right?
I squirm a little, shifting in my seat.
We moved into my bedroom and sat cross-legged on the bed, facing each other, talking about everything imaginable. To catch our Peeping Tom, we knew we needed to keep the talking quiet. We needed to hear that first . . .
Click.
Her mouth dropped open. Her eyes, I've never seen them that happy.
She whispered for me to keep talking. “Pretend you didn't hear. Just play along.”
I nodded.
Then she covered her mouth and ad-libbed. “Oh my God! You let him touch you where?”
We “gossiped” for a couple minutes, trying to hold back any inappropriate laughter—the kind that would've given us away. But the clicking stopped and we were running out of things to gossip about.
“You know what I could use?” she asked. “A nice, deep, back massage.”
“You're evil,” I whispered.
She winked at me, then got up on her knees and worked her hands forward like a cat stretching until she was all the way down on my bed.
Click.
I sincerely hope you burned or erased those pictures, Tyler. Because if they get out, even if it's not your fault, I'd hate to think what might happen to you.
I straddled her back.
Click.
Pushed aside her hair.
Click.
And began rubbing her shoulders.
Click. Click.
She turned away from the window and whispered, “You know what it means if he stops taking pictures, right?”
I told her I didn't.
“It means he's doing something else.”
Click.
“Oh well,” she said.
I kept rubbing her shoulders. In fact, I thought I was doing a pretty good job because she stopped talking and her lips curled into a beautiful smile. But then she whispered a new idea. A way to catch this pervert in the act.
I told her no. One of us should just leave the room, say we need to use the bathroom, and call the cops. We could end it right there.
But that didn't happen.
“No way,” she said. “I'm not leaving until I find out if I know him. What if he goes to our school?”
“What if he does?” I asked.
She told me to follow her lead, then she rolled out from under my legs. According to her plan, when she said “three,” I was to charge the window. But I thought the Peeping Tom might have left—might have gotten scared—because there hadn't been a click since I climbed off of her.
“It's time for some body lotion,” she said.
Click.
That sound sent my anger through the roof. Okay. I can play this game, I thought. “Look in my top drawer.”
She pointed to the drawer nearest the window and I nodded.
Beneath my arms, my shirt is slightly damp. I shift uncomfortably in my seat again. But, God, I can't stop listening.
She pulled open the drawer, looked inside, and covered her mouth.
What? There was nothing in my drawer worthy of a reaction like that. There was nothing in my whole room worthy of that.
“I didn't know you were into this,” she said, nice and loud. “We should use it . . . together.”
“Um, okay,” I said.
She reached into the drawer, pushed some things around, then covered her mouth again. “Hannah?” she said. “How many of these do you have? You are definitely a naughty girl.”
Click. Click.
Very clever, I thought. “Why don't you count them?”
So she did. “Let's see, now. Here's one . . . and two . . . ”
I slid one foot off the bed.
“ . . . three!”
I jumped at the window and yanked the cord. The blinds flew up. I looked for your face but you were moving so fast.
The other girl, she wasn't looking at your face, Tyler.
“Oh my God!” she screamed. “He's cramming his dick in his pants.”
Tyler, wherever you are, I am so sorry. You deserve this, but I'm sorry.
So who were you? I saw your height and your hair, but I couldn't see your face clearly enough.
Still, you gave yourself up, Tyler. The next day at school I asked so many people the exact same question, Where were you last night? Some said they were at home or at a friend's house. Or at the movies. None of your business. But you, Tyler, you had the most defensive—and interesting—response of all.
“What, me? Nowhere.”
And for some reason, telling me you were nowhere made your eyes twitch and your forehead break into a sweat.
You are such an idiot, Tyler.
Hey, at least you're original. And at least you stopped coming around my house. But your presence, Tyler, that never left.
After your visits, I twisted my blinds shut every night. I locked out the stars and I never saw lightning again. Each night, I simply turned out the lights and went to bed.
Why didn't you leave me alone, Tyler? My house. My bedroom. They were supposed to be safe for me. Safe from everything outside. But you were the one who took that away.
Well . . . not all of it.
Her voice trembles.
But you took away what was left.
She pauses. And within that silence I realize how intensely I've been staring at nothing. Staring in the direction of my mug on the far end of the table. But not at it.
I want to, but I'm too intimidated to look at the people around me. They have to be watching me now. Trying to understand the pained look on my face. Trying to figure out who this poor kid is, listening to outdated audiotapes.
So how important is your security, Tyler? What about your privacy? Maybe it's not as important to you as it was for me, but that's not for you to decide.
I look through the window, past my reflection, to the barely lit patio garden. I can't tell if anyone's still there, beyond the brick-and-ivy column, sitting at her table.
A table that, at one time, was Hannah's other safe place.
So who was this mystery girl featured in your story, Tyler? Who smiled so beautifully when I rubbed her back? Who helped me expose you? Should I tell?
That depends. What did she ever do to me?
For the answer . . . insert tape three.
But I'm ready for it to be me, Hannah. I'm ready to get this over with.
Oh, and Tyler, I'm standing outside your window again. I walked away to finish your story, but your bedroom light has been out for some time . . . so I'm back now.
There's a long pause. A rustling of leaves.
Knock-knock, Tyler.
I hear it. She taps on the window. Twice.
Don't worry. You'll find out soon enough.
I slip off the headphones, wrap the yellow cord tightly around the Walkman, and tuck it in my jacket pocket.
Across the room, Monet's bookshelf is loaded with old books. Discards, mostly. Paperback westerns, New Age, sci-fi.
Carefully weaving through the crowded tables, I walk over to it.
A massive thesaurus sits beside a dictionary that's missing its hardcover spine. Down the exposed paper spine someone wrote DICTIONARY in heavy black ink. Stacked on the same shelf, each in a different color, are five books. They're approximately the same size as yearbooks, but purchased for their blank pages. Scribble books, they call them. Each year, a new one is added and people scrawl whatever they want inside. They mark special occasions, write horrible poetry, sketch things that are beautiful or grotesque, or just rant.
Each book has a scrap of duct tape on the spine with a year written on it. I pull out the one from our freshman year. With all the time Hannah spent at Monet's, maybe she wrote something in here. Like a poem. Or maybe she had other talents I didn't know about. Maybe she knew how to draw. I'm just looking for something apart from the ugliness of these tapes. I need that right now. I need to see her in a different way.
Since most people date their entries, I flip toward the back. To September. And there it is.
To keep the page, I shut the book on my index finger and take it back to my table. I take a slow sip of lukewarm coffee, reopen the book, and read the words scribbled in red ink near the top: Everyone needs an olly-olly-oxen-free.
It's signed with three sets of initials: J.D. A.S. H.B.
Jessica Davis. Alex Standall. Hannah Baker.
Below the initials, pressed into the crease between the pages, someone stuck an upside-down photograph. I pull it out, flip it over, then spin it rightside up.
It's Hannah.
God, I love her smile. And her hair, it's still long. One of her arms is wrapped around the waist of another student. Courtney Crimsen. And behind them is a crowd of students. Everyone's either holding a bottle, a can, or a red plastic cup. It's dark at the party and Courtney doesn't look happy. But she doesn't look mad, either.
She looks nervous, I think.
Why?
CASSETTE 3: SIDE A
Courtney Crimsen. What a pretty name. And yes, a very pretty girl, as well. Pretty hair. Pretty smile. Perfect skin.
And you're also very nice. Everyone says so.
I stare at the picture in the scribble book. Hannah's arm around Courtney's waist at some random party. Hannah is happy. Courtney is nervous. But I have no idea why.

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