Thirteen Reasons Why (14 page)

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Authors: Jay Asher

BOOK: Thirteen Reasons Why
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I'm on to the next thing.
In Health, we once saw a documentary on migraines. One of the men interviewed used to fall on his knees and bang his head against the floor, over and over during attacks. This diverted the pain from deep inside his brain, where he couldn't reach it, to a pain outside that he had control over. And in a way, by vomiting, that's what I hoped to do.
The exact locations of the red stars are hard to see if I don't stop walking, if I don't stand still beneath a streetlamp. But I can't stop walking. Not even for a moment.
Watching those guys pummel each other so no one would suspect them of being weak was too much for me. Their reputations were more important than their faces. And Courtney's reputation was more important than my reputation.
Did anyone at that party actually believe she brought me there as a friend? Or did they simply think I was her latest charity case?
I guess I'll never know.
I refold the map and tuck it under my arm.
Unfortunately, the only bathroom I found was occupied . . . so I went back outside. The fistfight was over, everything had returned to normal, and I needed to leave.
The temperature continues to fall and I tighten my arms around my chest as I walk.
When I approached the gate, the same gate where I entered the party, guess who was standing there all by himself.
Tyler Down . . . fully equipped with his camera.
It's time to leave Tyler alone, Hannah.
When he saw me, the look on his face was priceless. And pitiful. He crossed his arms, trying to shield the camera from my view. But why would he do that? Everyone knows he's on the yearbook staff.
But I asked anyway. “What's that for, Tyler?”
“What? Oh . . . this? Um . . . yearbook.”
And then, from behind me, someone called my name. I'm not going to tell you who because it doesn't matter. Like the person who grabbed my ass at Blue Spot Liquor, what he was about to say was just an aftereffect of someone else's actions—someone else's callousness.
“Courtney said I should talk to you,” he said.
I exhale quickly. After this, your reputation is ruined, Courtney.
I looked behind him. At the far end of the yard, three silver kegs sat in the middle of an inflatable pool full of ice. Beside the pool, Courtney was talking to three boys from another school.
The boy standing in front of me took a slow sip from his beer. “She says you're fun to hang out with.”
And I started to soften. I started letting my guard down. Sure, maybe I was right and Courtney was only concerned with saving her image. Maybe she thought that by sending a cute boy over to talk to me I'd forget all about her ignoring me at the party.
Yes, he was kind of cute. And okay, maybe I was willing to have a little selective amnesia.
But something happened, Hannah. What?
After we spoke for a while, this guy said he had a confession to make. Courtney didn't actually send him over to talk to me. But he did overhear her talking about me and that's why he came and found me.
I asked him what Courtney said, and he just smiled and looked down at the grass.
I was through with these games! I demanded to know what she said about me.
“That you're fun to hang out with,” he repeated.
I started rebuilding my guard, brick by brick. “Fun . . . how?”
He shrugged.
“How?”
Ready for this, everyone? Our sweet little Miss Crimsen told this guy, and whoever else was standing within earshot, that I've got a few surprises buried in my dresser drawers.
My breath stops like I've been sucker punched in the stomach.
She made that up! Courtney completely made that up.
And out of the corner of my eye, I watched Tyler Down start walking away.
By now, the tears were welling up. “Did she say what was in there?” I asked.
Again, he smiled.
My face felt so hot, my hands started shaking, and I asked him why he believed her. “Do you believe everything people say about me?”
He told me to calm down, that it didn't matter.
“Yes!” I told him. “It does matter.”
I left him to have a little conversation over by the keg pool. But on my way there, I had a better idea. I ran up to Tyler and stood in front of him. “You want a picture?” I said. “Follow me.” Then I grabbed his arm and led him across the yard.
The picture! The one from the scribble book.
Tyler protested the whole way, thinking I wanted him to take a picture of the keg pool. “They'll never print it,” he said. “You know, underage drinking?”
Right. Why would they want a yearbook that showed actual student life?
“Not that,” I said. “I want you to take a picture of me. Me and Courtney.”
I swear, at that moment his forehead was glistening. Me and the backrub girl, together again.
I asked if he was all right.
“Yeah, no, sure, fine.” And that's an exact quote.
In the picture, Hannah's arm is wrapped around Courtney's waist. Hannah's laughing, but Courtney isn't. She's nervous.
And now I know why.
Courtney was in the middle of having her cup filled, and I told Tyler to wait right there. When Courtney saw me, she asked if I was having fun.
“Someone wants to take your picture,” I said. Then I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her over to Tyler. I told her to put down her cup or the yearbook wouldn't be able to use it.
Tyler put it in the scribble book at Monet's. He wanted us to see it.
This was not a part of her plan. She only invited me to the party to clear her beautiful name after ignoring me for so long. A permanent photograph linking us to one another was not supposed to happen.
Courtney tried to pull out of my grip. “I . . . I don't want to,” she said.
I whirled around to face her. “Why not, Courtney? Why did you invite me here? Please don't tell me I was just a chauffeur. I mean, I thought we were becoming friends.”
He must have put it in the scribble book because he knew we would never find it in the yearbook. He would never turn it in. Not after learning what the photograph really meant.
“We are friends,” she said.
“Then put down your drink,” I said. “It's time for a picture.”
Tyler aimed the camera and focused his lens, waiting for our beautiful, natural smiles. Courtney lowered the drink to her side. I put my arm around her waist and told her, “If you ever want to borrow anything from my dresser, Courtney, all you need to do is ask.”
“Ready?” Tyler said.
I leaned forward, pretending someone had just told me the funniest joke in the world.
Click.
Then I told them I was leaving because the party sucked.
Courtney begged me to stay. She told me to be reasonable. And maybe I was being a little insensitive. I mean, she wasn't ready to leave. How would she get home if her chauffeur didn't wait around for her?
“Find another ride,” I said. And I left.
Part of me wanted to cry for being so right about her invitation. Instead, on the long walk back to my car, I started laughing. And I shouted into the trees, “What is going on?”
And then someone called my name.
“What do you want, Tyler?”
He told me I was right about the party. “The party does suck.”
“No, Tyler. It doesn't,” I said. Then I asked why he was following me.
His eyes dropped to his camera and he fiddled with the lens. He needed a ride home, he said.
At that, I really started laughing. Not specifically at what he said, but at the absurdity of the whole night. Did he really have no clue that I knew about his night prowling—about his nocturnal missions? Or did he sincerely hope I didn't know? Because as long as I didn't know, we could be friends, right?
“Fine,” I said. “But we're not stopping anywhere.”
A few times on the ride home he tried talking to me. But each time I cut him off. I did not want to act like everything was okay, because it wasn't.
And after I dropped him off, I took the longest possible route home.
I have a feeling I'll be doing the same.
I explored alleys and hidden roads I never knew existed. I discovered neighborhoods entirely new to me. And finally . . . I discovered I was sick of this town and everything in it.
I'm starting to get there, too, Hannah.
Next side.
CASSETTE 3: SIDE B
How many of you remember the Oh My Dollar Valentines?
How many of us would rather forget?
Those were fun, weren't they? You fill out a survey, a computer analyzes your answers, then it cross-references with the other surveys. For just a buck, you get the name and number of your one true soul mate. For five bucks, you get your top five. And hey! All proceeds go to a worthy cause.
Cheer Camp.
Cheer Camp.
Each morning over the loudspeaker came the cheery announcements. “Don't forget, there's only four more days to turn in your surveys. Only four more lonely days until your true love is revealed.”
And every morning, a new peppy cheerleader continued the countdown. “Only three more days. . . . Only two more days. . . . Just one more day. . . . Today's the day!”
For every foot of sidewalk I put between Tyler's house, Marcus, and me, the muscles in my shoulders relax a little more.
Then the whole squad of cheerleaders sang, “Oh my dollar, Oh my dollar, Oh my dol-lar Valentine!”
This, of course, was followed by whoops and hollers and cheers. I always imagined them doing kicks and splits and tossing their pom-poms around the attendance office.
I walked by the attendance office once, on an errand for a teacher, and that's exactly what they were doing.
And yes, I did fill out my survey. I've been a sucker for surveys my whole life. If you ever caught me reading one of those teen magazines, I swear, it wasn't for the makeup tips. It was for the surveys.
Because you never wore makeup, Hannah. You didn't need it.
Fine, some of the hair and makeup tips were helpful.
You wore makeup?
But I only picked the magazines up for the surveys. The tips were a bonus.
Do you remember those career surveys we had to fill out freshman year, the ones that were supposed to help us choose electives? According to my survey, I'd make a wonderful lumberjack. And if that career didn't work out, I could use my fallback career as an astronaut.
An astronaut or a lumberjack? Seriously? Thanks for the help.
I don't remember my fallback career, but I got the lumberjack, too. I tried figuring out why the test saw that as my best career path. True, I marked down that I liked the outdoors, but who doesn't? It doesn't mean I like cutting down trees.
The Valentine survey was a two-parter. First, you described yourself. Hair color. Eye color. Height. Body type. Favorite type of music and movie. Then you put a check beside your top three things to do on weekends. Which is funny, because whoever designed the list forgot to mention drinking and sex—which would've been the most accurate response for most of our student body.

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