Thirteen Reasons Why (17 page)

The parking lot is nearly empty. Only a few cars directly in front of Rosie's, but none of them are Mom's. So I stop.

I stand on the curb, breathing deep, exhaling hard. A red hand flashes at the intersection across the street.

The hand keeps flashing, urging me to make up my mind. Telling me to hurry. I still have time to run across the street, jump the curb, and race through the parking lot to Rosie's.

But I don't.

The hand stops flashing. A solid, bright red hand.

And I turn around. I can't go in there. Not yet.

I press my hand against my stomach. It's too much. Too much to handle.

I'll go to Rosie's. In a minute. And hopefully, I'll get there before Mom.

But first, the theater where Hannah and I worked for one summer. A place where she was safe: the Crestmont.

It's only a block away, and maybe it's not a red star on her map, but it should've been.

It's a red star to me.

I shove my hands in my pockets, balled into fists. I want to slam them into a wall or punch them through a store window. I've never hit anything or anyone before, and already, just tonight, I've wanted to hit Marcus with that rock.

Zach? Again? With Justin on the first tape, falling on Hannah's lawn. Then interrupting me and Hannah at Kat's going-away party.

I hate this. I don't want to find out how everyone fits together anymore.

The Crestmont. I round the corner and, less than half a block away, there it is. One of the few landmarks in town. The last art deco theater in the state.

The wraparound marquee stretching over the sidewalk. The ornate sign reaching to the sky like an electric peacock feather. Each letter flickers on one at a time, C-R-E-S-T-M-ON-T, like filling in a crossword puzzle with neon letters.

I walk toward the Crestmont. The other stores I pass are all closed for the night. A solid wall of darkened windows. But then a triangular wedge cuts away from the sidewalk, its walls and marble floor the same colors as the neon sign, pointing in to the lobby. And in the middle of the wedge, the box office. Like a tollbooth, with windows on three sides and a door in the rear.

That's where I worked on most nights.

She pauses. Slows down a bit.

The last movie of the night is playing, so the box office is empty. I stand on the swirling marbled floor, surrounded by posters of coming attractions.

This was my chance, at this theater, to reach Hannah.

It was my chance and I let it slip away.

I hate what you did, Hannah.

You didn't have to do it and I hate the fact that you did.

I lean back against a poster locked behind a plastic frame and I close my eyes.

I'm listening to someone give up. Someone I knew. Someone I liked.

I'm listening. But still, I'm too late.

My heart is pounding and I can't stand still. I walk across the marble floor to the box office. A small sign hangs by a chain and a tiny suction cup. CLOSED—SEE YOU TOMORROW! From out here, it doesn't look so cramped. But in there, it felt like a fishbowl.

My only interaction came when people slid money over to my side of the glass and I slid back their tickets. Or when a coworker let themselves in through the rear door.

Other than that, if I wasn't selling tickets, I was reading. Or staring out of the fishbowl, into the lobby, watching Hannah. And some nights were worse than others. Some nights I watched to make sure she buttered the popcorn all the way through. Which seems silly now, and obsessive, but that's what I did.

Like the night Bryce Walker came. He arrived with his girlfriend-of-the-moment and wanted me to charge her the under-twelve rate.

“She won't be watching the movie anyway,” he said. “You know what I mean, Clay?” Then he laughed.

I didn't know her. She might've been a student from another school. One thing was clear, she didn't seem to think it was funny. She placed her purse on the counter. “I'll pay for my own ticket, then.”

Bryce moved her purse aside and paid the full amount. “Just relax,” he told her. “It was a joke.”

About halfway through the movie, while I sold tickets for the next show, that girl came tearing out of the theater holding her wrist. Maybe crying. And Bryce was nowhere to be seen.

I kept watching the lobby, waiting for him to show. But he never did. He stayed behind to finish watching the movie he had paid for.

But when the movie was over, he leaned against the concession counter, talking Hannah's ear off as everyone else left. And he stayed there while the new people came in. Hannah filled drink orders, handed out candy, gave back change, and laughed at Bryce. Laughed at whatever he said.

The entire time, I wanted to flip the Closed sign over. I wanted to march into the lobby and ask him to leave. The movie was over and he didn't need to be here anymore.

But that was Hannah's job. She should have asked him to leave. No, she should have wanted him to leave.

After selling my last ticket and turning over the sign, I exited through the box office door, locked it behind me, and went into the lobby. To help Hannah clean up. To ask about Bryce.

“Why do you think that girl ran out of here like that?” I asked.

Hannah stopped wiping the counter and looked me straight in the eye. “I know who he is, Clay. I know what he's like. Believe me.”

“I know,” I said. I looked down and touched a carpet stain with the toe of my shoe. “I was just wondering, then, why'd you keep talking to him?”

She didn't answer. Not right away.

But I couldn't raise my eyes to face her. I didn't want to see a look of disappointment or frustration in her eyes. I didn't want to see those kinds of emotions directed at me.

Eventually, she said the words that ran through my mind the rest of that night: “You don't need to watch out for me, Clay.”

But I did, Hannah. And I wanted to. I could have helped you. But when I tried, you pushed me away.

I can almost hear Hannah's voice speaking my next thought for me. “Then why didn't you try harder?”

On my way back, the red hand flashes, but I run through the crosswalk anyway. The parking lot holds even fewer cars than before. But still, no Mom's.

A few doors down from Rosie's Diner, I stop running. I lean my back against a pet store window, trying to catch my breath. Then I lean forward, hands on my knees, hoping to slow everything down before she arrives.

Impossible. Because even though my legs stopped running, my mind keeps going. I let myself slide down against the cold glass, knees bent, trying so hard to hold back tears.

But time's running out. She'll be here soon.

Drawing in a full breath, I push myself up, walk over to Rosie's, and pull open the door.

Warm air rushes out, smelling like a mixture of hamburger grease and sugar. Inside, three of the five booths along the wall are taken. One with a boy and a girl drinking milkshakes and munching popcorn from the Crestmont. The other two are filled with students studying. Textbooks cover the tabletops, leaving just enough room for drinks and a couple of baskets of fries. Thankfully, the booth farthest back is occupied. It's not a question I need to consider, whether to sit there or not.

Taped to one of the pinball machines is a hand-scribbled Out of Order sign. A senior I sort of recognize stands in front of the other machine, banging away.

As Hannah suggested, I sit at the empty counter.

Behind the counter, a man in a white apron sorts silverware into two plastic tubs. He gives me a nod. “Whenever you're ready.”

I slide a menu out from between two silver napkin holders. The front of the menu tells a lengthy story about Rosie's, with black-and-white photos spanning the last four decades. I flip it over, but nothing on the menu looks good to me. Not now.

Fifteen minutes. That's how long Hannah said to wait. Fifteen minutes and then I should order.

Something was wrong when Mom called. Something was wrong with me, and I know she heard it in my voice. But on her way over, will she listen to the tapes to find out why?