Thirteen Reasons Why (18 page)

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Authors: Jay Asher

BOOK: Thirteen Reasons Why
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I am such an idiot. I should have told her I would go get them. But I didn't do that, so now I have to wait and find out.
The boy who was eating popcorn asks for a key to the bathroom. The man behind the counter points to the wall. Two keys hang from brass hooks. One key has a blue plastic dog attached to it. The other, a pink elephant. He grabs the blue dog and heads down the hall.
After storing the plastic tubs beneath the counter, the man unscrews the tops to a dozen salt and pepper shakers, paying no attention to me. And that's fine.
“Did you order yet?”
I swivel around. Mom sits on the stool next to me and pulls out a menu. Beside her, on the counter, is Hannah's shoebox.
“Are you staying?” I ask.
If she stays, we can talk. I don't mind. It would be nice to free my thoughts for a while. To take a break.
She looks me in the eyes and smiles. Then she places a hand over her stomach and forces her smile into a frown. “That's a bad idea, I think.”
“You're not fat, Mom.”
She slides the box of tapes over to me. “Where's your friend? Weren't you working with someone?”
Right. A school project. “He had to, you know, he's in the bathroom.”
Her eyes look past me, over my shoulder, for just a second. And I might be wrong, but I think she checked to see if both keys were hanging on the wall.
Thank God they weren't.
“Did you bring enough money?” she asks.
“For?”
“For something to eat.” She replaces her menu then taps a fingernail against my menu. “The chocolate malteds are to die for.”
“You've eaten here?” I'm a little surprised. I've never seen adults in Rosie's before.
Mom laughs. She places a hand on top of my head and uses her thumb to smooth out the wrinkles on my forehead. “Don't look so amazed, Clay. This place has been around forever.” She pulls out a ten-dollar bill and lays it on top of the shoebox. “Have what you want, but have a malted shake for me.”
When she stands, the bathroom door squeaks open. I turn my head and watch the guy rehang the blue dog key. He apologizes to his girlfriend for taking so long and kisses her on the forehead before sitting down.
“Clay?” Mom says.
Before turning back around, I shut my eyes for just a moment, and breathe. “Yes?”
She forces a smile. “Don't be out long.” But it's a hurt smile.
Four tapes remain. Seven stories. And still, where is my name?
I look into her eyes. “It might be a while.” Then I look down. At the menu. “It's a school project.”
She says nothing, but from the corner of my eye I can see her standing there. She lifts a hand. I close my eyes and feel her fingers touch the top of my head then slide down to the back of my neck.
“Be careful,” she says.
I nod.
And she leaves.
I take the top off the shoebox and unroll the bubblewrap. The tapes haven't been touched.
Everyone's favorite class . . . okay, everyone's favorite
required
class . . . is Peer Communications. It's kind of the nonelective elective. Everyone would take it even if it wasn't required because it's such an easy A.
And most of the time, it's fun. I'd take it just for that.
There's very little homework, and don't forget the bonus points for class participation. I mean, they encourage you to yell out in class. What's not to like?
Reaching down, I grab my backpack and lift it onto the stool where Mom sat only moments ago.
After feeling more and more like an outcast, Peer Communications was my safe haven at school. Whenever I walked into that room, I felt like throwing open my arms and shouting, “Olly-olly-oxen-free!”
I roll the three tapes I've already heard into the bubblewrap and place them back in the shoebox. Finished. Done.
For one period each day, you were not allowed to touch me or snicker behind my back no matter what the latest rumor. Mrs. Bradley did not appreciate people who snickered.
I unzip the largest pocket of my backpack and stow Hannah's shoebox inside it.
That was rule number one, day number one. If anyone snickered at what anyone else said, they owed Mrs. Bradley a Snickers bar. And if it was an extremely rude snicker, you owed her a King Size.
On the counter, sitting beside the Walkman and a chocolate malted shake in honor of Mom, are the next three tapes.
And everyone paid up without argument. That's the kind of respect people had for Mrs. Bradley. No one accused her of picking on them, because she never did. If she said you snickered, you did. And you knew it. The next day, there would be a Snickers bar waiting on her desk.
And if there wasn't? I don't know.
There always was.
I gather the next two tapes, blue nail polish labeling them nine and ten, eleven and twelve, and hide them in my inside jacket pocket.
Mrs. Bradley said Peer Communications was her favorite class to teach—or moderate, as she called it. Each day, we had a brief reading assignment full of statistics and realworld examples. Then, we discussed.
The last tape, the seventh tape, has a thirteen on one side but nothing on the reverse. I slip this tape into the back pocket of my jeans.
Bullies. Drugs. Self-image. Relationships. Everything was fair game in Peer Communications. Which, of course, made a lot of other teachers upset. It was a waste of time, they said. They wanted to teach us cold hard facts. They understood cold hard facts.
Headlights flash across Rosie's front window and I squint while they pass.
They wanted to teach us the meaning of
x
in relation to pi, as opposed to helping us better understand ourselves and each other. They wanted us to know when the Magna Carta was signed—never mind what it was—as opposed to discussing birth control.
We have Sex Ed., but that's a joke.
Which meant that each year, during budget meetings, Peer Communications was on the chopping block. And each year, Mrs. Bradley and the other teachers brought a bunch of students to the school board with examples of how we benefited from the class.
Okay, I could go on like this forever, defending Mrs. Bradley. But something happened in that class, didn't it? Otherwise, why would you be listening to me talk about it?
Next year, after my little incident, I hope Peer Communications continues.
I know, I know. You thought I was going to say something else, didn't you? You thought I was going to say that if the class played a part in my decision, it should be cut. But it shouldn't.
No one at school knows what I'm about to tell you. And it wasn't really the class itself that played a part. Even if I never took Peer Communications, the outcome may very well have been the same.
Or not.
I guess that's the point of it all. No one knows for certain how much impact they have on the lives of other people. Oftentimes, we have no clue. Yet we push it just the same.
Mom was right. The shake is amazing. A perfect blend of ice cream and chocolate malt.
And I'm a jerk for sitting here, enjoying it.
At the back of Mrs. Bradley's room stood a wire bookrack. The kind you spin. The kind that holds paperback novels in the supermarket. But this rack never held any books. Instead, at the beginning of the year, each student received a paper lunch bag to decorate with crayons and stickers and stamps. Then we opened our bags and hung them to the rack with a couple of pieces of tape.
Mrs. Bradley knew people had a difficult time saying nice things to each other, so she devised a way for us to anonymously say what we felt.
Did you admire the way so-and-so talked openly about his family? Drop a note in his bag and tell him.
Do you understand so-and-so's concern about not passing history? Drop her a note. Tell her you'll think about her as you study for the upcoming test.
Did you like his performance in the school play?
Do you like her new haircut?
She got a haircut. In the photo at Monet's, Hannah's hair was long. That's how I always picture it. Even now. But that's not how it was at the end.
If you can, tell them to their face. But if you can't, drop them a note and they'll feel it just the same. And as far as I know, no one ever left a mean or sarcastic note in anyone's bag. We had too much respect for Mrs. Bradley to do that.
So, Zach Dempsey, what's your excuse?
What? What happened?
Oh God. I look up to find Tony standing beside me, his finger on the Pause button.
“Is this my Walkman?”
I don't say anything, because I can't read his expression. It's not anger, even though I did steal his Walkman.
Confusion? Maybe. But if it is, it's more than that. It's the same look he gave when I helped him with his car. When he was watching me instead of shining the flashlight for his dad.
Worry. Concern.
“Tony, hey.”
I pull the headphones from my ears and slip them around my neck. The Walkman. Right, he asked about the Walkman. “It is. It was in your car. I saw it when I was helping you. Earlier today. I think I asked if I could borrow it.”
I'm such an idiot.
He rests a hand on top of the counter and sits on the stool next to me. “I'm sorry, Clay,” he says. He looks into my eyes. Can he tell I'm a horrible liar? “I get so frustrated around my dad sometimes. I'm sure you asked and I just forgot.”
His gaze falls to the yellow headphones around my neck, then follows the long cord to the tape deck on the counter. I pray that he doesn't ask what I'm listening to.
Between Tony and my mom, I'm doing a lot of lying today. And if he does ask, I'll need to do it again.
“Just return it when you're done,” he says. He stands and places a hand on my shoulder. “Keep it as long as you need.”
“Thanks.”
“No need to rush,” he says. He grabs a menu from between the napkin holders, walks to an empty booth behind me, and sits down.
Don't worry, Zach. You never left anything mean in my bag. I know that. But what you did do, was worse.
From what I know, Zach's a good guy. Too shy for people to even want to gossip about.
And like me, he's always had a thing for Hannah Baker.
But first, let's go back a few weeks. Let's go back . . . to Rosie's.
My stomach pulls in tight, like working through a final sit-up. I close my eyes and concentrate on bringing myself back to normal. But I haven't felt normal in hours. Even the lids of my eyes feel warm. Like my whole body is fighting a sickness.

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