Thirteen Reasons Why (20 page)

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Authors: Jay Asher

BOOK: Thirteen Reasons Why
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When that happened, my parents became distant. There was suddenly a lot for them to think about. A lot of pressure to make ends meet. I mean, they talked to me, but not like before.
When I cut my hair, my mom didn't even notice.
And as far as I knew—thank you, Zach—no one at school noticed, either.
I noticed.
In the back of our class, Mrs. Bradley also had a paper bag. It hung with the rest of ours on the spinning bookrack. We could use it—and she encouraged it—for notes about her teaching. Critical or otherwise. She also wanted us to recommend topics for future discussions.
So I did just that. I wrote a note to Mrs. Bradley that read: “Suicide. It's something I've been thinking about. Not too seriously, but I have been thinking about it.”
That's the note. Word for word. And I know it's word for word because I wrote it dozens of times before delivering it. I'd write it, throw it away, write it, crumple it up, throw it away.
But why was I writing it to begin with? I asked myself that question every time I printed the words onto a new sheet of paper. Why was I writing this note? It was a lie. I hadn't been thinking about it. Not really. Not in detail. The thought would come into my head and I'd push it away.
But I pushed it away a lot.
And it was a subject we never discussed in class. But I was sure more people than just me had thought about it, right? So why not discuss it as a group?
Or deep down, maybe there was more. Maybe I wanted someone to figure out who wrote the note and secretly come to my rescue.
Maybe. I don't know. But I was careful never to give myself away.
The haircut. Averting your eyes in the halls. You were careful, but still, there were signs. Little signs. But they were there.
And then, just like that, you snapped back.
Except I did give myself away to you, Zach. You knew I wrote that note in Mrs. Bradley's bag. You had to. She took it out of her bag and read it the day after I caught you. The day after I had that meltdown in the hall.
A few days before she took the pills, Hannah was herself again. She said hello to everyone in the halls. She looked us in the eyes. It seemed so drastic because it had been months since she had acted like that. Like the real Hannah.
But you did nothing, Zach. Even after Mrs. Bradley brought it up, you did nothing to reach out.
It seemed so drastic, because it was.
So what did I want from the class? Mainly, I wanted to hear what everyone had to say. Their thoughts. Their feelings.
And boy, did they tell me.
One person said it was going to be hard to help without knowing why the person wanted to kill himself.
And yes, I refrained from saying, “Or herself. It could be a girl.”
Then others started chiming in.
“If they're lonely, we could invite them to sit with us at lunch.”
“If it's grades, we can tutor them.”
“If it's their home life, maybe we can . . . I don't know . . . get them counseling or something.”
But everything they said—everything!—came tinged with annoyance.
Then one of the girls, her name doesn't matter here, said what everyone else was thinking. “It's like whoever wrote this note just wants attention. If they were serious, they would have told us who they were.”
God. There was no way for Hannah to open up in that class.
I couldn't believe it.
In the past, Mrs. Bradley had notes dropped in her bag suggesting group discussions on abortion, family violence, cheating—on boyfriends, girlfriends, on tests. No one insisted on knowing who wrote those topics. But for some reason, they refused to have a discussion on suicide without specifics.
For ten minutes or so, Mrs. Bradley rattled off statistics—local statistics—that surprised us all. Because we're juveniles, she said, as long as the suicide didn't occur in a public place with witnesses, they probably wouldn't report it in the news. And no parent wants people to know that their child, the child they raised, took his, or her, own life. So people are oftentimes led to believe it was an accident. The downside being that no one knows what's really going on with the people in their community.
That said, a thorough discussion did not begin in our class.
Were they just being nosy, or did they really think that knowing specifics was the best way to help? I'm not sure. A little of both, maybe.
In first period, Mr. Porter's class, I watched her a lot. If the topic of suicide came up, maybe our eyes would have met and I would have seen it.
And truthfully, I don't know what they could have said to sway me either way. Because maybe I was being selfish. Maybe I was just looking for attention. Maybe I just wanted to hear people discuss me and my problems.
Based on what she told me at the party, she would have wanted me to see it. She would have looked directly at me, praying for me to see it.
Or maybe I wanted someone to point a finger at me and say, “Hannah. Are you thinking about killing yourself? Please don't do that, Hannah. Please?”
But deep down, the truth was that the only person saying that was me. Deep down, those were my words.
At the end of class, Mrs. Bradley passed out a flyer called
The Warning Signs of a Suicidal Individual
. Guess what was right up there in the top five?
“A sudden change in appearance.”
I tugged on the ends of my newly cropped hair.
Huh. Who knew I was so predictable?
Rubbing my chin against my shoulder, I see Tony out of the corner of my eye, still sitting in his booth. His hamburger's all gone, as are most of his fries. He sits there completely unaware of what I'm going through.
I open the Walkman, pop out tape number four, and flip it over.
CASSETTE 4 : SIDE B
Would you want the ability to hear other people's thoughts?
Of course you would. Everyone answers yes to that question, until they think it all the way through.
For example, what if other people could hear your thoughts? What if they could hear your thoughts . . . right now?
They'd hear confusion. Frustration. Even some anger. They'd hear the words of a dead girl running through my head. A girl who, for some reason, blames me for her suicide.
Sometimes we have thoughts that even we don't understand. Thoughts that aren't even true—that aren't really how we feel—but they're running through our heads anyway because they're interesting to think about.
I adjust the napkin holder in front of me till Tony's booth is reflected in the polished silver. He leans back and wipes his hands on a napkin.
If you could hear other people's thoughts, you'd overhear things that are true as well as things that are completely random. And you wouldn't know one from the other. It'd drive you insane. What's true? What's not? A million ideas, but what do they mean?
I have no idea what Tony's thinking. And he has no idea about me. He has no idea that the voice in my head, the voice coming through his Walkman, belongs to Hannah Baker.
That's what I love about poetry. The more abstract, the better. The stuff where you're not sure what the poet's talking about. You may have an idea, but you can't be sure. Not a hundred percent. Each word, specifically chosen, could have a million different meanings. Is it a stand-in—a symbol—for another idea? Does it fit into a larger, more hidden, metaphor?
This is the eighth person, Hannah. If it's about poetry, then it's not about me. And there are only five names to go.
I hated poetry until someone showed me how to appreciate it. He told me to see poetry as a puzzle. It's up to the reader to decipher the code, or the words, based on everything they know about life and emotions.
Did the poet use red to symbolize blood? Anger? Lust? Or is the wheelbarrow simply red because red sounded better than black?
I remember that one. From English. There was a big discussion on the meaning of red. I have no idea what we decided in the end.
The same person who taught me to appreciate poetry also taught me the value in writing it. And honestly, there is no better way to explore your emotions than with poetry.
Or audiotapes.
If you're angry, you don't have to write a poem dealing with the cause of your anger. But it needs to be an angry poem. So go ahead . . . write one. I know you're at least a little bit angry with me.
And when you're done with your poem, decipher it as if you'd just found it printed in a textbook and knew absolutely nothing about its author. The results can be amazing . . . and scary. But it's always cheaper than a therapist.
I did that for a while. Poetry, not a therapist.
Maybe a therapist would have helped, Hannah.
I bought a spiral notebook to keep all of my poems in one place. A couple days a week, after school, I'd go to Monet's and write a poem or two.
My first few attempts were a bit sad. Not much depth or subtlety. Pretty straightforward. But still, some came out fairly well. At least, I think they did.
Then, without even trying, I memorized the very first poem in that notebook. And no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to shake it from my head even today. So here it is, for your appreciation . . . or amusement.
If my love were an ocean,
there would be no more land.
If my love were a desert,
you would see only sand.
If my love were a star—
late at night, only light.
And if my love could grow wings,
I'd be soaring in flight.
Go ahead. Laugh. But you know you'd buy it if you saw it on a greeting card.
There's a sudden ache deep inside my chest.
Just knowing I'd be going to Monet's to write poetry made the days more bearable. Something funny, shocking, or hurtful might happen and I'd think, This is going to make for one fascinating poem.
Over my shoulder, I see Tony walking out the front door. Which seems weird.
Why didn't he stop to say good-bye?
To me, I suppose, these tapes are a form of poetic therapy.
Through the front window, I watch Tony get in his car.
As I tell you these stories, I'm discovering certain things. Things about myself, yes, but also about you. All of you.
He flips on the headlights.
And the closer we get to the end, the more connections I'm discovering. Deep connections. Some that I've told you about, linking one story to the next. While others, I haven't told you about at all.
The Mustang shudders as Tony revs the engine. Then slowly, his car backs up.
Maybe you've even discovered some connections that I haven't. Maybe you're one step ahead of the poet.
No, Hannah. I'm barely keeping up.
And when I say my final words . . . well, probably not my final words, but the last words on these tapes . . . it's going to be one tight, well-connected, emotional ball of words.
In other words, a poem.
Watching Tony's car through the window is like watching a movie, the Mustang backing slowly offscreen. But the headlights don't gradually fade away, which they should if he kept backing up or turned away. Instead, they just stop.
As if turned off.
Looking back, I stopped writing in my notebook when I stopped wanting to know myself anymore.

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