Thirteen Reasons Why (7 page)

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Authors: Jay Asher

BOOK: Thirteen Reasons Why
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My backpack was resting on the counter while I zipped it shut. Wally's eyes were focused down, just beyond the edge of the counter, near my waist, and I knew what was coming.
A cupped hand smacked my ass. And then, he said it. “Best Ass in the Freshman Class, Wally. Standing right here in your store!”
There's more than a few guys I can picture doing that. The sarcasm. The arrogance.
Did it hurt? No. But that doesn't matter, does it? Because the question is, did he have the right to do it? And the answer, I hope, is obvious.
I knocked his hand away with a quick backhand swipe that every girl should master. And that's when Wally emerged from his shell. That's when Wally made a sound. His mouth stayed shut, and it was nothing more than a quick click of the tongue, but that little noise took me by surprise. Inside, I knew, Wally was a ball of rage.
And there it is. The neon sign of Blue Spot Liquor.
On this block, only two stores remain open: Blue Spot Liquor and Restless Video across the street. Blue Spot looks just as grimy as the last time I walked by it. Even the cigarette and alcohol ads look the same. Like wallpaper in the front window.
A brass bell jingles when I open the door. The same bell Hannah listened to whenever she came in for a candy fix. Instead of letting it swing shut behind me, I hold the edge of the door and slowly push it shut, watching it ring the bell again.
“Can I help you?”
Without looking, I already know it's not Wally.
But why am I disappointed? I didn't come to see Wally.
He asks again, a little louder, “Can I help you?”
I can't bring myself to look toward the front counter. Not yet. I don't want to imagine her standing there.
At the back of the store, behind a wall of see-through doors, are the refrigerated drinks. And even though I'm not thirsty, I go there. I open one of the doors and take an orange soda, the first plastic bottle I touch. Then I walk to the front of the store and pull out my wallet.
A wire rack loaded with candy bars hangs from the front counter. These are the ones Hannah liked.
My left eye begins to twitch.
“Is that all?” he asks.
I place the soda on the counter and look down, rubbing my eye. The pain begins somewhere above my eye, but it goes deeper. Behind my eyebrow. A pinching I've never felt before.
“There's more behind you,” the clerk says. He must think I'm looking at the candy.
I grab a Butterfinger from the rack and place it next to my drink. I put a few dollars on the counter and slide them over to him.
Cha-ching!
He slides back a couple of coins and I notice a plastic nametag stuck to the register.
“Does he still work here?” I ask.
“Wally?” The clerk exhales through his nose. “Day shift.”
When I leave, the brass bell jingles.
I swung my backpack over my shoulder and probably whispered, “Excuse me,” but when I moved around him, I purposely avoided his eyes.
I had the door in sight, ready to leave, when he grabbed my wrist and spun me around.
He said my name, and when I looked into his eyes the joking was gone.
I yanked my arm, but his grip was tight.
Across the street, the neon sign of Restless Video flickers erratically.
I know who Hannah's talking about now. I've seen his wrist-grabbing stunt before. It always makes me want to grab him by the shirt and push him until he lets the girl go.
But instead, every time, I pretend not to notice.
What could I do, anyway?
Then the jerk let go and put his hand on my shoulder. “I'm only playing, Hannah. Just relax.”
Okay, let's dissect what just happened. I thought about it the entire walk home from Blue Spot, which is probably why I don't remember which candy bar I bought that day.
I sit on the chipped curb outside of Blue Spot, setting the orange soda next to me and balancing the Butterfinger on my knee. Not that I have an appetite for anything sweet.
So why did I buy it? Was it only because Hannah used to buy candy from the same rack? And why does that matter? I went to the first red star. And the second. I don't need to go everywhere or do everything she says.
First his words—then his actions.
Statement number one: “I'm only playing, Hannah.”
Translation: Your ass is my play-toy. You might think you have final say over what happens to your ass, but you don't. At least, not as long as “I'm only playing.”
I tap one end of the candy bar, making it teeter-totter on my knee.
Statement number two: “Just relax.”
Translation: Come on, Hannah, all I did was touch you with no indication that you wanted me to touch you. If it'll make you feel better, go ahead, you can touch me wherever you'd like.
Now let's talk about his actions, shall we?
Action number one: Grabbing my ass.
Interpretation: Let me back up and say that this guy had never grabbed my ass before. So why now? My pants weren't anything special. They weren't overly tight. Sure, they were slung a little low and he probably got a hip shot, but he didn't grab my hips. He grabbed my ass.
I'm starting to understand. I'm starting to see what Hannah means. And that opens up a black hole in the pit of my stomach.
Best Lips. That was another category on the list.
Alex, am I saying your list gave him permission to grab my ass? No. I'm saying it gave him an excuse. And an excuse was all this guy needed.
It wasn't till that list came out that I even noticed Angela Romero's lips. But after that, I became fascinated by them. When I watched her give speeches during class, I had no idea what words came out of her mouth. I just watched those lips move up and down. Mesmerized when she said things like “slippery slope,” which, behind her lips, exposed the underside of her tongue.
Action number two: He grabbed my wrist then put his hand on my shoulder.
You know, I'm not even going to interpret this. I'm just going to tell you why it pissed me off. I've had my butt grabbed before—no big deal—but this time it was grabbed because someone else wrote my name on a list. And when this guy saw me upset, did he apologize? No. Instead, he got aggressive. Then, in the most condescending way, he told me to relax. Then he put his hand on my shoulder, as if by touching me he'd somehow comfort me.
Here's a tip. If you touch a girl, even as a joke, and she pushes you off, leave . . . her . . . alone. Don't touch her. Anywhere! Just stop. Your touch does nothing but sicken her.
The rest of Angela was nowhere near as mesmerizing as her lips. Not bad, just not mesmerizing.
Then, last summer at a friend's house, we played spin the bottle after a bunch of us admitted we were spin-the-bottle virgins. And I refused to let the game end till my spin landed on Angela. Or till her spin landed on me. When that happened, I pressed my lips, agonizingly slowly and precisely, against hers.
There are some sick and twisted people out there, Alex—and maybe I'm one of them—but the point is, when you hold people up for ridicule, you have to take responsibility when other people act on it.
Later on, Angela and I made out on her back porch. I just couldn't get enough of those lips.
All because of a list.
Actually, that's not right. You didn't hold me up for ridicule, did you? My name was in the Hot column. You wrote Jessica's name in the Not column. You held Jessica up for ridicule. And that's where our snowball picks up speed.
Jessica, my dear . . . you're next.
I pop open the Walkman and pull out the first tape.
In the smallest pocket of my backpack, I find the next tape. The one with a blue number three written in the corner. I drop that into the deck and snap the door shut.
CASSETTE 2 : SIDE A
Before Hannah's voice kicks in, there's a pause.
Step-by-step. That's how we'll get through this. One foot in front of the other.
Across the street, behind the buildings, the sun continues its fall. All the streetlamps are on, up and down the block. I grab the Butterfinger from my knee, the soda from beside me, and stand up.
We've already finished one tape—both sides—so stick with me. Things get better, or worse, depending on your point of view.
There's a trash can, an oil drum spray-painted blue, near the front door of Blue Spot Liquor. I drop the unwrapped Butterfinger into it, unable to imagine my stomach holding down anything solid, and walk away.
I know it may sound like it, but I wasn't completely alone the beginning of my freshman year. Two other freshmen, both featured here on Hannah Baker's Greatest Hits, were also new to the area. Alex Standall and Jessica Davis. And while we never became close friends, we did rely on each other those first few weeks of school.
I twist the top off my orange soda. It hisses and I take a sip.
With one week left of summer vacation, Ms. Antilly called me at home to see if I'd meet her at school. A little new-student orientation, she said.
In case you don't remember, Ms. Antilly was the guidance counselor for students with last names beginning
A
through
G
. Later that year, she moved to another school district.
I remember she was replaced by Mr. Porter. It was supposed to be a temporary position, but he's still at it. An English teacher as well as a guidance counselor.
Which is very unfortunate, as it turns out. But that is for a later tape.
An icy sweat breaks across my forehead. Mr. Porter? Does he have something to do with this?

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