Thirteen Reasons Why (9 page)
Read Thirteen Reasons Why Online
Authors: Jay Asher
I knew which side of the list I was onâaccording to Alex. And my so-called opposite was sitting across from me. At our safe haven, no less. Mine . . . hers . . . and Alex's.
“Who cares?” I told her. “It doesn't mean anything.”
I swallow hard. When I read that list, I passed it down the aisle without a thought. At the time, it seemed kind of funny.
“Hannah,” she said, “I don't care that he picked you over me.”
I knew exactly where that conversation was headed and I was not going to let her take us there.
And now? How do I see it now?
I should've grabbed every copy I could find and thrown them all away.
“He did not choose me over you, Jessica,” I said. “He chose me to get back at you and you know that. He knew my name would hurt you more than anyone else's.”
She closed her eyes and said my name in almost a whisper. “Hannah.”
Do you remember that, Jessica? Because I do.
When someone says your name like that, when they won't even look you in the eyes, there is nothing more you can do or say. Their mind is made up.
“Hannah,” you said. “I know the rumors.”
“You can't know rumors,” I said. And maybe I was being a little sensitive, but I had hopedâsilly meâthat there would be no more rumors when my family moved here. That I had left the rumors and gossip behind me . . . for good. “You can hear rumors,” I said, “but you can't know them.”
Again, you said my name. “Hannah.”
Yes, I knew the rumors. And I swore to you that I hadn't seen Alex one time outside of school. But you wouldn't believe me.
And why should you believe me? Why would anyone not believe a rumor that fits so nicely with an old rumor? Huh, Justin? Why?
Jessica could have heard so many rumors about Alex and Hannah. But none of them were true.
For Jessica, it was easier to think of me as Bad Hannah than as the Hannah she got to know at Monet's. It was easier to accept. Easier to understand.
For her, the rumors needed to be true.
I remember a bunch of guys joking with Alex in the locker room. “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, Baker's man.” Then someone asked him, “Pat that muffin, Baker's man?” and everyone knew what was being said.
When the row cleared out, only Alex and I remained. A tiny wrench of jealousy twisted up my insides. Ever since Kat's going-away party, I couldn't get Hannah out of my mind. But I couldn't bring myself to ask if what they had said was true. Because if it was, I didn't want to hear it.
Tightening his shoelaces, and without looking at me, Alex denied the rumor. “Just so you know.”
“Fine,” I said. “Fine, Jessica. Thank you for helping me the first few weeks of school. It meant a lot. And I'm sorry Alex screwed that up with this stupid little list of his, but he did.”
I told her I knew all about their relationship. On that first day at Monet's, he had been checking one of us out. And it wasn't me. And yes, that made me jealous. And if it helped her get over it, I accepted any blame she wanted to put on me for the two of them breaking up. But . . . it . . . was . . . not . . . true!
I reach Monet's.
Two guys stand outside, leaning against the wall. One smokes a cigarette and the other is burrowed deep into his jacket.
But all Jessica heard was me accepting blame.
She rose up beside her chairâglaring down at meâand swung.
So tell me, Jessica, which did you mean to do? Punch me, or scratch me? Because it felt like a little bit of both. Like you couldn't really decide.
And what was it you called me? Not that it matters, but just for the record. Because I was too busy lifting my hand and duckingâbut you got me!âand I missed what you said.
That tiny scar you've all seen above my eyebrow, that's the shape of Jessica's fingernail . . . which I plucked out myself.
I noticed that scar a few weeks ago. At the party. A tiny flaw on a pretty face. And I told her how cute it was.
Minutes later, she started freaking out.
Or maybe you've never seen it. But I see it every morning when I get ready for school. “Good morning, Hannah,” it says. And every night when I get ready for bed. “Sleep tight.”
I push open the heavy wood-and-glass door to Monet's. Warm air rushes out to grab me and everyone turns, upset at the person letting in the cold. I slink inside and shut the door behind me.
But it's more than just a scratch. It's a punch in the stomach and a slap in the face. It's a knife in my back because you would rather believe some made-up rumor than what you knew to be true.
Jessica, my dear, I'd really love to know if you dragged yourself to my funeral. And if you did, did you notice your scar?
And what about youâthe rest of youâdid you notice the scars you left behind?
No. Probably not.
That wasn't possible.
Because most of them can't be seen with the naked eye.
Because there was no funeral, Hannah.
CASSETTE 2: SIDE B
In honor of Hannah, I should order a hot chocolate. At Monet's, they serve them with tiny marshmallows floating on top. The only coffee shop I know of that does that.
But when the girl asks, I say coffee, because I'm cheap. The hot chocolate costs a whole dollar more.
She slides an empty mug across the counter and points to the pour-it-yourself bar. I pour in just enough half-and-half to coat the bottom of the mug. The rest I fill with Hairy Chest Blend because it sounds highly caffeinated and maybe I can stay up late to finish the tapes.
I think I need to finish them, and finish them tonight.
But should I? In one night? Or should I find my story, listen to it, then just enough of the next tape to see who I'm supposed to pass them off to?
“What're you listening to?” It's the girl from behind the counter. She's beside me now, tilting the stainless steel containers of half-and-half, low fat, and soy. She's checking to see if they're full. A couple of black lines, a tattoo, stretch up from her collar and disappear into her short, cropped hair.
I glance down at the yellow headphones hanging around my neck. “Just some tapes.”
“Cassette tapes?” She picks up the soy and holds it against her stomach. “Interesting. Anyone I've heard of?”
I shake my head no and drop three cubes of sugar into my coffee.
She cradles the soy with her other arm then puts out her hand. “We went to school together, two years ago. You're Clay, right?”
I put down the mug then slide my hand into hers. Her palm is warm and soft.
“We had one class together,” she says, “but we didn't talk much.”
She looks a little familiar. Maybe her hair's different.
“You wouldn't recognize me,” she says. “I've changed a lot since high school.” She rolls her heavily made-up eyes. “Thank God.”
I place a wooden stirrer into my coffee and mix it. “Which class did we have?”
“Wood Shop.”
I still don't remember her.
“The only thing I got out of that class were splinters,” she says. “Oh, and I made a piano bench. Still no piano, but at least I've got the bench. Do you remember what you made?”
I stir my coffee. “A spice rack.” The creamer mixes in and the coffee turns a light brown with some dark coffee grounds rising to the surface.
“I always thought you were the nicest guy,” she says. “In school, everyone thought so. Kind of quiet, but that's okay. Back then, people thought I talked too much.”
A customer clears his throat at the counter. We both glance at him, but he doesn't look away from the drink list.
She turns back to me and we shake hands again. “Well, maybe I'll see you around, when there's more time to talk.” Then she walks back behind the counter.
That's me. Nice Guy Clay.
Would she still say that if she heard these tapes?
I head to the back of Monet's, toward the closed door that leads to the patio. Along the way, tables full of people stretch their legs or tilt back their chairs to form an obstacle course that begs me to spill my drink.
A drop of warm coffee spills onto my finger. I watch it slide across my knuckles and drip to the floor. I rub the toe of my shoe over the spot till it disappears. And I recall, earlier today, watching a slip of paper fall outside the shoe store.
After Hannah's suicide, but before the shoebox of tapes arrived, I found myself walking by Hannah's mom and dad's shoe store many times. It was that store that brought her to town in the first place. After thirty years in business, the owner of the store was looking to sell and retire. And Hannah's parents were looking to move.
I'm not sure why I walked by there so many times. Maybe I was searching for a connection to her, some connection outside of school, and it's the only one I could think of. Looking for answers to questions I didn't know how to ask. About her life. About everything.
I had no idea the tapes were on their way to explain it all.
The day after her suicide was the first time I found myself at their store, standing outside the front door. The lights were out. A single sheet of paper taped to the front window said, WELL BE OPEN SOON in thick black marker.
It was written in a hurry, I figured. They just forgot the apostrophe.
On the glass door, a delivery person had left a self-adhesive note. Among a list of other options, “Will try again tomorrow” was checked.
A few days later, I went back. Even more notes were stuck to the glass.
On my way home from school earlier today, I went by the store one more time. As I read the dates and notes on each piece of paper, the oldest note became unstuck and fluttered to the ground, resting beside my shoe. I picked it up and searched the door for the most recent note. Then I lifted a corner of that note and stuck the older one beneath it.
They'll be back soon, I thought. They must have taken her home for the burial. Back to her old town. Unlike old age or cancer, no one anticipates a suicide. They simply left without a chance to get things in order.
I open the patio door at Monet's, careful not to spill any more of my coffee.
Around the garden, to keep the atmosphere relaxed, the lights are kept low. Every table, including Hannah's in the far back corner, is occupied. Three guys in baseball caps sit there, hunched over textbooks and notebooks, none of them talking.
I go back inside and sit at a small table near a window. It overlooks the garden, but Hannah's table is hidden by a brick column choked with ivy.
I take a deep breath.
As the stories go by, one by one, I find myself relieved when my name isn't mentioned. Followed by a fear of what she hasn't yet said, of what she's going to say, when my turn comes.
Because my turn is coming. I know that. And I want it to be over with.
What did I do to you, Hannah?
While I wait for her first words, I stare out the window. It's darker outside than in here. When I pull my gaze back and focus my eyes, I can see my own reflection in the glass.
And I look away.
I glance down at the Walkman on the table. There's still no sound, but the Play button is pressed. Maybe the tape didn't lock in place.
So I hit Stop.
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