Thirteen Reasons Why 1 page

Jay Asher

? 2007

For Joan Marie

?Sir?? she repeats. ?How soon do you want it to get there??

I rub two fingers, hard, over my left eyebrow. The throbbing has become intense. ?It doesn?t matter,? I say.

The clerk takes the package. The same shoebox that sat on my porch less than twenty-four hours ago; rewrapped in a brown paper bag, sealed with clear packing tape, exactly as I had received it. But now addressed with a new name. The next name on Hannah Baker?s list.

?Baker?s dozen,? I mumble. Then I feel disgusted for even noticing it.

?Excuse me??

I shake my head. ?How much is it??

She places the box on a rubber pad, then punches a sequence on her keypad.

I set my cup of gas-station coffee on the counter and glance at the screen. I pull a few bills from my wallet, dig some coins out of my pocket, and place my money on the counter.

?I don?t think the coffee?s kicked in yet,? she says. ?You?re missing a dollar.?

I hand over the extra dollar, then rub the sleep from my eyes. The coffee?s lukewarm when I take a sip, making it harder to gulp down. But I need to wake up somehow.

Or maybe not. Maybe it?s best to get through the day half-asleep. Maybe that?s the only way to get through today.

?It should arrive at this address tomorrow,? she says. ?Maybe the day after tomorrow.? Then she drops the box into a cart behind her.

I should have waited till after school. I should have given Jenny one final day of peace.

Though she doesn?t deserve it.

When she gets home tomorrow, or the next day, she?ll find a package on her doorstep. Or if her mom or dad or someone else gets there first, maybe she?ll find it on her bed. And she?ll be excited. I was excited. A package with no return address? Did they forget, or was it intentional? Maybe from a secret admirer?

?Do you want your receipt?? the clerk asks.

I shake my head.

A small printer clicks one out anyway. I watch her tear the slip across the serrated plastic and drop it into a wastebasket.

There?s only one post office in town. I wonder if the same clerk helped the other people on the list, those who got this package before me. Did they keep their receipts as sick souvenirs? Tuck them in their underwear drawers? Pin them up on corkboards?

I almost ask for my receipt back. I almost say, ?I?m sorry, can I have it after all?? As a reminder.

But if I wanted a reminder, I could?ve made copies of the tapes or saved the map. But I never want to hear those tapes again, though her voice will never leave my head. And the houses, the streets, and the high school will always be there to remind me.

It?s out of my control now. The package is on its way. I leave the post office without the receipt.

Deep behind my left eyebrow, my head is still pounding. Every swallow tastes sour, and the closer I get to school, the closer I come to collapsing.

I want to collapse. I want to fall on the sidewalk right there and drag myself into the ivy. Because just beyond the ivy the sidewalk curves, following the outside of the school parking lot. It cuts through the front lawn and into the main building. It leads through the front doors and turns into a hallway, which meanders between rows of lockers and classrooms on both sides, finally entering the always-open door to first period.

At the front of the room, facing the students, will be the desk of Mr. Porter. He?ll be the last to receive a package with no return address. And in the middle of the room, one desk to the left, will be the desk of Hannah Baker.

Empty.

YESTERDAY

ONE HOUR AFTER SCHOOL

A shoebox-sized package is propped against the front door at an angle. Our front door has a tiny slot to shove mail through, but anything thicker than a bar of soap gets left outside. A hurried scribble on the wrapping addresses the package to Clay Jensen, so I pick it up and head inside.

I take the package into the kitchen and set it on the counter. I slide open the junk drawer and pull out a pair of scissors. Then I run a scissor blade around the package and lift off its top. Inside the shoebox is a rolled-up tube of bubble-wrap. I unroll that and discover seven loose audiotapes.

Each tape has a dark blue number painted in the upper right-hand corner, possibly with nail polish. Each side has its own number. One and two on the first tape, three and four on the next, five and six, and so on. The last tape has a thirteen on one side, but nothing on the back.

Who would send me a shoebox full of audiotapes? No one listens to tapes anymore. Do I even have a way to play them?

The garage! The stereo on the workbench. My dad bought it at a yard sale for almost nothing. It?s old, so he doesn?t care if it gets coated with sawdust or splattered with paint. And best of all, it plays tapes.

I drag a stool in front of the workbench, drop my backpack to the floor, then sit down. I press Eject on the player. A plastic door eases open and I slide in the first tape.

CASSETTE 1: SIDE A

Hello, boys and girls. Hannah Baker here. Live and in stereo.

I don?t believe it.

No return engagements. No encore. And this time, absolutely no requests.

No, I can?t believe it. Hannah Baker killed herself.

I hope you?re ready, because I?m about to tell you the story of my life. More specifically, why my life ended. And if you?re listening to these tapes, you?re one of the reasons why.

What? No!

I?m not saying which tape brings you into the story. But fear not, if you received this lovely little box, your name will pop up?I promise.

Now, why would a dead girl lie?

Hey! That sounds like a joke. Why would a dead girl lie? Answer: Because she can?t stand up.

Is this some kind of twisted suicide note?

Go ahead. Laugh.

Oh well. I thought it was funny.

Before Hannah died, she recorded a bunch of tapes. Why?

The rules are pretty simple. There are only two. Rule number one: You listen. Number two: You pass it on. Hopefully, neither one will be easy for you.

?What?s that you?re playing??

?Mom!?

I scramble for the stereo, hitting several buttons all at once.

?Mom, you scared me,? I say. ?It?s nothing. A school project.?

My go-to answer for anything. Staying out late? School project. Need extra money? School project. And now, the tapes of a girl. A girl who, two weeks ago, swallowed a handful of pills.

School project.

?Can I listen?? she asks.

?It?s not mine,? I say I scrape the toe of my shoe against the concrete floor. ?I?m helping a friend. It?s for history. It?s boring.?

?Well, that?s nice of you,? she says. She leans over my shoulder and lifts a dusty rag, one of my old cloth diapers, to remove a tape measure hidden underneath. Then she kisses my forehead. ?I?ll leave you in peace.?

I wait till the door clicks shut, then I place a finger over the Play button. My fingers, my hands, my arms, my neck, everything feels hollow. Not enough strength to press a single button on a stereo.

I pick up the cloth diaper and drape it over the shoebox to hide it from my eyes. I wish I?d never seen that box or the seven tapes inside it. Hitting Play that first time was easy. A piece of cake. I had no idea what I was about to hear.

But this time, it?s one of the most frightening things I?ve ever done.

I turn the volume down and press Play.

?one: You listen. Number two: You pass it on. Hopefully, neither one will be easy for you.

When you?re done listening to all thirteen sides-because there are thirteen sides to every story-rewind the tapes, put them back in the box, and pass them on to whoever follows your little tale. And you, lucky number thirteen, you can take the tapes straight to hell. Depending on your religion, maybe I?ll see you there.

In case you?re tempted to break the rules, understand that I did make a copy of these tapes. Those copies will be released in a very public manner if this package doesn?t make it through all of you.

This was not a spur-of-the-moment decision.

Do not take me for granted?again.

No. There?s no way she could think that.

You are being watched.

My stomach squeezes in on itself, ready to make me throw up if I let it. Nearby, a plastic bucket sits upside-down on a footstool. In two strides, if I need to, I can reach the handle and flip it over.

I hardly knew Hannah Baker. I mean, I wanted to. I wanted to know her more than I had the chance. Over the summer, we worked together at the movie theater. And not long ago, at a party, we made out. But we never had the chance to get closer. And not once did I take her for granted. Not once.

These tapes shouldn?t be here. Not with me. It has to be a mistake.

Or a terrible joke.

I pull the trash can across the floor. Although I checked it once already, I check the wrapping again. A return address has got to be here somewhere. Maybe I?m just overlooking it.

Hannah Baker?s suicide tapes are getting passed around. Someone made a copy and sent them to me as a joke. Tomorrow at school, someone will laugh when they see me, or they?ll smirk and look away. And then I?ll know.

And then? What will I do then?

I don?t know.

I almost forgot. If you?re on my list, you should?ve received a map.

I let the wrapping fall back in the trash.

I?m on the list.

A few weeks ago, just days before Hannah took the pills, someone slipped an envelope through the vent of my locker. The outside of the envelope said: SAVE THIS-YOU?LL NEED IT in red felt-tip marker. Inside was a folded up map of the city. About a dozen red stars marked different areas around town.

In elementary school, we used those same chamber of commerce maps to learn about north, south, east, and west. Tiny blue numbers scattered around the map matched up with business names listed in the margins.

I kept Hannah?s map in my backpack. I meant to show it around school to see if anyone else got one. To see if anyone knew what it meant. But over time, it slid beneath my textbooks and notebooks and I forgot all about it.

Till now.

Throughout the tapes, I?ll be mentioning several spots around our beloved city for you to visit. I can?t force you to go there, but if you?d like a little more insight, just head for the stars. Or, if you?d like, just throw the maps away and I?ll never know.

As Hannah speaks through the dusty speakers, I feel the weight of my backpack pressing against my leg. Inside, crushed somewhere at the bottom, is her map.

Or maybe I will. I?m not actually sure how this whole dead thing works. Who knows, maybe I?m standing behind you right now.

I lean forward, propping my elbows on the workbench. I let my face fall into my hands and I slide my fingers back into unexpectedly damp hair.

I?m sorry. That wasn?t fair.

Ready, Mr. Foley?

Justin Foley. A senior. He was Hannah?s first kiss.

But why do I know that?

Justin, honey, you were my very first kiss. My very first hand to hold. But you were nothing more than an average guy. And I don?t say that to be mean-I don?t. There was just something about you that made me need to be your girlfriend. To this day I don?t know exactly what that was. But it was there?and it was amazingly strong.

You don?t know this, but two years ago when I was a freshman and you were a sophomore, I used to follow you around. For sixth period, I worked in the attendance office, so I knew every one of your classes. I even photocopied your schedule, which I?m sure I still have here somewhere. And when they go through my belongings, they?ll probably toss it away thinking a freshman crush has no relevance. But does it?

For me, yes, it does. I went back as far as you to find an introduction to my story. And this really is where it begins.

So where am I on this list, among these stories? Second? Third? Does it get worse as it goes along? She said lucky number thirteen could take the tapes to hell.

When you reach the end of these tapes, Justin, I hope you?ll understand your role in all of this. Because it may seem like a small role now, but it matters. In the end, everything matters.

Betrayal. It?s one of the worst feelings.

I know you didn?t mean to let me down. In fact, most of you listening probably had no idea what you were doing-what you were truly doing.

What was I doing, Hannah? Because I honestly have no idea. That night, if it?s the night I?m thinking of, was just as strange for me as it was for you. Maybe more so, since I still have no idea what the hell happened.

Our first red star can be found at C-4. Take your finger over to C and drop it down to 4. That?s right, like Battleship. When you?re done with this tape, you should go there. We only lived in that house a short while, the summer before my freshman year, but it?s where we lived when we first came to town.

And it?s where I first saw you, Justin. Maybe you?ll remember. You were in love with my friend Kat. School was still two months away, and Kat was the only person I knew because she lived right next door. She told me you were all over her the previous year. Not literally all over her-just staring and accidentally bumping into her in the halls.

I mean, those were accidents, right?

Kat told me that at the end-of-school dance, you finally found the nerve to do more than stare and bump into her. The two of you danced every slow song together. And soon, she told me, she was going to let you kiss her. The very first kiss of her life. What an honor!

The stories must be bad. Really bad. That?s the only reason the tapes are passing on from one person to the next. Out of fear.

Why would you want to mail out a bunch of tapes blaming you in a suicide? You wouldn?t. But Hannah wants us, those of us on the list, to hear what she has to say. And we?ll do what she says, passing the tapes on, if only to keep them away from people not on the list.

?The list.? It sounds like a secret club. An exclusive club.

And for some reason, I?m in it.

I wanted to see what you looked like, Justin, so we called you from my house and told you to come over. We called from my house because Kat didn?t want you to know where she lived?well, not yet?even though her house was right next door.

You were playing ball-I don?t know if it was basketball, baseball, or what-but you couldn?t come over until later. So we waited.

Basketball. A lot of us played that summer, hoping to make JV as freshmen. Justin, only a sophomore, had a spot waiting for him on varsity. So a lot of us played ball with him in hopes of picking up skills over the summer. And some of us did.

While some of us, unfortunately, did not.

We sat in my front bay window, talking for hours, when all of a sudden you and one of your friends-hi, Zach!-came walking up the street.

Zach? Zach Dempsey? The only time I?ve seen Zach with Hannah, even momentarily, was the night I first met her.

Two streets meet in front of my old house like an upside-down T, so you were walking up the middle of the road toward us.

Wait. Wait. I need to think.

I pick at a speck of dry orange paint on the workbench. Why am I listening to this? I mean, why put myself through this? Why not just pop the tape out of the stereo and throw the entire box of them in the trash?

I swallow hard. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes.

Because it?s Hannah?s voice. A voice I thought I?d never hear again. I can?t throw that away.

And because of the rules. I look at the shoebox hidden beneath the cloth diaper. Hannah said she made a copy of each of these tapes. But what if she didn?t? Maybe if the tapes stop, if I don?t pass them on, that?s it. It?s over. Nothing happens.

But what if there?s something on these tapes that could hurt me? What if it?s not a trick? Then a second set of tapes will be released. That?s what she said. And everyone will hear what?s on them.

The spot of paint flakes off like a scab.

Who?s willing to test her bluff?

You stepped out of the gutter and planted one foot on the lawn. My dad had the sprinklers running all morning so the grass was wet and your foot slid forward, sending you into a split. Zach had been staring at the window, trying to get a better view of Kat?s new friend-yours truly-and he tripped over you, landing beside you on the curb.

You pushed him off and stood up. Then he stood up, and you both looked at each other, not sure of what to do. And your decision? You ran back down the street while Kat and I laughed like crazy in the window.

I remember that. Kat thought it was so funny. She told me about it at her going-away party that summer.

The party where I first saw Hannah Baker.

God. I thought she was so pretty. And new to this town, that?s what really got me. Around the opposite sex, especially back then, my tongue twisted into knots even a Boy Scout would walk away from. But around her I could be the new and improved Clay Jensen, high school freshman.

Kat moved away before the start of school, and I fell in love with the boy she left behind. And it wasn?t long until that boy started showing an interest in me. Which might have had something to do with the fact that I seemed to always be around.

We didn?t share any classes, but our classrooms for periods one, four, and five were at least close to each other. Okay, so period five was a stretch, and sometimes I wouldn?t get there until after you?d left, but periods one and four were at least in the same hall.

At Kat?s party, everyone hung around the outside patio even though the temperature was freezing. It was probably the coldest night of the year. And I, of course, forgot my jacket at home.

After a while, I managed to say hello. And a little while later, you managed to say it back. Then, one day, I walked by you without saying a word. I knew you couldn?t handle that, and it led to our very first multiword conversation.

No, that?s not right. I left my jacket at home because I wanted everyone to see my new shirt.

What an idiot I was.

?Hey!? you said. ?Aren?t you going to say hello??

I smiled, took a breath, then turned around. ?Why should I??

?Because you always say hello.?

I asked why you thought you were such an expert on me. I said you probably didn?t know anything about me.

At Kat?s party, I bent down to tie my shoe during my first conversation with Hannah Baker. And I couldn?t do it. I couldn?t tie my stupid shoelace because my fingers were too numb from the cold.

To Hannah?s credit, she offered to tie it for me. Of course, I wouldn?t let her. Instead, I waited till Zach inserted himself into our awkward conversation before sneaking inside to thaw my fingers beneath running water.

So embarrassing.

Earlier, when I asked my mom how to get a boy?s attention, she said, ?Play hard to get.? So that?s what I was doing. And sure enough, it worked. You started hanging around my classes waiting for me.

It seemed like weeks went by before you finally asked for my number. But I knew you eventually would, so I practiced saying it out loud. Real calm and confident like I didn?t really care. Like I gave it out a hundred times a day.

Yes, boys at my old school had asked for my number. But here, at my new school, you were the first.

No. That?s not true. But you were the first to actually get my number.

It?s not that I didn?t want to give it out before. I was just cautious. New town. New school. And this time, I was going to be in control of how people saw me. After all, how often do we get a second chance?

Before you, Justin, whenever anyone asked, I?d say all the right numbers up until the very last one. And then I?d get scared and mess up?sort of accidentally on purpose.

I heave my backpack onto my lap and unzip the largest pocket.

I was getting way too excited watching you write down my number. Luckily, you were way too nervous to notice. When I finally spat out that last number-the correct number!-I smiled so big.

Meanwhile, your hand was shaking so badly that I thought you were going to screw it up. And I was not going to let that happen.

I pull out her map and unfold it on the workbench.

I pointed at the number you were writing. ?That should be a seven,? I said.

?It is a seven.?

I use a wooden ruler to smooth out the creases.

?Oh. Well, as long as you know it?s a seven.?

?I do,? you said. But you scratched it out anyway and made an even shakier seven.

I stretched the cuff of my sleeve into my palm and almost reached over to wipe the sweat from your forehead?something my mother would?ve done. But thankfully, I didn?t do that. You never would?ve asked another girl for her number again.

Through the side garage door, Mom calls my name. I lower the volume, ready to hit Stop if it opens.

?Yes??

By the time I got home, you?d already called. Twice.

?I want you to keep working,? Mom says, ?but I need to know if you?re having dinner with us.?

My mom asked who you were, and I said we had a class together. You were probably just calling with a homework question. And she said that?s exactly what you had told her.

I look down at the first red star. C-4. I know where that is. But should I go there?

I couldn?t believe it. Justin, you lied to my mom.

So why did that make me so happy?

?No,? I say. ?I?m heading to a friend?s house. For his project.?

Because our lies matched. It was a sign.

?That?s fine,? Mom says. ?I?ll keep some in the fridge and you can heat it up later.?

My mom asked what class we had and I said math, which wasn?t a total lie. We both had math. Just not together. And not the same type.

?Good,? Mom said. ?That?s what he told me.?

I accused her of not trusting her own daughter, grabbed the slip of paper with your number from her hand, and ran upstairs.

I?ll go there. To the first star. But before that, when this side of the tape is over, I?ll go to Tony?s.

Tony never upgraded his car stereo so he still plays tapes. That way, he says, he?s in control of the music. If he gives someone a ride and they bring their own music, too bad. ?The format?s not compatible,? he tells them.

When you answered the phone, I said, ?Justin? It?s Hannah. My mom said you called with a math problem.?

Tony drives an old Mustang handed down from his brother, who got it from his dad, who probably got it from his dad. At school there are few loves that compare to the one between Tony and his car. More girls have dumped him out of car envy than my lips have even kissed.

You were confused, but eventually you remembered lying to my mom and, like a good boy, you apologized.

While Tony doesn?t classify as a close friend, we have worked on a couple of assignments together so I know where he lives. And most important of all, he owns an old Walkman that plays tapes. A yellow one with a skinny plastic headset that I?m sure he?ll let me borrow. I?ll take a few tapes with me and listen to them as I walk through Hannah?s old neighborhood, which is only a block or so from Tony?s.

?So, Justin, what?s the math problem?? I asked. You weren?t getting off that easy.

Or maybe I?ll take the tapes somewhere else. Somewhere private. Because I can?t listen here. Not that Mom or Dad will recognize the voice in the speakers, but I need room. Room to breathe.

And you didn?t miss a beat. You told me Train A was leaving your house at 3:45 PM. Train B was leaving my house ten minutes later.

You couldn?t see this, Justin, but I actually raised my hand like I was in school rather than sitting on the edge of my bed. ?Pick me, Mr. Foley. Pick me,? I said. ?I know the answer.?

When you called my name, ?Yes, Miss Baker?? I threw Mom?s hard-to-get rule right out the window. I told you the two trains met at Eisenhower Park at the bottom of the rocket slide.

What did Hannah see in him? I never got that. Even she admits she was unable to put her finger on it. But for an average-looking guy, so many girls are into Justin.

Sure, he is kind of tall. And maybe they find him intriguing. He?s always looking out windows, contemplating something.

A long pause at your end of the line, Justin. And I mean a looooooong pause. ?So, when do the trains meet?? you asked.

?Fifteen minutes,? I said.

You said fifteen minutes seemed awfully slow for two trains going full speed.

Whoa. Slow down, Hannah.

I know what you?re all thinking. Hannah Baker is a slut.

Oops. Did you catch that? I said, ?Hannah Baker is.? Can?t say that anymore.

She stops talking.

I drag the stool closer to the workbench. The two spindles in the tape deck, hidden behind a smoky plastic window, pull the tape from one side to the other. A gentle hiss comes through the speaker. A soft static hum.

What is she thinking? At that moment, are her eyes shut? Is she crying? Is her finger on the Stop button, hoping for the strength to press it? What is she doing? I can?t hear!

Wrong.

Her voice is angry. Almost trembling.

Hannah Baker is not, and never was, a slut. Which begs the question, What have you heard?

I simply wanted a kiss. I was a freshman girl who had never been kissed. Never. But I liked a boy, he liked me, and I was going to kiss him. That?s the story-the whole story-right there.

What was the other story? Because I did hear something.

The few nights leading up to our meeting in the park, I?d had the same dream. Exactly the same. From beginning to end. And for your listening pleasure, here it is.

But first, a little background.

My old town had a park similar to Eisenhower Park in one way. They both had that rocket ship. I?m sure it was made by the same company because they looked identical. A red nose points to the sky. Metal bars run from the nose all the way down to green fins holding the ship off the ground. Between the nose and the fins are three platforms, connected by three ladders. On the top level is a steering wheel. On the mid level is a slide that leads down to the playground.

On many nights leading up to my first day of school here, I?d climb to the top of that rocket and let my head fall back against the steering wheel. The night breeze blowing through the bars calmed me. I?d just close my eyes and think of home.

I climbed up there once, only once, when I was five. I screamed and cried my head off and would not come down for anything. But Dad was too big to fit through the holes. So he called the fire department, and they sent a female firefighter up to get me. They must?ve had a lot of those rescues because, a few weeks ago, the city announced plans to tear the rocket slide down.

I think that?s the reason, in my dreams, my first kiss took place at the rocket ship. It reminded me of innocence. And I wanted my first kiss to be just that. Innocent.

Maybe that?s why she didn?t red-star the park. The rocket might be gone before the tapes make it through the entire list.

So back to my dreams, which started the day you began waiting outside my classroom door. The day I knew you liked me.

Hannah took off her shirt and let Justin put his hands up her bra. That?s it. That?s what I heard happened in the park that night.

But wait. Why would she do that in the middle of a park?

The dream starts with me at the top of the rocket, holding on to the steering wheel. It?s still a playground rocket, not a real one, but every time I turn the wheel to the left, the trees in the park lift up their roots and sidestep it to the left. When I turn the wheel to the right, they sidestep it to the right.

Then I hear your voice calling up from the ground. ?Hannah! Hannah! Stop playing with the trees and come see me.?

So I leave the steering wheel and climb through the hole in the top platform. But when I reach the next platform, my feet have grown so huge they won?t fit through the next hole.

Big feet? Seriously? I?m not into dream analysis, but maybe she was wondering if Justin had a big one.

I poke my head through the bars and shout, ?My feet are too big. Do you still want me to come down??

?I love big feet,? you shout back. ?Come down the slide and see me. I?ll catch you.?

So I sit on the slide and push off. But the wind resistance on my feet makes me go so slow. In the time it takes me to reach the bottom of the slide, I?ve noticed that your feet are extremely small. Almost nonexistent.

I knew it!

You walk to the end of the slide with your arms out, ready to catch me. And wouldn?t you know it, when I jump off, my huge feet don?t step on your little feet.

?See? We were made for each other,? you say. Then you lean in to kiss me. Your lips getting closer?and closer?and?I wake up.

Date: 2016-06-12; view: 53