Thirteen Reasons Why 2 page

Every night for a week I woke up in the exact same about-to-be-kissed spot. But now, Justin, I would finally be meeting you. At that park. At the bottom of that slide. And damn it, you were going to kiss the hell out of me whether you liked it or not.

Hannah, if you kissed back then like you kissed at the party, trust me, he liked it.

I told you to meet me there in fifteen minutes. Of course, I only said that to make sure I got there before you. By the time you walked into the park, I wanted to be inside that rocket and all the way up, just like in my dreams. And that?s how it happened?minus the dancing trees and funky feet.

From my viewpoint at the top of the rocket, I saw you come in at the far end of the park. You checked your watch every few steps and walked over to the slide, looking all around, but never up.

So I spun the steering wheel as hard as I could to make it rattle. You took a step back, looked up, and called my name. But don?t worry, even though I wanted to live out my dream, I didn?t expect you to know every single line and tell me to stop playing with the trees and come down.

?Be right down,? I said.

But you told me to stop. You?d climb up to where I was.

So I shouted back, ?No! Let me take the slide.?

Then you repeated those magical, dreamlike words, ?I?ll catch you.?

Definitely beats my first kiss. Seventh grade, Andrea Williams, behind the gym after school. She came over to my table at lunch, whispered the proposition in my ear, and I had a hard-on for the rest of the day.

When the kiss was over, three strawberry-lip-gloss seconds later, she turned and ran away. I peeked around the gym and watched two of her friends each hand her a five-dollar bill. I couldn?t believe it! My lips were a ten-dollar bet.

Was that good or bad? Probably bad, I decided.

But I?ve loved strawberry lip gloss ever since.

I couldn?t help smiling as I climbed down the top ladder. I sat myself on the slide-my heart racing. This was it. All my friends back home had their first kisses in middle school. Mine was waiting for me at the bottom of a slide, exactly as I wanted it. All I had to do was push off.

And I did.

I know it didn?t really happen like this, but when I look back, it all happens in slow motion. The push. The slide. My hair flying behind me. You raising your arms to catch me. Me raising mine so you could.

So when did you decide to kiss me, Justin? Was it during your walk to the park? Or did it simply happen when I slid into your arms?

Okay, who out there wants to know my very first thought during my very first kiss? Here it is: Somebody?s been eating chilidogs.

Nice one, Justin.

I?m sorry. It wasn?t that bad, but it was the first thing I thought.

I?ll take strawberry lip gloss any day.

I was so anxious about what kind of kiss it would be-because my friends back home described so many types-and it turned out to be the beautiful kind. You didn?t shove your tongue down my throat. You didn?t grab my butt. We just held our lips together?and kissed.

And that?s it.

Wait. Stop. Don?t rewind. There?s no need to go back because you didn?t miss a thing. Let me repeat myself. That?is?all?that?happened.

Why, did you hear something else?

A shiver races up my spine.

Yes, I did. We all did.

Well, you?re right. Something did happen. Justin grabbed my hand, we walked over to the swings, and we swung. Then he kissed me again the very same way.

Then? And then, Hannah? What happened then?

Then?we left. He went one way. I went the other.

Oh. So sorry. You wanted something sexier, didn?t you? You wanted to hear how my itchy little fingers started playing with his zipper. You wanted to hear?

Well, what did you want to hear? Because I?ve heard so many stories that I don?t know which one is the most popular. But I do know which is the least popular.

The truth.

Now, the truth is the one you won?t forget.

I can still see Justin huddled among his friends at school. I remember Hannah walking by, and the whole group stopped talking. They averted their eyes. And when she passed, they started laughing.

But why do I remember this?

Because I wanted to talk to Hannah so many times after Kat?s going-away party, but I was too shy. Too afraid. Watching Justin and his friends that day, I got the sense that there was more to her than I knew.

Then, later, I heard about her getting felt up at the rocket slide. And she was so new to school that the rumors overshadowed everything else I knew about her.

Hannah was beyond me, I figured. Too experienced to even think about me.

So thank you, Justin. Sincerely. My very first kiss was wonderful. And for the month or so that we lasted, and everywhere that we went, the kisses were wonderful. You were wonderful.

But then you started bragging.

A week went by and I heard nothing. But eventually, as they always will, the rumors reached me. And everyone knows you can?t disprove a rumor.

I know. I know what you?re thinking. As I was telling the story, I was thinking the same thing myself. A kiss? A rumor based on a kiss made you do this to yourself?

No. A rumor based on a kiss ruined a memory that I hoped would be special. A rumor based on a kiss started a reputation that other people believed in and reacted to. And sometimes, a rumor based on a kiss has a snowball effect.

A rumor, based on a kiss, is just the beginning.

Turn the tape over for more.

I reach for the stereo, ready to press Stop.

And Justin, honey, stick around. You?re not going to believe where your name pops up next.

I hold my finger over the button, listening to the soft hum in the speakers, the faint squeak of the spindles winding the tape, waiting for her voice to return.

But it doesn?t. The story is over.

When I get to Tony?s, his Mustang is parked against the curb in front of his house. The hood is propped open, and he and his dad are leaning over the engine. Tony holds a small flashlight while his dad tightens something deep inside with a wrench.

?Did it break down,? I ask, ?or is this just for fun??

Tony glances over his shoulder and, when he sees me, drops the flashlight into the engine. ?Damn.?

His dad stands up and wipes his oily hands across the front of his greased-up T-shirt. ?Are you kidding? It?s always fun.? He looks at Tony and winks. ?It?s even more fun when it?s something serious.?

Scowling, Tony reaches in for the flashlight. ?Dad, you remember Clay.?

?Sure,? his dad says. ?Of course. Good to see you again.? He doesn?t reach forward to shake my hand. And with the amount of grease smeared onto his shirt, I?m not offended.

But he?s faking it. He doesn?t remember me.

?Oh, hey,? his dad says, ?I do remember you. You stayed for dinner once, right? Big on the ?please? and ?thank-yous?.?

I smile.

?After you left, Tony?s mom was after us for a week to be more polite.?

What can I say? Parents like me.

?Yeah, that?s him,? Tony says. He grabs a shop rag to clean his hands. ?So what?s going on, Clay??

I repeat his words in my head. What?s going on? What?s going on? Oh, well, since you asked, I got a bunch of tapes in the mail today from a girl who killed herself. Apparently, I had something to do with it. I?m not sure what that is, so I was wondering if I could borrow your Walkman to find out.

?Not much,? I say.

His dad asks if I?d mind getting in the car and starting it for them. ?The key?s in the ignition.?

I sling my backpack over to the passenger seat and slide in behind the wheel.

?Wait. Wait!? his dad yells. ?Tony, shine it over here.?

Tony?s standing beside the car. Watching me. When our eyes meet, they lock and I can?t pull away. Does he know? Does he know about the tapes?

?Tony,? his dad repeats. ?The light.?

Tony breaks the stare and leans in with the flashlight. In the space between the dash and the hood, his gaze slips back and forth from me to the engine.

What if he?s on the tapes? What if his story is right before mine? Is he the one who sent them to me?

God, I am freaking out. Maybe he doesn?t know. Maybe I just look guilty of something and he?s picking up on that.

While I wait for the cue to start the car, I look around. Behind the passenger seat, on the floor, is the Walkman. It?s just sitting there. The headphones? cord is wrapped tightly around the player. But what?s my excuse? Why do I need it?

?Tony, here, take the wrench and let me hold the flashlight,? his dad says. ?You?re jiggling it too much.?

They swap flashlight for wrench and, at that moment, I grab for the Walkman. Just like that. Without thinking. The middle pocket of my backpack is open, so I stuff it in there and zip it shut.

?Okay, Clay,? his dad calls. ?Turn it.?

I turn the key and the engine starts right up.

Through the gap above the dash, I watch his dad?s smile. Whatever he?s done, he?s satisfied. ?A little fine-tuning to make her sing,? he says over the engine. ?You can shut it off now, Clay.?

Tony lowers the hood and clicks it shut. ?I?ll see you inside, Dad.?

His dad nods, lifts a metal toolbox from the street, bundles up some greasy rags, then heads for the garage.

I pull my backpack over my shoulder and step out of the car.

?Thanks,? Tony says. ?If you didn?t show up, we?d probably be out here all night.?

I slip my arm through the other strap and adjust the backpack. ?I needed to get out of the house,? I say. ?My mom was getting on my nerves.?

Tony looks at the garage. ?Tell me about it,? he says. ?I need to start my homework and my dad wants to tinker under the hood some more.?

The streetlamp overhead flickers on.

?So, Clay,? he says, ?what?d you come out here for??

I feel the weight of the Walkman in my backpack.

?I was just walking by and saw you outside. Thought I?d say hi.?

His eyes stare a little too long, so I look over at his car.

?I?m heading to Rosie?s to see what?s up,? he says. ?Can I give you a lift??

?Thanks,? I say, ?but I?m only walking a few blocks.?

He shoves his hands into his pockets. ?Where you off to??

God, I hope he?s not on the list. But what if he is? What if he already listened to the tapes and knows exactly what?s going on in my head? What if he knows exactly where I?m going? Or worse, what if he hasn?t received the tapes yet? What if they get sent to him further down the line?

If that?s the case, he?ll remember this moment. He?ll remember my stalling. My not wanting to tip him off or warn him.

?Nowhere,? I say. I put my hands in my pockets, too. ?So, you know, I guess I?ll see you tomorrow.?

He doesn?t say a word. Just watches me turn to leave. At any moment I expect him to yell, ?Hey! Where?s my Walkman?? But he doesn?t. It?s a clean getaway.

I take a right at the first corner and continue walking. I hear the car?s engine start and the crunch of gravel as the wheels of his Mustang roll forward. Then he steps on the gas, crosses the street behind me, and keeps going.

I slide my backpack off my shoulders and down to the sidewalk. I pull out the Walkman. I unwrap the cord and slip the yellow plastic headphones over my head, pushing the tiny speaker nubs into my ears. Inside my backpack are the first four tapes, which are one or two more than I?ll probably have time to listen to tonight. The rest I left at home.

I unzip the smallest pocket and remove the first tape. Then I slide it into the deck, B-side out, and shut the plastic door.

CASSETTE 1: SIDE B

Welcome back. And thanks for hanging out for part two.

I wiggle the Walkman into my jacket pocket and turn up the volume.

If you?re listening to this, one of two things has just happened. A: You?re Justin, and after hearing your little tale you want to hear who?s next. Or B: You?re someone else and you?re waiting to see if it?s you.

Well?

A line of hot sweat rises along my hairline.

Alex Standall, it?s your turn.

A single bead of sweat slides down my temple and I wipe it away.

I?m sure you have no idea why you?re on here, Alex. You probably think you did a good thing, right? You voted me Best Ass in the Freshman Class. How could anyone be angry at that?

Listen.

I sit on the curb with my shoes in the gutter. Near my heel, a few blades of grass poke up through the cement. Though the sun has barely started dipping beneath the rooftops and trees, streetlamps are lit on both sides of the road.

First, Alex, if you think I?m being silly-if you think I?m some stupid little girl who gets her panties in a bunch over the tiniest things, taking everything way too seriously, no one?s making you listen. Sure, I am pressuring you with that second set of tapes, but who cares if people around town know what you think of my ass, right?

In the houses on this block, and in my house several blocks away, families are finishing up their dinners. Or they?re loading dishwashers. Or starting their homework.

For those families, tonight, everything is normal.

I can name a whole list of people who would care. I can name a list of people who would care very much if these tapes got out.

So let?s begin, shall we?

Curling forward, I hug my legs and lay my forehead on my knees.

I remember sitting in second period the morning your list came out. Ms. Strumm obviously had an amazing weekend because she did absolutely no prep work whatsoever.

She had us watch one of her famously dull documentaries. What it was on, I don?t recall. But the narrator did have a thick British accent. And I remember picking at an old piece of tape stuck on my desk to keep from falling asleep. To me, the narrator?s voice was nothing more than background noise.

Well, the narrator?s voice?and the whispers.

When I looked up, the whispers stopped. Any eyes looking at me turned away. But I saw that paper getting passed around. A single sheet making its way up and down the aisles. Eventually, it made its way to the desk behind me-to Jimmy Long?s desk-which groaned as his body weight shifted.

Any of you who were in class that morning, tell me: Jimmy was taking a sneaky-peek over the back of my chair, wasn?t he? That?s all I could picture as he whispered, ?You bet it is.?

I grip my knees tighter. Jackass Jimmy.

Someone whispered, ?You idiot, Jackass.?

I turned around, but I was not in a whispering mood. ?You bet what is??

Jimmy, who?ll drink up the attention any girl gives him, gave a halfsmile and glanced down at the paper on his desk. Again came the ?idiot? whisper-this time repeated across the room as if no one wanted me in on the joke.

When I first saw that list, given to me in history class, there were a few names I didn?t recognize. A few new students I hadn?t met yet or wasn?t sure I had their names right. But Hannah, I knew her name. And I laughed when I saw it. She was building quite a reputation in a short amount of time.

Only now do I realize, that her reputation started in Justin Foley?s imagination.

I tilted my head so I could read the upside-down title of the paper: FRESHMAN CLASS-WHO?S HOT / WHO?S NOT.

Jimmy?s desk groaned again as he sat back, and I knew Ms. Strumm was coming, but I had to find my name. I didn?t care why I was on the list. At the time, I don?t think I even cared which side of the list I was on. There?s just something about having everyone agree on something-something about you-that opens a cage of butterflies in your stomach. And as Ms. Strumm walked up the aisle, ready to grab that list before I found my name, the butterflies went berserk.

Where is my name? Where? Got it!

Later that day, passing Hannah in the halls, I took a look back as she walked by. And I had to agree. She definitely belonged in that category.

Ms. Strumm snatched the list away and I turned back to the front of the room. After a few minutes, gaining the nerve to look, I snuck a peek to the other side of the room. As expected, Jessica Davis looked pissed.

Why? Because right next to my name, but in the other column, was hers.

Her pencil tapped against her notebook at Morse code-speed and her face was burning red.

My only thought? Thank God I don?t know Morse code.

Truth is, Jessica Davis is so much prettier than I am. Write up a list of every body part and you?ll have a row of checkmarks the whole way down for each time her body beats mine.

I disagree, Hannah. All the way down.

Everyone knows Worst Ass in the Freshman Class was a lie. You can?t even consider it stretching the truth. But I?m sure no one cared why Jessica ended up on that side of your list, Alex.

Well, no one except you?and me?and Jessica makes three.

And a lot more than that, I?m guessing, are about to find out.

Maybe some people think you were right in choosing me. I don?t think so. But let me put it this way, I don?t think my ass-as you call it-was the deciding factor. I think the deciding factor?was revenge.

I tear the blades of grass out of the gutter and stand up to leave. As I start walking, I rub the blades between my fingers till they fall away.

But this tape is not about your motivation, Alex. Though that is coming up. This tape is about how people change when they see your name on a stupid list. This tape is about?

A pause in her speech. I reach into my jacket and turn the volume up. She?s uncrinkling a piece of paper. Smoothing it out.

Okay. I just looked over every name-every story-that completes these tapes. And guess what. Every single event documented here may never have happened had you, Alex, not written my name on that list. It?s that simple.

You needed a name to put down opposite Jessica?s. And since everyone at school already had a perverted image of me after Justin?s little number, I was the perfect choice, wasn?t I?

And the snowball keeps a-rollin?. Thanks, Justin.

Alex?s list was a joke. A bad one, true. But he had no idea it would affect her like this. This isn?t fair.

And what about me? What did I do? How will Hannah say that I scarred her? Because I have no idea. And after people hear about it, what are they going to think when they see me? Some of them, at least two of them, already know why I?m on here. Do they see me differently now?

No. They can?t. Because my name does not belong with theirs. I should not be on this list I?m sure of it.

I did nothing wrong!

So to back up a bit, this tape isn?t about why you did what you did, Alex. It?s about the repercussions of what you did. More specifically, it?s about the repercussions to me. It?s about those things you didn?t plan-things you couldn?t plan.

God. I don?t believe it.

The first red star. Hannah?s old house. There it is.

But I don?t believe it.

This house was my destination one other time. After a party. An elderly couple lives there now. And one night, about a month ago, the husband was driving his car a few blocks away, talking to his wife on the phone when he hit another car.

I shut my eyes and shake my head against the memory. I don?t want to see it. But I can?t help it. The man was hysterical. Crying. ?I need to call her! I need to call my wife!? His phone had disappeared somewhere in the crash. We tried using mine to call her back, but his wife?s phone kept ringing. She was confused, too afraid to click over. She wanted to stay on the line, the line her husband had called her on.

She had a bad heart, he said. She needed to know he was okay.

I called the police, using my phone, and told the man I would continue trying to reach his wife. But he told me I needed to tell her. She needed to know he was okay. Their house wasn?t far.

A tiny crowd had gathered, some of them taking care of the person in the other car. He was from our school. A senior. And he was in much worse shape than the old man. I shouted for a few of them to wait with my guy till an ambulance arrived. Then I left, racing toward his house to calm his wife. But I didn?t know I was also racing toward a house Hannah once lived in.

This house.

But this time, I walk. Like Justin and Zach, I walk down the center of the road toward East Floral Canyon where two streets meet like an upside-down T, just as Hannah described it.

The curtains in the bay window are shut for the night. But the summer before our freshman year, Hannah stood there with Kat. The two of them looked out, to where I am now, and they watched two boys walk up the street. They watched them step off the road and onto the wet grass, slipping and tumbling over each other.

I keep walking till I reach the gutter, pressing the toes of my shoes against the curb. I step up onto the grass and just stand there. A simple, basic step. I don?t slip, and I can?t help wondering, had Justin and Zach made it to Hannah?s front door, would she have fallen for Zach instead of Justin a few months later? Would Justin have been wiped out of the picture? Would the rumors never have started?

Would Hannah still be alive?

The day your list came out wasn?t too traumatic. I survived. I knew it was a joke. And the people I saw standing in the halls, huddled around whoever had a copy, they knew it was a joke, too. One big, fat, happy joke.

But what happens when someone says you have the best ass in the freshman class? Let me tell you, Alex, because you?ll never know. It gives people-some people-the go-ahead to treat you like you?re nothing but that specific body part.

Need an example? Fine. B-3 on your maps. Blue Spot Liquor.

It?s nearby.

I have no idea why it?s called that, but it?s only a block or so away from my first house. I used to walk there any time I had a sweet tooth. Which means, yes, I went there every day.

Blue Spot has always looked grimy from the sidewalk, so I?ve never actually gone inside.

Ninety-five percent of the time, Blue Spot was empty. Just me and the man behind the register.

I don?t think a lot of people know it?s even there because it?s tiny and squished between two other stores, both of which have been closed since we moved here. From the sidewalk, Blue Spot looks like a posting board for cigarette and alcohol ads. And inside? Well, it looks about the same.

I walk along the sidewalk in front of Hannah?s old house. A driveway climbs up a gentle slope before disappearing beneath a weathered wooden garage door.

Hanging over the front of the counter, a wire rack holds all the best candies. Well, they?re my favorites anyway. And the moment I open the door, the man at the register rings me up-cha-ching-Even before I pick up a candy bar, because he knows I never leave without one.

Someone once described the man behind the counter as having the face of a walnut. And he does! Probably from smoking so much, but having the name Wally probably doesn?t help.

Ever since she arrived, Hannah rode a blue bike to school. I can almost picture her now. Right here. Backpack on, coasting down the driveway. Her front wheel turns and she pedals past me on the sidewalk. I watch her ride down a long stretch of sidewalk, passing trees, parked cars, and houses. I stand and watch her image disappear.

Again.

Then I turn slowly and walk away.

Honestly, in all the times I?ve been to Blue Spot, I don?t think I?ve heard Wally utter a single word. I?m trying to remember a single ?hello? or ?hey? or even a friendly grunt. But the only sound I ever heard him utter was because of you, Alex.

What a pal.

Alex! That?s right. Yesterday, someone shoved him in the halls. Someone shoved Alex into me. But who?

That day, as usual, a bell jingled over the door as I walked in. Cha-ching! went the register. I picked out a candy bar from the rack on the counter, but I can?t tell you which one because I don?t remember.

I caught Alex to keep him from falling. I asked if he was okay, but he just ignored me, picked up his backpack, and hurried down the hall. Did I do something to piss him off, I wondered. I couldn?t think of anything.

If I wanted to, I could tell you the name of the person who walked in while I searched my backpack for money. I do remember. But he was just one of many jerks I?ve run into over the years.

I don?t know, maybe I should expose all of them. But as far as your story goes, Alex, his action-his horrible, disgusting action-was just an aftereffect of yours.

Plus, he?s got a whole tape all to himself?

I wince. What happened in that store because of Alex?s list?

No, I don?t want to know. And I don?t want to see Alex. Not tomorrow. Not the day after that. I don?t want to see him or Justin. Or fat-ass Jackass Jimmy. God, who else is involved in this?

He threw open the door to Blue Spot. ?Hey, Wally!? he said. And he said it with such arrogance, which sounded so natural coming from his mouth. I could tell it wasn?t the first time he said it that way, acting like Wally was beneath him. ?Oh, Hannah, hey,? he said. ?I didn?t see you there.?

Did I mention I was standing at the counter, visible to anyone the moment they opened the door?

I acknowledged him with a tiny smile, found my money, and dropped it into Wally?s wrinkled hand. Wally, as far as I could tell, didn?t respond to him in any way. Not an eye catch or a twitch or a smile-his usual greeting for me.

I follow the sidewalk around a corner, away from the residential streets, on my way to Blue Spot.

It?s amazing how a town can change so much in one corner. The houses behind me weren?t big or fancy. Very middle class. But they sit back-to-back with the part of town that?s been slowly falling apart for years.

?Hey Wally, guess what?? His breath came from just over my shoulder.

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.

Date: 2016-06-12; view: 48