Thirteen Reasons Why 11 page

The accident with the old man. And the guy from school. Did Hannah know? Did she know Jenny caused it?

Your door opened and I watched you walk to the front of your car, then crouch between the headlights for a closer look. You ran a hand over the dent and let your head droop forward. I couldn?t tell if you were pissed. Or were you crying?

Maybe you were laughing at how horrible the night was turning out.

I know where to go. I don?t need the map. I know exactly where the next star is, so I stand up to start walking.

The dent wasn?t bad. I mean, it wasn?t good, but you had to feel some relief. It could have been worse. It could have been much, much worse. For example?you could have hit something else.

She knows.

Something alive.

Whatever your initial thoughts, you stood up with a blank expression. Just standing there, staring at the dent, shaking your head.

Then you caught my eye. And I?m sure I saw a frown, even if it lasted only a split second. But that frown turned into a smile. Followed by a shrug.

And what were the first words you said when you got back in the car? ?Well, that sucks.? Then you put your key in the ignition and?I stopped you. I couldn?t let you drive away.

At the intersection where Tony turned left, I take a right. It?s still two blocks away, but I know it?s there. The Stop sign.

You shut your eyes and said, ?Hannah, I?m not drunk.?

Well, I didn?t accuse you of being drunk, Jenny. But I was wondering why the hell you couldn?t keep your car on the road.

?It?s raining,? you said.

And yes, true, it was. Barely.

I told you to park the car.

You told me to be reasonable. We both lived close by and you?d stick to the residential streets-as if that made it any better.

I see it. A metal pole holding up a Stop sign, its reflective letters visible even this far away. But on the night of the accident, it was a different sign. The letters weren?t reflective and the sign had been fastened to a wooden post.

?Hannah, don?t worry,? you said. Then you laughed. ?Nobody obeys Stop signs anyway. They just roll on through. So now, because there isn?t one there, it?s legal. See? People will thank me.?

Again, I told you to park the car. We?d get a ride home from someone at the party. I?d pick you up first thing in the morning and drive you to your car.

But you tried again. ?Hannah, listen.?

?Park it,? I said. ?Please.?

And then you told me to get out. But I wouldn?t. I tried reasoning with you. You were lucky it was only a sign. Imagine what could happen if I let you drive us all the way home.

But again, ?Get out.?

I sat for a long time with my eyes shut, listening to the rain and the wipers.

?Hannah! Get?out!?

So finally, I did. I opened the car door and stepped out. But I didn?t shut it. I looked back at you. And you stared through your windshield-through the wipers-gripping the wheel.

Still a block away, but the only thing I can focus on is the Stop sign straight ahead.

I asked if I could use your phone. I saw it sitting there right below the stereo.

?Why?? you asked.

I?m not sure why I told you the truth. I should have lied. ?We need to at least tell someone about the sign,? I said.

You kept your eyes straight ahead. ?They?ll trace it. They can trace phone calls, Hannah.? Then you started up the car and told me to shut the door.

I didn?t.

So you reversed the car, and I jumped back to keep the door from knocking me over.

You didn?t care that the metal sign was crushing-grating-the underside of your car. When you cleared it, the sign lay at my feet, warped and streaked with silver scratches.

You revved the engine and I took the hint, stepping back onto the curb. Then you peeled away, causing the door to slam shut, picking up speed the further you got?and you got away.

In fact, you got away with much more than knocking down a sign, Jenny.

And once again, I could have stopped it?somehow.

We all could have stopped it. We all could have stopped something. The rumors. The rape.

You.

There must have been something I could have said. At the very least, I could have taken your keys. Or at the very, very least, I could have reached in and stolen your phone to call the police.

Actually, that?s the only thing that would?ve mattered. Because you found your way home in once piece, Jenny. But that wasn?t the problem. The sign was knocked down, and that was the problem.

B-6 on your map. Two blocks from the party there?s a Stop sign. But on that night, for part of the night, there wasn?t. And it was raining. And someone was trying to deliver his pizzas on time. And someone else, headed in the opposite direction, was turning.

The old man.

There was no Stop sign on that corner. Not on that night. And one of them, one of the drivers, died.

No one knew who caused it. Not us. Not the police.

But Jenny knew. And Hannah. And maybe Jenny?s parents, because someone fixed her bumper real fast.

I never knew the guy in that car. He was a senior. And when I saw his picture in the newspaper, I didn?t recognize him. Just one of the many faces at school I never got to know?and never would.

I didn?t go to his funeral, either. Yes, maybe I should have, but I didn?t. I couldn?t. And now I?m sure it?s obvious why.

She didn?t know. Not about the man in the other car. She didn?t know it was the man from her house. Her old house. And I?m glad. Earlier, she watched him pull out of his garage. She watched him drive away without noticing her.

But some of you were there, at his funeral.

Driving to return a toothbrush. That?s what his wife told me as we waited on her couch for the police to bring him home. He was driving to the other end of town to return their granddaughter?s toothbrush. They?d been keeping an eye on her while her parents were on vacation, and she?d left it behind by accident. The girl?s parents said there was no need to drive across town just for that. They had plenty of extras. ?But that?s what he does,? his wife told me. ?That?s the kind of person he is.?

And then the police came.

For those of you who did go, let me describe what school was like on the day of his funeral. In a word?it was quiet. About a quarter of the school took the morning off. Mostly seniors, of course. But for those of us who did go to school, the teachers let us know that if we simply forgot to bring a note from home, they wouldn?t mark us absent if we wanted to attended the funeral.

Mr. Porter said funerals can be a part of the healing process. But I doubted that very much. Not for me. Because on that corner, there wasn?t a Stop sign that night. Someone had knocked it over. And someone else?yours truly?could?ve stopped it.

Two officers helped her husband inside, his body trembling. His wife got up and walked over to him. She wrapped him in her arms and they cried.

When I left, closing the door behind me, the last thing I saw was the two of them standing in the middle of the living room. Holding each other.

On the day of the funeral, so those of you who attended wouldn?t miss any work, the rest of us did nothing. In every class, the teachers gave us free time. Free to write. Free to read.

Free to think.

And what did I do? For the first time, I thought about my own funeral.

More and more, in very general terms, I?d been thinking about my own death. Just the fact of dying. But on that day, with all of you at a funeral, I began thinking of my own.

I reach the Stop sign. With the tips of my fingers, I reach forward and touch the cold metal pole.

I could picture life-school and everything else-continuing on without me. But I could not picture my funeral. Not at all. Mostly because I couldn?t imagine who would attend or what they would say.

I had?I have?no idea what you think of me.

I don?t know what people think of you either, Hannah. When we found out, and since your parents didn?t have a funeral in this town, no one said much about it at all.

I mean, it was there. We felt it. Your empty desk. The fact that you would not be coming back. But no one knew where to begin. No one knew how to start that conversation.

It?s now been a couple of weeks since the party. So far, Jenny, you?ve done a great job of hiding from me. I suppose that?s understandable. You?d like to forget what we did-what happened with your car and the Stop sign. The repercussions.

But you never will.

Maybe you didn?t know what people thought of you because they themselves didn?t know what they thought of you. Maybe you didn?t give us enough to go on, Hannah.

If not for that party, I never would have met the real you. But for some reason, and I am extremely grateful, you gave me that chance. However brief it was, you gave me a chance. And I liked the Hannah I met that night. Maybe I could?ve even loved her.

But you decided not to let that happen, Hannah. It was you who decided.

I, on the other hand, only have to think about it for one more day.

I turn away from the Stop sign and walk away.

If I had known two cars were going to crash on that corner, I would?ve run back to the party and called the cops immediately. But I never imagined that would happen. Never.

So instead, I walked. But not back to the party. My mind was racing all over the place. I couldn?t think straight. I couldn?t walk straight.

I want to look back. To look over my shoulder and see the Stop sign with huge reflective letters, pleading with Hannah. Stop!

But I keep facing forward, refusing to see it as more than it is. It?s a sign. A stop sign on a street corner. Nothing more.

I turned corner after corner with no idea where I was going.

We walked those streets together, Hannah. Different routes, but at the same time. On the same night. We walked the streets to get away. Me, from you. And you, from the party. But not just from the party. From yourself.

And then I heard tires squeal, and I turned, and I watched two cars collide.

Eventually, I made it to a gas station. C-7 on your map. And I used a payphone to call the police. As it rang, I found myself hugging the receiver, part of me hoping that no one would answer.

I wanted to wait. I wanted the phone to just keep ringing. I wanted life to stay right there?on pause.

I can?t follow her map anymore. I am not going to the gas station.

When someone finally did answer, I sucked in the tears that wet my lips and told them that on the corner of Tanglewood and South?

But she cut me off. She told me to calm down. And that?s when I realized how hard I had been crying. How much I was struggling to catch one good breath.

I cross the street and move further away from the party house.

Over the past few weeks, I?ve walked out of my way so many times to avoid that house. To avoid the reminder, the pain, of my one night with Hannah Baker. I have no desire to see it twice in one night.

She told me the cops had already been called and were on their way.

I swing my backpack in front of me and pull out the map.

I was shocked. I couldn?t believe you actually called the police, Jenny.

I unfold the map to give it one last look.

But I shouldn?t have been shocked. Because as it turns out, you didn?t call them.

Then I crumple it up, crushing the map into a ball the size of my fist.

At school the next day, when everyone replayed the events of what happened the previous night, that?s when I found out who had called. And it wasn?t to report a fallen sign.

I stuff the map deep into a bush and walk away.

It was to report an accident. An accident caused by a fallen sign. An accident I was never aware of?until then.

But that night, after hanging up the phone, I wandered the streets some more. Because I had to stop crying. Before I went home, I needed to calm down. If my parents caught me sneaking back in with tears in my eyes, they?d ask way too many questions. Unanswerable questions.

That?s what I?m doing now. Staying away. I wasn?t crying the night of the party, but I can barely hold it back now.

And I can?t go home.

So I walked without thinking about which roads to take. And it felt good. The cold. The mist. That?s what the rain had turned into by then. A light mist.

And I walked for hours, imagining the mist growing thick and swallowing me whole. The thought of disappearing like that-so simply-made me so happy.

But that, as you know, never happened.

I pop open the Walkman to flip the tape. I?m almost at the end.

God. I let out a quivering breath and close my eyes. The end.

CASSETTE 6: SIDE B

Just two more to go. Don?t give up on me now.

I?m sorry. I guess that?s an odd thing to say. Because isn?t that what I?m doing? Giving up?

Yes. As a matter of fact, I am. And that, more than anything else, is what this all comes down to. Me?giving up?on me.

No matter what I?ve said so far, no matter who I?ve spoken of, it all comes back to-it all ends with-me.

Her voice sounds calm. Content with what she?s saying.

Before that party, I?d thought about giving up so many times. I don?t know, maybe some people are just preconditioned to think about it more than others. Because every time something bad happened, I thought about it.

It? Okay, I?ll say it. I thought about suicide.

The anger, the blame, it?s all gone. Her mind is made up. The word is not a struggle for her anymore.

After everything I?ve talked about on these tapes, everything that occurred, I thought about suicide. Usually, it was just a passing thought.

I wish I would die.

I?ve thought those words many times. But it?s a hard thing to say out loud. It?s even scarier to feel you might mean it.

But sometimes I took things further and wondered how I would do it. I would tuck myself into bed and wonder if there was anything in the house I could use.

A gun? No. We never owned one. And I wouldn?t know where to get one.

What about hanging? Well, what would I use? Where would I do it? And even if I knew what and where, I could never get beyond the visual of someone finding me-swinging-inches from the floor.

I couldn?t do that to Mom and Dad.

So how did they find you? I?ve heard so many rumors.

It became a sick sort of game, imagining ways to kill myself. And there are some pretty weird and creative ways.

You took pills. That, we all know. Some say you passed out and drowned in a bathtub full of water.

It came down to two lines of thinking. If I wanted people to think it was an accident, I?d drive my car off the road. Someplace where there?s no chance of survival. And there are so many places to do that on the outskirts of town. I?ve probably driven by each of them a dozen times in the past couple weeks.

Others say you drew the bathwater, but fell asleep on your bed while it was filling. Your mom and dad came home, found the bathroom flooded, and called your name. But there was no answer.

Then there are these tapes.

Can I trust the twelve of you to keep a secret? To not let my parents find out what really happened? Will you let them believe it was an accident if that?s the story going around?

She pauses.

I don?t know. I?m not sure.

She thinks we might tell. She thinks we?ll walk up to our friends and say, ?Do you want to know a horrible secret??

So I?ve decided on the least painful way possible.

Pills.

My stomach pulls in, wanting to rid my body of everything. Food. Thoughts. Emotions.

But what kind of pills? And how many? I?m not sure. And I don?t have much time to figure it out because tomorrow?I?m going to do it.

Wow.

I sit down on the curb of a dark, quiet intersection.

I won?t be around anymore?tomorrow.

Most houses on the connecting four blocks give little indication that anyone is awake inside. A few windows flicker with the faint blue light of late-night TV. About a third of them have porch lights on. But for the rest, other than a cut lawn or a car out front, it?s hard to tell anyone lives there at all.

Tomorrow I?m getting up, I?m getting dressed, and I?m walking to the post office. There, I?ll mail a bunch of tapes to Justin Foley. And after that, there?s no turning back. I?ll go to school, too late for first period, and we?ll have one last day together. The only difference being that I?ll know it?s the last day.

You won?t.

Can I remember? Can I see her in the halls on that last day? I want to remember the very last time I saw her.

And you?ll treat me how you?ve always treated me. Do you remember the last thing you said to me?

I don?t.

The last thing you did to me?

I smiled, I?m sure of it. I smiled every time I saw you after that party, but you never looked up. Because your mind was made up.

If given the chance, you knew you might smile back. And you couldn?t. Not if you wanted to go through with it.

And what was the last thing I said to you? Because trust me, when I said it, I knew it was the last thing I?d ever say.

Nothing. You told me to leave the room and that was it. You found ways to ignore me every time after that.

Which brings us to one of my very last weekends. The weekend following the accident. The weekend of a new party. A party I didn?t attend.

Yes, I was still grounded. But that?s not the reason I didn?t go. In fact, if I wanted to go, it would?ve been much easier than last time because I was house-sitting that weekend. A friend of my father?s was out of town and I was watching his house for him, feeding his dog, and keeping an eye on things because there was supposed to be a rager a few doors down.

And there was. Maybe not as big as the last party, but definitely not one for beginners.

Even if I thought you might be there, I still would?ve stayed home.

With the way you ignored me at school, I assumed you would ignore me there, too. And that was a theory too painful to prove.

I?ve heard people say that after a particularly bad experience with tequila, just the smell of it can make them barf. And while this party didn?t make me barf, just being near it-just hearing it-twisted my stomach into knots.

One week was nowhere near enough time to get over that last party.

The dog was going crazy, yapping every time someone walked by the window. I would crouch down, yelling at him to get away from there, but was too afraid to go over and pick him up-too afraid someone might see me and call my name.

So I put the dog in the garage, where he could yap all he wanted.

Wait, I remember it now. The last time I saw you.

The bass thumping down the block was impossible to shut out. But I tried. I ran through the house, closing curtains and twisting shut every blind I could find.

I remember the last words we said to each other.

Then I hid myself in the bedroom with the TV blasting. And even though I couldn?t hear it, I could feel the bass pumping inside of me.

I shut my eyes, tight. I wasn?t watching the TV anymore. I wasn?t in that room anymore. I could only think back to that closet, hiding inside it with a pile of jackets surrounding me. And once again, I started rocking back and forth, back and forth. And once again, no one was around to hear me cry.

In Mr. Porter?s English class, I noticed your desk was empty. But when the bell rang and I walked into the hall, there you were.

Eventually the party died down. And after everyone walked by the window again, and the dog stopped yapping, I walked through the house reopening the curtains.

We almost bumped into each other. But your eyes were down so you didn?t know it was me. And together, we said it. ?I?m sorry.?

After being shut in for so long, I decided to catch a breath of fresh air. And maybe, in turn, be a hero.

Then you looked up. You saw me. And there, in your eyes, what was it? Sadness? Pain? You moved around me and tried pushing your hair away from your face. Your fingernails were painted dark blue. I watched you walk down the long stretch of hallway, with people knocking into me. But I didn?t care.

I stood there and watched you disappear. Forever.

Once again, everybody, D-4. Courtney Crimsen?s house. The site of this party.

No, this tape is not about Courtney?though she does play a part. But Courtney has no idea what I?m about to say because she left just as things got going.

I turn and walk in the opposite direction of Courtney?s house.

My plan was to just walk by the place. Maybe I?d find someone struggling to put a key in their car door and I?d give them a ride home.

I?m not going to Courtney?s. I?m going to Eisenhower Park, the scene of Hannah?s first kiss.

But the street was empty. Everyone was gone.

Or so it seemed.

And then, someone called my name.

Over the tall wooden fence at the side of her house, a head poked up. And whose head would that be? Bryce Walker?s.

God, no. This can only end one way. If anyone can shovel more shit onto Hannah?s life, it?s Bryce.

?Where you going?? he asked.

How many times had I seen him, with any of his girlfriends, grabbing their wrists and twisting? Treating them like meat.

And that was in public.

My body, my shoulders, everything was set to keep walking by the house. And I should have kept walking. But my face turned toward him. There was steam rising up from his side of the fence.

?Come on, join us,? he said. ?We?re sobering up.?

And whose head should pop up beside his? Miss Courtney Crimsen?s.

Now there was a coincidence. She?s the one who used me as a chauffer to attend a party. And there I was, crashing her after-party.

She?s the one who left me stranded with no one to talk to. And there I was, at her house, where she had nowhere to hide.

That?s not why you did it, Hannah. That?s not why you joined them. You knew it was the worst choice possible. You knew that.

But who am I to hold a grudge?

That?s why you did it. You wanted your world to collapse around you. You wanted everything to get as dark as possible. And Bryce, you knew, could help you do that.

He said you were all just relaxing a bit. Then you, Courtney, offered to give me a ride home when we were done, not realizing ?home? was only two houses away. And you sounded so genuine, which surprised me.

It even made me feel a little guilty.

I was willing to forgive you, Courtney. I do forgive you. In fact, I forgive almost all of you. But you still need to hear me out. You still need to know.

I walked across the wet grass and pulled a latch on the fence, popping the gate open a few inches. And behind it, the source of the steam?a redwood hot tub.

The jets weren?t on, so the only sound was the water lapping against the sides. Against the two of you.

Your heads were back, resting on the edge of the hot tub. Your eyes were shut. And the little smiles on your faces made the water and steam look so inviting.

Courtney rolled her head my way but kept her eyes shut. ?We?re in our underwear,? she said.

I waited a second. Should I?

No?but I will.

You knew what you were getting into, Hannah.

I took off my top, pulled off my shoes, took off my pants, and climbed the wooden steps. And then? I descended into the water.

It felt so relaxing. So comforting.

I cupped the hot water in my hands and let it drip over my face. I pushed it back through my hair. I forced my eyes to shut, my body to slide down, and my head to rest against the ledge.

But with the calming water also came terror. I should not be here. I didn?t trust Courtney. I didn?t trust Bryce. No matter what their original intentions, I knew them each well enough not to trust them for long.

And I was right not to trust them?but I was done. I was through fighting. I opened my eyes and looked up at the night sky. Through the steam, the whole world seemed like a dream.

I narrow my eyes as I walk, wanting to shut them completely.

Before long, the water became uncomfortable. Too hot.

When I open my eyes, I want to be standing in front of the park. I don?t want to see any more of the streets I walked, and the streets Hannah walked, the night of the party.

But when I pushed my back against the tub and sat up to cool my upper body, I could see my breasts through my wet bra.

So I slid back down.

And Bryce slid over?slowly?across the underwater bench. And his shoulder rested against mine.

Courtney opened her eyes, looked at us, then shut them again.

I swing a fist to the side and rattle a rusted chain-link fence. I shut my eyes and drag my fingers across the metal.

Bryce?s words were soft, an obvious attempt at romance. ?Hannah Baker,? he said.

Everyone knows who you are, Bryce. Everyone knows what you do. But I, for the record, did nothing to stop you.

You asked if I had fun at the party. Courtney whispered that I wasn?t at the party, but you didn?t seem to care. Instead, your fingertips touched the outside of my thigh.

I open my eyes and pound the fence again.

I clenched my jaw and your fingers moved away.

?It broke up pretty fast,? you said. And just as fast, your fingertips were back.

I hold tight to the fence and keep walking forward. When my fingers pull away from the metal, my skin slices open.

Your whole hand was back. And when I didn?t stop you, you slid your hand across my belly. Your thumb touched the bottom of my bra and your pinky touched the top of my underwear.

I turned my head sideways, away from you. And I know I didn?t smile.

You pulled your fingers together and rubbed slow, full circles around my stomach. ?Feels nice,? you said.

I felt a shift in the water and opened my eyes for one brief second.

Courtney was walking away.

Do you need more reasons for everyone to hate you, Courtney?

?Remember when you were a freshman?? you asked.

Your fingers made their way under my bra. But you didn?t grab me. Testing the boundaries, I guess. Sliding your thumb along the underside of my breasts.

?Weren?t you on that list?? you said. ?Best ass in the freshman class.?

Bryce, you had to see my jaw clench. You had to see my tears. Does that kind of shit turn you on?

Bryce? Yes. It does.

?It?s true,? you said.

And then, just like that, I let go. My shoulders went limp. My legs fell apart. I knew exactly what I was doing.

Not once had I given in to the reputation you?d all set for me. Not once. Even though sometimes it was hard. Even though, sometimes, I found myself attracted to someone who only wanted to get with me because of what they?d heard. But I always said no to those people. Always!

Until Bryce.

So congratulations, Bryce. You?re the one. I let my reputation catch up with me-I let my reputation become me-with you. How does it feel?

Wait, don?t answer that. Let me say this first: I was not attracted to you, Bryce. Ever. In fact, you disgusted me.

And I?m going to kick your ass. I swear it.

You were touching me?but I was using you. I needed you, so I could let go of me, completely.

For everyone listening, let me be clear. I did not say no or push his hand away. All I did was turn my head, clench my teeth, and fight back tears. And he saw that. He even told me to relax.

?Just relax,? he said. ?Everything will be okay.? As if letting him finger me was going to cure all my problems.

But in the end, I never told you to get away?and you didn?t.

You stopped rubbing circles on my stomach. Instead, you rubbed back and forth, gently, along my waist. Your pinky made its way under the top of my panties and rolled back and forth, from hip to hip. Then another finger slipped below, pushing your pinky further down, brushing it through my hair.

And that?s all you needed, Bryce. You started kissing my shoulder, my neck, sliding your fingers in and out. And then you kept going. You didn?t stop there.

I?m sorry. Is this getting too graphic for some of you? Too bad.

When you were done, Bryce, I got out of the hot tub and walked two houses away. The night was over.

I was done.

I tighten my fist and lift it in front of my face. Through my teary eyes, I watch the blood squeeze through my fingers. The skin is cut deep in a few places, torn by the rusted fence.

No matter where Hannah wants me to go next, I know where I?m spending the rest of my night. But first, I need to clean my hand. The cuts sting, but I mostly feel weak from the sight of my own blood.

I head for the nearest gas station. It?s a couple of blocks down and not too far out of my way. I flick my hand a few times, dripping dark spots of blood onto the sidewalk.

When I reach the station, I tuck my hurt hand into my pocket and pull open the glass door of the mini-mart. I find a clear bottle of rubbing alcohol and a small box of Band-Aids, drop a few bucks on the counter, and ask for a key to the restroom.

Date: 2016-06-12; view: 54