Thirteen Reasons Why 12 page

?Restrooms are around back,? the woman behind the counter says.

I turn the key in the lock and push the restroom door open with my shoulder. Then I rinse my hand beneath cold water and watch the blood circle down the drain. I crack the seal on the bottle of alcohol and, in one motion because I won?t do it if I think, empty the entire bottle over my hand.

My whole body tenses and I curse as loud and as hard as I can. It feels like my skin is peeling away from the muscle.

After what seems like nearly an hour, I can finally bend and flex my fingers again. Using my free hand and my teeth, I apply some Band-Aids to my cut hand.

I return the key and the woman says nothing more than, ?Have a good night.?

When I reach the sidewalk, I start jogging again. There?s only one tape left. A blue number thirteen painted in the corner.

CASSETTE 7: SIDE A

Eisenhower Park is empty. I stand silently at the entrance, taking it all in. This is where I?ll spend the night. Where I?ll listen to the last words Hannah Baker wants to say before I let myself fall asleep.

Lampposts stand in the various play areas, but most of the bulbs are either burnt out or busted. The bottom half of the rocket slide is hidden in darkness. But near the top, where the rocket climbs higher than the swings and the trees, moonlight hits the metal bars all the way up to the peak.

I step onto an area of sand surrounding the rocket. I duck beneath its bottom platform, lifted up from the ground by three large metal fins. Above me, a circle the size of a manhole is cut into the lowest level. A metal ladder descends to the sand.

When I stand up, my shoulders poke through the hole. With my good hand, I grip the lip of the circle and climb to the first platform.

I reach into my jacket pocket and press Play.

One?last?try.

She?s whispering. The recorder is close to her mouth and with each break in her words I can hear her breathe.

I?m giving life one more chance. And this time, I?m getting help. I?m asking for help because I cannot do this alone. I?ve tried that.

You didn?t, Hannah. I was there for you and you told me to leave.

Of course, if you?re listening to this, I failed. Or he failed. And if he fails, the deal is sealed.

My throat tightens, and I start climbing up the next ladder.

Only one person stands between you and this collection of audiotapes: Mr. Porter.

No! He cannot know about this.

Hannah and I both have Mr. Porter for first-period English. I see him every day. I do not want him to know about this. Not about me. Not about anyone. To bring an adult into this, someone from school, is beyond what I imagined.

Mr. Porter, let?s see how you do.

The sound of Velcro tearing apart. Then stuffing. She?s shoving the recorder into something. A backpack? Her jacket?

She knocks.

And knocks again.

? Hannah. Glad you made it.

The voice is muffled, but it?s him. Deep, but friendly.

? Come in. Sit here.

Thank you.

Our English teacher, but also the guidance counselor for students with last names A through G. Hannah Baker?s guidance counselor.

? Are you comfortable? Do you want some water?

I?m fine. Thank you.

? So, Hannah, how can I help you? What would you like to talk about?

Well, that?s?I don?t know, really. Just everything, I guess.

? That might take a while.

A long pause. Too long.

? Hannah, it?s okay. I?ve got as much time as you need. Whenever you?re ready.

It?s just?things. Everything?s so hard right now.

Her voice is shaky.

I don?t know where to begin. I mean, I kind of do. But there?s so much and I don?t know how to sum it all up.

? You don?t need to sum it all up. Why don?t we begin with how you?re feeling today.

Right now?

? Right now.

Right now I feel lost, I guess. Sort of empty.

? Empty how?

Just empty. Just nothing. I don?t care anymore.

? About?

Make her tell you. Keep asking questions, but make her tell you.

About anything. School. Myself. The people in my school.

? What about your friends?

You?re going to have to define ?friends? if you want an answer to that question.

? Don?t tell me you don?t have friends, Hannah. I see you in the halls.

Seriously, I need a definition. How do you know what a friend is?

? Someone you can turn to when?

Then I don?t have any. That?s why I?m here, isn?t it? I?m turning to you.

? Yes. You are. And I?m glad you?re here, Hannah.

I crawl across the second platform and kneel beside an opening in the bars. An opening big enough for people to crawl through to reach the slide.

You don?t know how hard it was to set up this meeting.

? My schedule?s been fairly open this week.

Not hard to schedule. Hard to get myself here.

Moonlight catches the smooth metal of the slide. I can imagine Hannah here, about two years ago, pushing off and sliding down.

Slipping away.

? Again, I?m glad that you?re here, Hannah. So tell me, when you leave this office, how do you want things to be different for you?

You mean, how can you help?

? Yes.

I guess I?I don?t know. I?m not sure what I?m expecting.

? Well, what do you need right now that you?re not getting? Let?s start there.

I need it to stop.

? You need what to stop?

I need everything to stop. People. Life.

I push myself back from the slide.

? Hannah, do you know what you just said?

She knows what she said, Mr. Porter. She wants you to notice what she said and help her.

? You said you wanted life to stop, Hannah. Your life?

No response.

? Is that what you meant to say, Hannah? Those are very serious words, you know.

She knows every word that comes out of her mouth, Mr. Porter. She knows they?re serious words. Do something!

I know. They are. I?m sorry.

Don?t apologize. Talk to him!

I don?t want my life to end. That?s why I?m here.

? So what happened, Hannah? How did we get here?

We? Or how did I get here?

? You, Hannah. How did you get to this point? I know you can?t sum it all up. It?s the snowball effect, am I right?

Yes. The snowball effect. That?s what she?s been calling it.

? It?s one thing on top of another. It?s too much, isn?t it?

It?s too hard.

? Life?

Another pause.

I grab onto the outer bars of the rocket and pull myself up. My bandaged hand hurts. It stings to put my weight on it, but I don?t care.

? Here. Take this. An entire box of tissues just for you. Never been used.

A laugh. He got her to laugh!

Thank you.

? Let?s talk about school, Hannah. So I can get some idea how we-I?m sorry-how you got to this point.

Okay.

I start climbing to the top level.

? When you think of school, what?s the first thing that comes to mind?

Learning, I guess.

? Well, that?s good to hear.

I?m kidding.

Now Mr. Porter laughs.

I do learn here, but that?s not what school is for me.

? Then what is it for you?

A place. Just a place filled with people that I?m required to be with.

I sit on the top platform.

? And that?s hard for you?

At times.

? With certain people, or people in general?

With certain people. But also?everyone.

? Can you be a little more specific?

I scoot backward across the platform and lean against the metal steering wheel. Above the tree line, the half-moon is almost too bright to look at.

It?s hard because I don?t know who?s going to?you know?get me next. Or how.

? What do you mean, ?get? you?

Not like a conspiracy or anything. But it feels like I never know when something?s going to pop out of the woodwork.

? And get you?

I know, it sounds silly.

? Then explain.

It?s hard to explain unless you?ve heard some of the rumors about me.

? I haven?t. Teachers, especially a teacher moonlighting as a counselor, tend to get left out of student gossip. Not that we don?t have our own gossip.

About you?

He laughs.

? It depends. What have you heard?

Nothing. I?m joking.

? But you?ll tell me if you hear anything.

I promise.

Don?t joke, Mr. Porter. Help her. Get back to Hannah. Please.

? When was the last time a rumor?popped up?

See, that?s it. Not all of them are rumors.

? Okay.

No. Listen?

Please listen.

Years ago I was voted?you know, in one of those polls. Well, not really a poll, but someone?s stupid idea of a list. A best-of and worst-of thing.

He doesn?t respond. Did he see it? Does he know what she?s talking about?

And people have been reacting to it ever since.

? When was the last time?

I hear her pull a tissue from the box.

Recently. At a party. I swear, one of the worst nights of my life.

? Because of a rumor?

So much more than a rumor. But partly, yes.

? Can I ask what happened at this party?

It wasn?t really during the party. It was after.

? Okay, Hannah, can we play Twenty Questions?

What?

? Sometimes it?s hard for people to open up, even to a counselor where everything is strictly confidential.

Okay.

? So, can we play Twenty Questions?

Yes.

? At this party you mentioned, are we talking about a boy?

Yes. But again, it wasn?t during the party.

? I understand that. But we need to start somewhere.

Okay.

He exhales deeply.

? I?m not going to judge you, Hannah, but did anything happen that night that you regret?

Yes.

I stand up and walk to the outer bars of the rocket. Wrapping my hands around two of the bars, I touch my face to the empty space between them.

? Did anything happen with this boy-and you can be totally honest with me, Hannah-did anything happen that might be considered illegal?

You mean rape? No. I don?t think so.

? Why don?t you know?

Because there were circumstances.

? Alcohol?

Maybe, but not with me.

? Drugs?

No, just more circumstances.

? Are you thinking of pressing charges?

No. I?m?no.

I exhale a full breath of air.

? Then what are your options?

I don?t know.

Tell her, Mr. Porter. Tell her what her options are.

? What can we do to solve this problem, Hannah? Together.

Nothing. It?s over.

? Something needs to be done, Hannah. Something needs to change for you.

I know. But what are my options? I need you to tell me.

? Well, if you won?t press charges, if you?re not sure if you even can press charges, then you have two options.

What? What are they?

She sounds hopeful. She?s putting too much hope in his answers.

? One, you can confront him. We can call him in here to discuss what happened at this party. I can call you both out of?

You said there were two options.

? Or two, and I?m not trying to be blunt here, Hannah, but you can move on.

You mean, do nothing?

I grip the bars and shut my eyes tight.

? It is an option, and that?s all we?re talking about. Look, something happened, Hannah. I believe you. But if you won?t press charges and you won?t confront him, you need to consider the possibility of moving beyond this.

And if that?s not a possibility? Then what? Because guess what, Mr. Porter, she won?t do it.

Move beyond this?

? Is he in your class, Hannah?

He?s a senior.

? So he?ll be gone next year.

You want me to move beyond this.

It?s not a question, Mr. Porter. Don?t take it as one. She?s thinking out loud. It?s not an option because she can?t do it. Tell her you?re going to help her.

There?s a rustle.

Thank you, Mr. Porter.

No!

? Hannah. Wait. You don?t need to leave.

I scream through the bars. Over the trees. ?No!?

I think I?m done here.

Do not let her leave.

I got what I came for.

? I think there?s more we can talk about, Hannah.

No, I think we?ve figured it out. I need to move on and get over it.

? Not get over it, Hannah. But sometimes there?s nothing left to do but move on.

Do not let her leave that room!

You?re right. I know.

? Hannah, I don?t understand why you?re in such a hurry to leave.

Because I need to get on with things, Mr. Porter. If nothing?s going to change, then I?d better get on with it, right?

? Hannah, what are you talking about?

I?m talking about my life, Mr. Porter.

A door clicks.

? Hannah, wait.

Another click. Now the tearing of Velcro.

Footsteps. Picking up speed.

I?m walking down the hall.

Her voice is clear. It?s louder.

His door is closed behind me. It?s staying closed.

A pause.

He?s not coming.

I press my face hard against the bars. They feel like a vise tightening against my skull the further I push.

He?s letting me go.

The point behind my eyebrow is throbbing so hard, but I don?t touch it. I don?t rub it. I let it pound.

I think I?ve made myself very clear, but no one?s stepping forward to stop me.

Who else, Hannah? Your parents? Me? You were not very clear with me.

A lot of you cared, just not enough. And that?that is what I needed to find out.

But I didn?t know what you were going through, Hannah.

And I did find out.

The footsteps continue. Faster.

And I?m sorry.

The recorder clicks off.

With my face pressing against the bars, I begin to cry. If anyone is walking through the park, I know they can hear me. But I don?t care if they hear me because I can?t believe I just heard the last words I?ll ever hear from Hannah Baker.

?I?m sorry.? Once again, those were the words. And now, anytime someone says I?m sorry, I?m going to think of her.

But some of us won?t be willing to say those words back. Some of us will be too angry at Hannah for killing herself and blaming everyone else.

I would have helped her if she?d only let me. I would have helped her because I want her to be alive.

The tape vibrates in the Walkman as it reaches the end of its spool.

CASSETTE 7: SIDE B

The tape clicks itself over and continues playing.

Without her voice, the slight static hum that constantly played beneath her words sounds louder. Over seven tapes and thirteen stories, her voice was kept at a slight distance by this steady hum in the background.

I let this sound wash over me as I hold onto the bars and close my eyes. The bright moon disappears. The swaying treetops disappear. The breeze against my skin, the fading pain in my fingers, the sound of this tape winding from one spool to the next, reminds me of everything I?ve heard over the past day.

My breathing begins to slow. The tension in my muscles starts to relax.

Then, a click in the headphones. A slow breath of air.

I open my eyes to the bright moonlight.

And Hannah, with warmth.

Thank you.

THE NEXT DAY

AFTER MAILING THE TAPES

I fight every muscle in my body, begging me to collapse. Begging me not to go to school. To go anywhere else and hide out till tomorrow. But no matter when I go back, the fact remains, eventually I need to face the other people on the tapes.

I approach the entrance to the parking lot, a patch of ivy with a wide slab of etched stone welcoming us back to high school. COURTESY OF THE CLASS OF ?93. I?ve walked past this stone many times over the past three years, but not once with the parking lot this full. Not once, because I have never been this late.

Till today.

For two reasons.

One: I waited outside the post office doors. Waiting for them to open so I could mail a shoebox full of audiotapes. I used a brown paper bag and a roll of packing tape to rewrap it, conveniently forgetting to add my return address. Then I mailed the package to Jenny Kurtz, changing the way she?ll see life, how she?ll see the world, forever.

And two: Mr. Porter. If I sit there in first period, with him writing on the board or standing behind the podium, the only place I can imagine looking is in the middle of the room, one desk to the left.

The empty desk of Hannah Baker.

People stare at her desk every day. But today, for me, is profoundly different than yesterday. So I?ll take my time at my locker. And in the restroom. Or wandering through the halls.

I follow a sidewalk that traces the outer edge of the school parking lot. I follow it across the front lawn, through the glass double doors of the main building. And it feels strange, almost sad, to walk through the empty halls. Each step I take sounds so lonely.

Behind the trophy display are five freestanding banks of lockers, with offices and restrooms on either side. I see a few other students late for school, gathering their books.

I reach my locker, lean my head forward, and rest it against the cool metal door. I concentrate on my shoulders and neck, relaxing the muscles. I concentrate on my breathing to slow it down. Then I turn the combination dial to five. Then left to four, then right to twenty-three.

How many times did I stand right here, thinking I would never get a chance with Hannah Baker?

I had no idea how she felt about me. No idea who she really was. Instead, I believed what other people said about her. And I was afraid what they might say about me if they knew I liked her.

I spin the dial, clearing the combination.

Five.

Four.

Twenty-three.

How many times after the party did I stand right here, when Hannah was still alive, thinking my chances with her were over? Thinking I said or did something wrong. Too afraid to talk to her again. Too afraid to try.

And then, when she died, the chances disappeared forever.

It all began a few weeks ago, when a map slipped through the vents of my locker.

I wonder what?s in Hannah?s locker right now. Is it empty? Did the custodian pack everything into a box, drop it in a storage closet, waiting for her parents to return? Or does her locker remain untouched, exactly as she left it?

With my forehead still pressed against the metal, I turn my head just enough to look into the nearest hallway, toward the always-open door to first period. Mr. Porter?s room.

Right there, outside his door, is where I last saw Hannah Baker alive.

I close my eyes.

Who am I going to see today? Besides me, eight people at this school have already listened to the tapes. Eight people, today, are waiting to see what the tapes have done to me. And over the next week or so, as the tapes move on, I?ll be doing the same to the rest of them.

In the distance, muffled by a classroom wall, comes a familiar voice. I slowly open my eyes. But the voice will never sound friendly again.

?I need someone to take this to the front office for me.?

Mr. Porter?s voice creeps down the hall straight at me. The muscles in my shoulders feel tight, heavy, and I pound my fist into the locker.

A chair squeaks, followed by footsteps leaving his room. My knees feel ready to crumble, waiting for the student to see me and ask why I?m not in class.

From a bank of lockers further up, someone clicks a locker shut.

Coming out of Mr. Porter?s class, Steve Oliver nods his head at me and smiles. The student from the other locker rounds the corner into the hall, almost colliding into Steve.

She whispers, ?I?m sorry,? then moves around him to get by.

Steve looks down at her but doesn?t respond, just keeps up his pace, moving closer to me. ?All right, Clay!? he says. Then he laughs. ?Someone?s late for class, huh??

Beyond him, in the hallway, the girl turns. It?s Skye.

The back of my neck starts sweating. She looks at me, and I hold her gaze for a few steps, then she turns to keep walking.

Steve walks up close, but I don?t look at him. I motion for him to move to the side. ?Talk to me later,? I say.

Last night, on the bus, I left without talking to Skye. I wanted to talk with her, I tried to, but I let her slide out of the conversation. Over the years, she?s learned how to avoid people. Everyone.

I step away from my locker and watch her continue down the hall.

I want to say something, to call her name, but my throat tightens.

Part of me wants to ignore it. To turn around and keep myself busy, doing anything, till second period.

But Skye?s walking down the same stretch of hall where I watched Hannah slip away two weeks ago. On that day, Hannah disappeared into a crowd of students, allowing the tapes to say her good-bye. But I can still hear the footsteps of Skye Miller, sounding weaker and weaker the further she gets.

And I start walking, toward her.

I pass the open door to Mr. Porter?s room and, in one hurried glance, pull in more than I expected. The empty desk near the center of the room. Empty for two weeks and for the rest of the year. Another desk, my desk, empty for one day. Dozens of faces turn toward me. They recognize me, but they don?t see everything. And there?s Mr. Porter, facing away, but starting to turn.

A flood of emotion rushes into me. Pain and anger. Sadness and pity. But most surprising of all, hope.

I keep walking.

Skye?s footsteps are growing louder now. And the closer I get to her, the faster I walk, and the lighter I feel. My throat begins to relax.

Two steps behind her, I say her name.

?Skye.?

Inspirations

JOAN MARIE

for saying, ?I do,?

and when I almost gave up because I thought

I?d never sell a book,

for saying, ?You will.?

ROBIN MELLOM & EVE PORINCHAK

?The road to publication is like a churro-

long and bumpy, but sweet.?

You two made it sweet.

(Disco Mermaids forever!)

MOM & DAD & NATE

for encouraging my creative pursuits from the beginning?

no matter how ridiculous.

LAURA RENNERT

for saying, ?I can sell this.?

KRISTEN PETTIT

for saying, ?Can I buy this??

Your editorial guidance brought this book to a whole new level.

S.L.O.W. FOR CHILDREN

(my critique group)

for being so critical?in a good way.

LIN OLIVER & STEPHEN MOOSER AT SCBWI

for years of professional support and encouragement

(the Work-In-Progress grant was nice, too).

ROXYANNE YOUNG AT SMART WRITERS.COM

for believing in this book from the beginning

(the Grand Prize designation was nice, too).

KATHLEEN DUEY

for mentoring me through the early stages of this creative pursuit.

CHRIS CRUTCHER

for writing Stotan!, the first teen novel I ever read.

and for encouraging me to finish this, the first teen novel

I ever wrote.

KATE O?SULLIVAN

Your excitement about this novel kept me excited

about this novel.

THE LIBRARIANS & BOOKSELLERS OF SHERIDAN, WYOMING & SAN LUIS OBISPO, CALIFORNIA

Not just co-workers, but friends.

NANCY HURD

The reason I wrote my first book?thirteen years ago.

?Thank You?

Jay Asher

***

Date: 2016-06-12; view: 54