Thirteen Reasons Why Page 14

  Then Mr. Porter waited, hoping someone would fess up to writing it. But that, as you know, never happened.

  So now you know. And for those of you who need a refresher, here it is. “Soul Alone” by Hannah Baker.

  I meet your eyes

  you don’t even see me

  You hardly respond

  when I whisper

  hello

  Could be my soul mate

  two kindred spirits

  Maybe we’re not

  I guess we’ll never

  know

  My own mother

  you carried me in you

  Now you see nothing

  but what I wear

  People ask you

  how I am doing

  You smile and nod

  don’t let it end

  there

  Put me

  underneath God’s sky and

  know me

  don’t just see me with your eyes

  Take away

  this mask of flesh and bone and

  see me

  for my soul

  alone

  And now you know why.

  So, did your teachers dissect me properly? Were they right? Did you have any clue at all it was me?

  Yes, some of you did. Ryan must have told someone—proud that his collection made it into the curriculum. But when people confronted me, I refused to confirm it or deny it. Which pissed some of them off.

  Some even wrote parodies of my poem, reading them to me in the hopes of getting under my skin.

  I saw that. I watched two girls in Mr. Porter’s class recite a version before the bell rang.

  It was all so stupid and childish…and cruel.

  They were relentless, bringing new poems every day for an entire week. Hannah did her best to ignore them, pretending to read while waiting for Mr. Porter to arrive. For the start of class to come to her rescue.

  This doesn’t seem like a big deal, does it?

  No, maybe not to you. But school hadn’t been a safe haven of mine for a long time. And after your photo escapades, Tyler, my home was no longer secure.

  Now, suddenly, even my own thoughts were being offered up for ridicule.

  Once, in Mr. Porter’s class, when those girls were teasing her, Hannah looked up. Her eyes caught mine for just a moment. A flash. But she knew I was watching her. And even though no one else saw it, I turned away.

  She was on her own.

  Very nice, Ryan. Thank you. You’re a true poet.

  I pull the headphones out of my ears and hang them around my neck.

  “I don’t know what’s going on with you,” the man says from across the counter, “but I’m not taking your money.” He blows into a straw and pinches both ends shut.

  I shake my head and reach back for my wallet. “No, I’ll pay.”

  He winds the straw tighter and tighter. “I’m serious. It was only a milkshake. And like I said, I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t know how I can help, but something’s clearly gone wrong in your life, so I want you to keep your money.” His eyes search mine, and I know he means it.

  I don’t know what to say. Even if the words would come, my throat is so tight it won’t let them escape.

  So I nod, grab my backpack, and change the tape as I head for the door.

  CASSETTE 5: SIDE A

  The glass door to Rosie’s closes behind me, and I hear three locks immediately slide into place.

  So now where? Home? Back to Monet’s? Or maybe I’ll go to the library after all. I can sit outside on the concrete steps. Listen to the remainder of the tapes in the dark.

  “Clay!”

  It’s Tony’s voice.

  Bright headlights flash three times. The driver’s-side window is down and Tony’s outstretched hand waves me over. I tug the zipper on my jacket up and walk over to his window. But I don’t lean in. I don’t feel like talking. Not now.

  Tony and I have known each other for years, working on projects and joking around after class. And all that time, we’ve never had a deep conversation.

  Now, I’m afraid, he wants to have one. He’s been sitting here this whole time. Just sitting in his car. Waiting. What else could be on his mind?

  He won’t look at me. Instead, he reaches out to adjust the side mirror with his thumb. Then he closes his eyes and lets his head fall forward. “Get in, Clay.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  After a short pause, slowly, he nods.

  I walk around the front of his car, open the passenger door, and sit, keeping one foot out on the blacktop. I place my backpack, with Hannah’s shoebox inside it, on my lap.

  “Shut the door,” he says.

  “Where are we going?”

  “It’s okay, Clay. Just shut the door.” He winds the handle on his door and his window slides up. “It’s cold outside.” His gaze slips from the dashboard to the stereo to his steering wheel. But he won’t face me.

  The moment I pull the door shut, like the trigger on a starting pistol, he begins.

  “You’re the ninth person I’ve had to follow, Clay.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “The second set of tapes,” he says. “Hannah wasn’t bluffing. I’ve got them.”

  “Oh, God.” I cover my face with both hands. Behind my eyebrow, the pounding is back again. With the base of my palm, I press on it. Hard.

  “It’s okay,” he says.

  I can’t look at him. What does he know? About me? What has he heard? “What’s okay?”

  “What were you listening to in there?”

  “What?”

  “Which tape?”

  I can try and deny it, pretend I have no clue what he’s talking about. Or I can get out of his car and leave. But either way, he knows.

  “It’s okay, Clay. Honest. Which tape?”

  With my eyes still shut, I press my knuckles against my forehead. “Ryan’s,” I say. “The poem.” Then I look at him.

  He leans his head back, eyes closed.

  “What?” I ask.

  No answer.

  “Why’d she give them to you?”

  He touches the key-chain dangling in the ignition. “Can I drive while you listen to the next tape?”

  “Tell me why she gave them to you.”

  “I’ll tell you,” he says, “if you’ll just listen to the next tape right now.”

  “Why?”

  “Clay, I’m not joking. Listen to the tape.”

  “Then answer my question.”

  “Because it’s about you, Clay.” He lets go of his keys. “The next tape is about you.”

  Nothing.

  My heart doesn’t jump. My eyes don’t flinch. I don’t breathe.

  And then.

  I snap my arm back, my elbow into the seat. Then I smash it into the door and I want to pound my head sideways into the window. But I pound it back against the headrest instead.

  Tony lays a hand on my shoulder. “Listen to it,” he says. “And don’t leave this car.”

  He turns the ignition.

  With tears falling, I roll my head to face him. But he’s staring straight ahead.

  I open the door of the Walkman and pull out the tape. The fifth tape. A dark blue number nine in the corner. My tape. I am number nine.

  I drop the tape back into the Walkman and, holding the player in both hands, close it like a book.

  Tony puts the car in gear and drives through the empty parking lot, heading for the street.

  Without looking, I run my thumb across the top of the Walkman, feeling for the button that brings me into the story.

  Romeo, oh Romeo. Wherefore art thou, Romeo?

  My story. My tape. This is how it begins.

  Good question, Juliet. And I wish I knew the answer.

  Tony shouts over the engine. “Clay, it’s okay!”

  To be totally honest, there was never a point where I said to myself, Clay Jensen…he’s the one.

 
Just hearing my name, the pain in my head doubles. I feel an agonizing twist in my heart.

  I’m not even sure how much of the real Clay Jensen I got to know over the years. Most of what I knew was secondhand information. And that’s why I wanted to know him better. Because everything I heard—and I mean everything!—was good.

  It was one of those things where, once I noticed it, I couldn’t stop noticing it.

  Kristen Rennert, for example. She always wears black. Black pants. Or black shoes. Black shirt. If it’s a black jacket, and that’s the only black she’s wearing, she won’t take it off all day. The next time you see her, you’ll notice it. And then you won’t be able to stop noticing it.

  Steve Oliver’s the same way. Whenever he raises his hand to say something, or ask a question, he always begins with the words “all right.”

  “Mr. Oliver?”

  “All right, if Thomas Jefferson was a slave owner…”

  “Mr. Oliver?”

  “All right, I got 76.1225.”

  “Mr. Oliver?”

  “All right, can I have a hall pass?”

  Seriously. Every time. And now you’ll notice it, too…every time.

  Yes, I’ve noticed it, Hannah. But let’s get on with it. Please.

  Overhearing gossip about Clay became a similar distraction. And like I said, I didn’t know him very well, but my ears perked up whenever I heard his name. I guess I wanted to hear something—anything—juicy. Not because I wanted to spread gossip. I just couldn’t believe someone could be that good.

  I glance at Tony and roll my eyes. But he’s driving, looking straight ahead.

  If he actually was that good…wonderful. Great! But it became a personal game of mine. How long could I go on hearing nothing but good things about Clay Jensen?

  Normally, when a person has a stellar image, another person’s waiting in the wings to tear them apart. They’re waiting for that one fatal flaw to expose itself.

  But not with Clay.

  Again, I look over at Tony. This time, he’s smirking.

  I hope this tape doesn’t make you run out and dig for that deep, dark, and dirty secret of his…which I’m sure is there. At least one or two of them, right?

  I’ve got a few.

  But wait, isn’t that what you’re doing, Hannah? You’re setting him up as Mr. Perfect only to tear him down. You, Hannah Baker, were the one waiting in the wings. Waiting for a flaw. And you found it. And now you can’t wait to tell everyone what it is and ruin his image.

  To which I say…no.

  My chest relaxes, freeing a breath of air I didn’t even know I was holding.

  And I hope you’re not disappointed. I hope you aren’t just listening—salivating—for gossip. I hope these tapes mean more to you than that.

  Clay, honey, your name does not belong on this list.

  I lean my head against the window and close my eyes, concentrating on the cold glass. Maybe if I listen to the words but concentrate on the cold, maybe I can hold it together.

  You don’t belong in the same way as the others. It’s like that song: One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn’t belong.

  And that’s you, Clay. But you need to be here if I’m going to tell my story. To tell it more completely.

  “Why do I have to hear this?” I ask. “Why didn’t she just skip me if I don’t belong?”

  Tony keeps driving. If he looks anywhere other than straight ahead, it’s only briefly into the rearview mirror.

  “I would’ve been happier never hearing this,” I say.

  Tony shakes his head. “No. It would drive you crazy not knowing what happened to her.”

  I stare through the windshield at the white lines glowing in the headlights. And I realize he’s right.

  “Besides,” he says, “I think she wanted you to know.”

  Maybe, I think. But why? “Where are we going?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  Yes, there are some major gaps in my story. Some parts I just couldn’t figure out how to tell. Or couldn’t bring myself to say out loud. Events I haven’t come to grips with…that I’ll never come to grips with. And if I never have to say them out loud, then I never have to think them all the way through.

  But does that diminish any of your stories? Are your stories any less meaningful because I’m not telling you everything?

  No.

  Actually, it magnifies them.

  You don’t know what went on in the rest of my life. At home. Even at school. You don’t know what goes on in anyone’s life but your own. And when you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re not messing with just that part. Unfortunately, you can’t be that precise and selective. When you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re messing with their entire life.

  Everything…affects everything.

  The next few stories are centered around one night.

  The party.

  They’re centered around our night, Clay. And you know what I mean by our night because, through all the years we’ve spent going to the same school or working together at the movie theater, there’s only one night when we connected. when we really connected.

  That night as well drags many of you into the story…one of you for the second time. A random night that none of you can take back.

  I hated that night. Even before these tapes, I hated it. That night, I ran to tell an old woman that her husband was fine. Everything was going to be fine. But I was lying. Because while I was running to comfort his wife, the other driver was dying.

  And the old man, by the time he got home to his wife, he knew it.

  Hopefully, no one will hear these tapes except for those of you on this list, leaving any changes they bring to your lives completely up to you.

  Of course, if the tapes do get out, you’ll have to deal with consequences completely out of your control. So I sincerely hope you’re passing them on.

  I glance at Tony. Would he really do that? Could he? Would he give the tapes to someone not on the list?

  Who?

  For some of you, those consequences may be minimal. Maybe shame. Or embarrassment. But for others, it’s hard to say. A lost job? Jail time?

  Let’s keep this between us, shall we?

  So Clay, I wasn’t even supposed to be at that party. I was invited, but I wasn’t supposed to be there. My grades were slipping pretty fast. My parents asked for progress reports every week from my teachers. And when none of them came back with improvements, I was grounded.

  For me, grounded meant that I had one hour to get home from school. One hour being my only free time until I brought those grades up.

  We’re at a stoplight. And still, Tony keeps his eyes straight ahead. Does he want to avoid seeing me cry? Because he doesn’t have to worry, I’m not. Not right now.

  During one of my Clay Jensen gossip moments, I found out that you were going to be at the party.

  What? Clay Jensen at a party? Unheard of.

  I study on the weekends. In most of my classes, we’re tested every Monday. It’s not my fault.

  Not only was that my first thought, that’s what the people around me were talking about, too. No one could figure out why they never saw you at parties. Of course, they had all sorts of theories. But guess what? That’s right. None of them were bad.

  Give me a break.

  As you know, since Tyler’s not tall enough to peep through a second-story window, sneaking out of my bedroom wasn’t hard to do. And that night, I just had to do it. But don’t jump to conclusions. I’ve snuck out of my house, before that night, only twice.

  Okay, three times. Maybe four. Tops.

  For those of you who don’t know which party I’m talking about, there’s a red star on your map. A big, fat, red star completely filled in. C-6. Five-twelve Cottonwood.

  Is that where we’re going?

  Aaaah…so now you know. Now some of you know exactly where you fit in. But you’ll have to wait until your na
me pops up to hear what I’m going to tell. To hear how much I tell.

  That night, I decided that walking to the party would be nice. Relaxing. We had a lot of rain that week, and I remember the clouds were still hanging low and thick. The air was warm for that time of night, too. My absolute favorite type of weather.

  Mine, too.

  Pure magic.

  It’s funny. Walking by the houses on my way to the party, it felt like life held so many possibilities. Limitless possibilities. And for the first time in a long time, I felt hope.

  So did I. I forced myself out of the house and to that party. I was ready for something new to happen. Something exciting.

  Hope? Well, I guess I misread things a bit.

  And now? Knowing what happened between Hannah and me, would I still have gone? Even if nothing changed?

  It was simply the calm before the storm.

  I would. Yes. Even if the outcome stayed the same.

  I wore a black skirt with a matching hooded pullover. And on my way there, I took a three-block detour to my old house—the one I lived in when we first moved to town. The first red star from the first side of the first tape. The porch light was on and, in the garage, a car’s engine was running.