Thirteen Reasons Why Read online

  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.

  I yanked my arm, but his grip was tight.

  Across the street, the neon sign of Restless Video flickers erratically.

  I know who Hannah’s talking about now. I’ve seen his wrist-grabbing stunt before. It always makes me want to grab him by the shirt and push him until he lets the girl go.

  But instead, every time, I pretend not to notice.

  What could I do, anyway?

  Then the jerk let go and put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m only playing, Hannah. Just relax.”

  Okay, let’s dissect wha
t just happened. I thought about it the entire walk home from Blue Spot, which is probably why I don’t remember which candy bar I bought that day.

  I sit on the chipped curb outside of Blue Spot, setting the orange soda next to me and balancing the Butterfinger on my knee. Not that I have an appetite for anything sweet.

  So why did I buy it? Was it only because Hannah used to buy candy from the same rack? And why does that matter? I went to the first red star. And the second. I don’t need to go everywhere or do everything she says.

  First his words—then his actions.

  Statement number one: “I’m only playing, Hannah.”

  Translation: Your ass is my play-toy. You might think you have final say over what happens to your ass, but you don’t. At least, not as long as “I’m only playing.”

  I tap one end of the candy bar, making it teeter-totter on my knee.

  Statement number two: “Just relax.”

  Translation: Come on, Hannah, all I did was touch you with no indication that you wanted me to touch you. If it’ll make you feel better, go ahead, you can touch me wherever you’d like.

  Now let’s talk about his actions, shall we?

  Action number one: Grabbing my ass.

  Interpretation: Let me back up and say that this guy had never grabbed my ass before. So why now? My pants weren’t anything special. They weren’t overly tight. Sure, they were slung a little low and he probably got a hip shot, but he didn’t grab my hips. He grabbed my ass.

  I’m starting to understand. I’m starting to see what Hannah means. And that opens up a black hole in the pit of my stomach.

  Best Lips. That was another category on the list.

  Alex, am I saying your list gave him permission to grab my ass? No. I’m saying it gave him an excuse. And an excuse was all this guy needed.

  It wasn’t till that list came out that I even noticed Angela Romero’s lips. But after that, I became fascinated by them. When I watched her give speeches during class, I had no idea what words came out of her mouth. I just watched those lips move up and down. Mesmerized when she said things like “slippery slope,” which, behind her lips, exposed the underside of her tongue.

  Action number two: He grabbed my wrist then put his hand on my shoulder.

  You know, I’m not even going to interpret this. I’m just going to tell you why it pissed me off. I’ve had my butt grabbed before—no big deal—but this time it was grabbed because someone else wrote my name on a list. And when this guy saw me upset, did he apologize? No. Instead, he got aggressive. Then, in the most condescending way, he told me to relax. Then he put his hand on my shoulder, as if by touching me he’d somehow comfort me.

  Here’s a tip. If you touch a girl, even as a joke, and she pushes you off, leave…her…alone. Don’t touch her. Anywhere! Just stop. Your touch does nothing but sicken her.

  The rest of Angela was nowhere near as mesmerizing as her lips. Not bad, just not mesmerizing.

  Then, last summer at a friend’s house, we played spin the bottle after a bunch of us admitted we were spin-the-bottle virgins. And I refused to let the game end till my spin landed on Angela. Or till her spin landed on me. When that happened, I pressed my lips, agonizingly slowly and precisely, against hers.

  There are some sick and twisted people out there, Alex—and maybe I’m one of them—but the point is, when you hold people up for ridicule, you have to take responsibility when other people act on it.

  Later on, Angela and I made out on her back porch. I just couldn’t get enough of those lips.

  All because of a list.

  Actually, that’s not right. You didn’t hold me up for ridicule, did you? My name was in the Hot column. You wrote Jessica’s name in the Not column. You held Jessica up for ridicule. And that’s where our snowball picks up speed.

  Jessica, my dear…you’re next.

  I pop open the Walkman and pull out the first tape.

  In the smallest pocket of my backpack, I find the next tape. The one with a blue number three written in the corner. I drop that into the deck and snap the door shut.

  CASSETTE 2: SIDE A

  Before Hannah’s voice kicks in, there’s a pause.

  Step-by-step. That’s how we’ll get through this. One foot in front of the other.

  Across the street, behind the buildings, the sun continues its fall. All the streetlamps are on, up and down the block. I grab the Butterfinger from my knee, the soda from beside me, and stand up.

  We’ve already finished one tape—both sides—so stick with me. Things get better, or worse, depending on your point of view.

  There’s a trash can, an oil drum spray-painted blue, near the front door of Blue Spot Liquor. I drop the unwrapped Butterfinger into it, unable to imagine my stomach holding down anything solid, and walk away.

  I know it may sound like it, but I wasn’t completely alone the beginning of my freshman year. Two other freshmen, both featured here on Hannah Baker’s Greatest Hits, were also new to the area. Alex Standall and Jessica Davis. And while we never became close friends, we did rely on each other those first few weeks of school.

  I twist the top off my orange soda. It hisses and I take a sip.

  With one week left of summer vacation, Ms. Antilly called me at home to see if I’d meet her at school. A little new-student orientation, she said.

  In case you don’t remember, Ms. Antilly was the guidance counselor for students with last names beginning A through G. Later that year, she moved to another school district.

  I remember she was replaced by Mr. Porter. It was supposed to be a temporary position, but he’s still at it. An English teacher as well as a guidance counselor.

  Which is very unfortunate, as it turns out. But that is for a later tape.

  An icy sweat breaks across my forehead. Mr. Porter? Does he have something to do with this?

  The world around me tilts and spins. I grab onto the trunk of a skinny sidewalk tree.

  If she had told me the real purpose of our get-together was to introduce me to another new student, I wouldn’t have gone. I mean, what if we had nothing in common? Or what if I thought we had nothing in common but she, the other student, thought we did? Or what if the opposite happened and I thought we could become friends but she didn’t?

  So many things could have gone so horribly wrong.

  I press my forehead against the smooth bark and try to calm my breathing.

  But the other girl was Jessica Davis, and she didn’t want to be there any more than I did.

  We both expected Ms. Antilly to spew a bunch of psychobabble at us. What it means—what it takes—to be a great student. How this school is made up of the best and the brightest in the state. How everyone is given the same opportunities to succeed if they’re willing to try.

  But instead, she gave each of us a buddy.

  I close my eyes. I don’t want to see it, but it’s so clear. When rumors of Hannah’s unexplained absence began spreading through school, Mr. Porter asked our class why he kept hearing her name mentioned in the halls. He looked nervous. Almost sick. Like he knew the answer but wanted someone to convince him otherwise.

  Then a girl whispered, “Someone saw an ambulance leaving her house.”

  The moment Ms. Antilly told us why we were there, Jessica and I turned to each other. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something. But what could she say with me sitting right there? She felt blindsided. Confused. Lied to.

  I know that’s how she felt because I felt the same way.

  And I’ll never forget Ms. Antilly’s reaction. Two short, drawn-out words. “Or…not.”

  I squeeze my eyes tight, trying hard to remember that day as clearly as possible.

  Was it pain on Mr. Porter’s face? Or was it fear? He just stood there, staring at Hannah’s desk. Through her desk. And no one said a word, but we looked around. At each other.

  Then he left. Mr. Porter walked out of class and didn’t come back for a week.

  Why? Did he know
? Did he know because of something he’d done?

  And here, to the best of my memory, is what we said.

  Me: I’m sorry, Ms. Antilly. I just didn’t think that’s why you called me in here.

  Jessica: Me, neither. I wouldn’t have come. I mean, I’m sure Hillary and I have things in common, and I’m sure she’s a great person, but…

  Me: It’s Hannah.

  Jessica: I called you Hillary, didn’t I? Sorry.

  Me: It’s okay. I just thought you should know my name if we’re going to be such fabulous friends.

  And then the three of us laughed. Jessica and I had very similar laughs, which made us laugh even harder. Ms. Antilly’s laugh wasn’t quite as heartfelt…more of a nervous laugh…but still a laugh. She claimed to have never tried matching up friends before, and was doubtful she ever would again.

  But guess what. After the meeting, Jessica and I did hang out.

  Very sneaky, Ms. Antilly. Veeeeeery sneaky.

  We left campus and, at first, the conversation felt awkward. But it was nice having someone to talk to other than my parents.

  A city bus pulls up to the curb in front of me. Silver with blue stripes.

  We walked past my turnoff, but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to stop our conversation, but I also didn’t want to invite her over because we really didn’t know each other yet. So we continued walking until we reached downtown. I found out later that she did the same thing, walked past the street where she lived in order to keep talking with me.

  So where did we go? E-7 on your map. Monet’s Garden Café & Coffeehouse.

  The bus door wheezes open.

  Neither of us were coffee drinkers, but it seemed like a nice place to chat.

  Through the foggy windows I see that almost all the seats are empty.

  We both got hot chocolate. She ordered it thinking it would be funny. But me? I always order hot chocolate.

  I’ve never ridden a city bus. Never had a reason to. But it’s getting darker and colder every minute.