Thirteen Reasons Why Read online

  It doesn’t cost anything to ride the bus at night, so I hop on. I move right by the driver without either of us saying a word to each other. She doesn’t even look at me.

  I make my way down the center aisle, buttoning my jacket against the cold, giving each button more attention than required. Any excuse to avert my eyes from the other passengers. I know how I must look to them. Confused. Guilty. In the process of being crushed.

  I choose a bench that, as long as no one else boards, is situated between three or four empty seats all around. The blue vinyl cushion is ripped down the middle, with the yellow stuffing inside about to burst out. I slide over to the window.

  The glass is cold, but resting my head against it helps relax me.

  I honestly don’t remember much of what we said that afternoon. Do you, Jessica? Because when I close my eyes, everything happens in a kind of montage. Laughing. Trying hard not to spill our drinks. Waving our hands while we talk.

  I close my eyes. The glass cools one side of my overheated face. I don’t care where this bus is going. I’ll ride it for hours if I’m allowed to. I’ll just sit here and listen to the tapes. And maybe, without trying, I’ll fall asleep.

  Then, at one point, you lean across the table. “I think that guy’s checking you out,” you whispered.

  I knew exactly who you were talking about because I’d been watching him, as well. But he wasn’t checking me out.

  “He’s checking you out,” I said.

  In a contest of who’s-got-the-biggest-balls, all of you listening should know that Jessica wins.

  “Excuse me,” she said to Alex, in case you haven’t figured out the name of the mystery man, “but which one of us are you checking out?”

  And a few months later, after Hannah and Justin Foley break up, after the rumors begin, Alex writes a list. Who’s hot. Who’s not. But there, at Monet’s, no one knew where that meeting would lead.

  I want to push Stop on the Walkman and rewind their whole conversation. To rewind into the past and warn them. Or prevent them from even meeting.

  But I can’t. You can’t rewrite the past.

  Alex blushed. I’m talking an all-the-blood-in-his-body-rushing-up-to-his-face kind of blushed. And when he opened his mouth to deny it, Jessica cut him off.

  “Don’t lie. Which one of us were you checking out?”

  Through the frosty glass, downtown’s streetlamps and neon lights slide by. Most of the shops are closed for the night. But the restaurants and bars remain open.

  At that moment I would have paid dearly for Jessica’s friendship. She was the most outgoing, honest, tell-it-like-it-is girl I’d ever met.

  Silently, I thanked Ms. Antilly for introducing us.

  Alex stuttered and Jessica leaned over, letting her fingers fall gracefully onto his table.

  “Look, we saw you watching us,” she said. “We’re both new to this town and we’d like to know who you were staring at. It’s important.”

  Alex stammered. “I just…I heard…it’s just, I’m new here, too.”

  I think Jessica and I both said something along the lines of, “Oh.” And then it was our turn to blush. Poor Alex just wanted to be a part of our conversation. So we let him. And I think we talked for at least another hour—probably more. Just three people, happy that the first day of school wouldn’t be spent wandering the halls alone. Or eating lunch alone. Getting lost alone.

  Not that it matters, but where is this bus going? Does it leave our town for another one? Or does it loop endlessly through these streets?

  Maybe I should’ve checked before getting on.

  That afternoon at Monet’s was a relief for all three of us. How many nights had I fallen asleep terrified, thinking of that first day of school? Too many. And after Monet’s? None. Now, I was excited.

  And just so you know, I never thought of Jessica or Alex as friends. Not even at the beginning when I would’ve loved two automatic friendships.

  And I know they felt the same way, because we talked about it. We talked about our past friends and why those people had become our friends. We talked about what we were searching for in new friends at our new school.

  But those first few weeks, until we each peeled away, Monet’s Garden was our safe haven. If one of us had a hard time fitting in or meeting people, we’d go to Monet’s. Back in the garden, at the far table to the right.

  I’m not sure who started it, but whoever had the most exhausting day would lay a hand in the center of the table and say, “Olly-olly-oxen-free.” The other two would lay their hands on top and lean in. Then we’d listen, sipping drinks with our free hands. Jessica and I always drank hot chocolate. Over time, Alex made his way through the entire menu.

  I’ve only been to Monet’s a few times, but I think it’s on the street the bus is going down now.

  Yes, we were cheesy. And I’m sorry if this episode’s making you sick. If it helps, it’s almost too sweet for me. But Monet’s truly filled whatever void needed filling at the time. For all of us.

  But don’t worry…it didn’t last.

  I slide across the bench to the aisle, then stand up in the moving bus.

  The first to drop out was Alex. We were friendly when we saw each other in the halls, but it never went beyond that.

  At least, with me it didn’t.

  Bracing my hands against the backrests, I make my way to the front of the shifting bus.

  Now down to the two of us, Jessica and me, the whole thing changed pretty fast. The talks became chitchat and not much more.

  “When’s the next stop?” I ask. I feel the words leave my throat, but they’re barely whispers above Hannah’s voice and the engine.

  The driver looks at me in the rearview mirror.

  Then Jessica stopped going, and though I went to Monet’s a few more times hoping one of them might wander in, eventually I stopped going, too.

  Until…

  “Only other people here are asleep,” the driver says. I watch her lips carefully to make sure I understand. “I can stop wherever you’d like.”

  See, the cool thing about Jessica’s story is that so much of it happens in one spot, making life much easier for those of you following the stars.

  The bus passes Monet’s. “Here’s good,” I say.

  Yes, I met Jessica for the first time in Ms. Antilly’s office. But we got to know each other at Monet’s.

  I hold myself steady as the bus decelerates and pulls to the curb.

  And we got to know Alex at Monet’s. And then…and then this happened.

  The door wheezes open.

  At school one day, Jessica walked up to me in the halls. “We need to talk,” she said. She didn’t say where or why, but I knew she meant Monet’s…and I thought I knew why.

  I descend the stairs and step from the gutter up onto the curb. I readjust the headphones and start walking back half a block.

  When I got there, Jessica was sitting slumped in a chair, arms dangling by her sides like she’d been waiting a long time. And maybe she had. Maybe she hoped I would skip my last class to join her.

  So I sat down and slid my hand into the middle of the table. “Olly-olly-oxen-free?”

  She lifted one of her hands and slapped a paper on the table. Then she pushed it across and spun it around for me to read. But I didn’t need it spun around, because the first time I read that paper it was upside down on Jimmy’s desk: WHO’S HOT / WHO’S NOT.

  I knew which side of the list I was on—according to Alex. And my so-called opposite was sitting across from me. At our safe haven, no less. Mine…hers…and Alex’s.

  “Who cares?” I told her. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  I swallow hard. When I read that list, I passed it down the aisle without a thought. At the time, it seemed kind of funny.

  “Hannah,” she said, “I don’t care that he picked you over me.”

  I knew exactly where that conversation was headed and I was not going to let her take us there.


  And now? How do I see it now?

  I should’ve grabbed every copy I could find and thrown them all away.

  “He did not choose me over you, Jessica,” I said. “He chose me to get back at you and you know that. He knew my name would hurt you more than anyone else’s.”

  She closed her eyes and said my name in almost a whisper. “Hannah.”

  Do you remember that, Jessica? Because I do.

  When someone says your name like that, when they won’t even look you in the eyes, there is nothing more you can do or say. Their mind is made up.

  “Hannah,” you said. “I know the rumors.”

  “You can’t know rumors,” I said. And maybe I was being a little sensitive, but I had hoped—silly me—that there would be no more rumors when my family moved here. That I had left the rumors and gossip behind me…for good. “You can hear rumors,” I said, “but you can’t know them.”

  Again, you said my name. “Hannah.”

  Yes, I knew the rumors. And I swore to you that I hadn’t seen Alex one time outside of school. But you wouldn’t believe me.

  And why should you believe me? Why would anyone not believe a rumor that fits so nicely with an old rumor? Huh, Justin? Why?

  Jessica could have heard so many rumors about Alex and Hannah. But none of them were true.

  For Jessica, it was easier to think of me as Bad Hannah than as the Hannah she got to know at Monet’s. It was easier to accept. Easier to understand.

  For her, the rumors needed to be true.

  I remember a bunch of guys joking with Alex in the locker room. “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, Baker’s man.” Then someone asked him, “Pat that muffin, Baker’s man?” and everyone knew what was being said.

  When the row cleared out, only Alex and I remained. A tiny wrench of jealousy twisted up my insides. Ever since Kat’s going-away party, I couldn’t get Hannah out of my mind. But I couldn’t bring myself to ask if what they had said was true. Because if it was, I didn’t want to hear it.

  Tightening his shoelaces, and without looking at me, Alex denied the rumor. “Just so you know.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Fine, Jessica. Thank you for helping me the first few weeks of school. It meant a lot. And I’m sorry Alex screwed that up with this stupid little list of his, but he did.”

  I told her I knew all about their relationship. On that first day at Monet’s, he had been checking one of us out. And it wasn’t me. And yes, that made me jealous. And if it helped her get over it, I accepted any blame she wanted to put on me for the two of them breaking up. But…it…was…not…true!

  I reach Monet’s.

  Two guys stand outside, leaning against the wall. One smokes a cigarette and the other is burrowed deep into his jacket.

  But all Jessica heard was me accepting blame.

  She rose up beside her chair—glaring down at me—and swung.

  So tell me, Jessica, which did you mean to do? Punch me, or scratch me? Because it felt like a little bit of both. Like you couldn’t really decide.

  And what was it you called me? Not that it matters, but just for the record. Because I was too busy lifting my hand and ducking—but you got me!—and I missed what you said.

  That tiny scar you’ve all seen above my eyebrow, that’s the shape of Jessica’s fingernail…which I plucked out myself.

  I noticed that scar a few weeks ago. At the party. A tiny flaw on a pretty face. And I told her how cute it was.

  Minutes later, she started freaking out.

  Or maybe you’ve never seen it. But I see it every morning when I get ready for school. “Good morning, Hannah,” it says. And every night when I get ready for bed. “Sleep tight.”

  I push open the heavy wood-and-glass door to Monet’s. Warm air rushes out to grab me and everyone turns, upset at the person letting in the cold. I slink inside and shut the door behind me.

  But it’s more than just a scratch. It’s a punch in the stomach and a slap in the face. It’s a knife in my back because you would rather believe some made-up rumor than what you knew to be true.

  Jessica, my dear, I’d really love to know if you dragged yourself to my funeral. And if you did, did you notice your scar?

  And what about you—the rest of you—did you notice the scars you left behind?

  No. Probably not.

  That wasn’t possible.

  Because most of them can’t be seen with the naked eye.

  Because there was no funeral, Hannah.

  CASSETTE 2: SIDE B

  In honor of Hannah, I should order a hot chocolate. At Monet’s, they serve them with tiny marshmallows floating on top. The only coffee shop I know of that does that.

  But when the girl asks, I say coffee, because I’m cheap. The hot chocolate costs a whole dollar more.

  She slides an empty mug across the counter and points to the pour-it-yourself bar. I pour in just enough half-and-half to coat the bottom of the mug. The rest I fill with Hairy Chest Blend because it sounds highly caffeinated and maybe I can stay up late to finish the tapes.

  I think I need to finish them, and finish them tonight.

  But should I? In one night? Or should I find my story, listen to it, then just enough of the next tape to see who I’m supposed to pass them off to?

  “What’re you listening to?” It’s the girl from behind the counter. She’s beside me now, tilting the stainless steel containers of half-and-half, low fat, and soy. She’s checking to see if they’re full. A couple of black lines, a tattoo, stretch up from her collar and disappear into her short, cropped hair.

  I glance down at the yellow headphones hanging around my neck. “Just some tapes.”

  “Cassette tapes?” She picks up the soy and holds it against her stomach. “Interesting. Anyone I’ve heard of?”

  I shake my head no and drop three cubes of sugar into my coffee.

  She cradles the soy with her other arm then puts out her hand. “We went to school together, two years ago. You’re Clay, right?”

  I put down the mug then slide my hand into hers. Her palm is warm and soft.

  “We had one class together,” she says, “but we didn’t talk much.”

  She looks a little familiar. Maybe her hair’s different.

  “You wouldn’t recognize me,” she says. “I’ve changed a lot since high school.” She rolls her heavily made-up eyes. “Thank God.”

  I place a wooden stirrer into my coffee and mix it. “Which class did we have?”

  “Wood Shop.”

  I still don’t remember her.

  “The only thing I got out of that class were splinters,” she says. “Oh, and I made a piano bench. Still no piano, but at least I’ve got the bench. Do you remember what you made?”

  I stir my coffee. “A spice rack.” The creamer mixes in and the coffee turns a light brown with some dark coffee grounds rising to the surface.

  “I always thought you were the nicest guy,” she says. “In school, everyone thought so. Kind of quiet, but that’s okay. Back then, people thought I talked too much.”

  A customer clears his throat at the counter. We both glance at him, but he doesn’t look away from the drink list.

  She turns back to me and we shake hands again. “Well, maybe I’ll see you around, when there’s more time to talk.” Then she walks back behind the counter.

  That’s me. Nice Guy Clay.

  Would she still say that if she heard these tapes?

  I head to the back of Monet’s, toward the closed door that leads to the patio. Along the way, tables full of people stretch their legs or tilt back their chairs to form an obstacle course that begs me to spill my drink.

  A drop of warm coffee spills onto my finger. I watch it slide across my knuckles and drip to the floor. I rub the toe of my shoe over the spot till it disappears. And I recall, earlier today, watching a slip of paper fall outside the shoe store.

  After Hannah’s suicide, but before the shoebox of tapes arrived, I found myself walking by Hannah’s mom a
nd dad’s shoe store many times. It was that store that brought her to town in the first place. After thirty years in business, the owner of the store was looking to sell and retire. And Hannah’s parents were looking to move.

  I’m not sure why I walked by there so many times. Maybe I was searching for a connection to her, some connection outside of school, and it’s the only one I could think of. Looking for answers to questions I didn’t know how to ask. About her life. About everything.

  I had no idea the tapes were on their way to explain it all.

  The day after her suicide was the first time I found myself at their store, standing outside the front door. The lights were out. A single sheet of paper taped to the front window said, WELL BE OPEN SOON in thick black marker.

  It was written in a hurry, I figured. They just forgot the apostrophe.

  On the glass door, a delivery person had left a self-adhesive note. Among a list of other options, “Will try again tomorrow” was checked.

  A few days later, I went back. Even more notes were stuck to the glass.

  On my way home from school earlier today, I went by the store one more time. As I read the dates and notes on each piece of paper, the oldest note became unstuck and fluttered to the ground, resting beside my shoe. I picked it up and searched the door for the most recent note. Then I lifted a corner of that note and stuck the older one beneath it.

  They’ll be back soon, I thought. They must have taken her home for the burial. Back to her old town. Unlike old age or cancer, no one anticipates a suicide. They simply left without a chance to get things in order.

  I open the patio door at Monet’s, careful not to spill any more of my coffee.

  Around the garden, to keep the atmosphere relaxed, the lights are kept low. Every table, including Hannah’s in the far back corner, is occupied. Three guys in baseball caps sit there, hunched over textbooks and notebooks, none of them talking.

  I go back inside and sit at a small table near a window. It overlooks the garden, but Hannah’s table is hidden by a brick column choked with ivy.