Thirteen Reasons Why (22 page)

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Authors: Jay Asher

BOOK: Thirteen Reasons Why
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With that one, I told him, the poem had to speak for itself. But I was interested in knowing what he thought it meant.
On the surface, he said, the poem was about acceptance—acceptance from my mother. But more than that, I wanted her approval. And I wanted certain people—in this case a boy—to stop overlooking me.
A boy?
At the base of the glass, the water creates a delicate suction, then lets go. I take a sip and let a small cube of ice slip into my mouth.
I asked if he thought it meant anything deeper.
I hold the ice on my tongue. It's freezing, but I want it to melt there.
Part of me was joking. I thought he'd figured out my poem exactly. But I wanted to know what a teacher assigning the poem might want his or her students to discover. Because teachers always overdo it.
But you found it, Ryan. You found the hidden meaning. You found what even I couldn't find in my own poem.
The poem wasn't about my mom, you said. Or a boy. It was about me. I was writing a letter to myself . . . hidden in a poem.
I flinched when you told me that. I got defensive—even angry. But you were right. And I felt scared, and sad, by my own words.
You told me I wrote that poem because I was afraid of dealing with myself. And I used my mom as an excuse, accusing her of not appreciating or accepting me, when I should have been saying those words into a mirror.
“And the boy?” I asked. “What does he represent?”
It's me. Oh God. It's me. I know that now.
I cover my ears. Not to block any outside noise. The diner is almost completely silent. But I want to feel her words, all of them, as they're said.
While I waited for your answer, I searched my backpack for tissue. At any moment, I knew I might cry.
You told me that no boy was overlooking me more than I was overlooking myself. At least, that's what you thought it meant. And that's why you asked about the poem. You felt it went deeper than even you could figure out.
Well, Ryan, you were right. It went much, much deeper than that. And if you knew that—if that's what you thought—then why did you steal my notebook? Why did you print my poem, the poem that you yourself called “scary” in the
Lost-N-Found
? Why did you let other people read it?
And dissect it. And make fun of it.
It was never a lost poem, Ryan. And you never found it, so it did not belong in your collection.
But in your collection is exactly where other people found it. That's where teachers stumbled across it right before their lectures on poetry. That's where classrooms full of students cut up my poem, searching for its meaning.
In our class, no one got it right. Not even close. But at the time, we all thought we did. Even Mr. Porter.
Do you know what Mr. Porter said before handing out my poem? He said that reading a poem by an unknown member of our school was the same as reading a classic poem by a dead poet. That's right—a dead poet. Because we couldn't ask either one about its true meaning.
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.

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