Thirteen Reasons Why (23 page)

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Authors: Jay Asher

BOOK: Thirteen Reasons Why
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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 drags many of you into the story as well . . . 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 name 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.
But the garage door was shut.
Am I the only one who knows this? Does anyone else know that's where he lived? The man from the accident. The man whose car killed a student from our school.
I stopped walking and, for what seemed like several minutes, just watched from the sidewalk. Mesmerized. Another family in my house. I had no idea who they were or what they were like—what their lives were like.
The garage door began to lift and, in the glow of the red taillights, the silhouette of a man pushed the heavy door all the way up. He got in the car, backed it down the driveway, and drove off.
Why he didn't stop, why he didn't ask why I was standing there staring at his house, I don't know. Maybe he thought I was waiting for him to back out of the driveway before continuing on my merry way.
But whatever the reason, it felt surreal. Two people—me and him—one house. Yet he drove away with no idea of his link to me, the girl on the sidewalk. And for some reason, at that moment, the air felt heavy. Filled with loneliness. And that loneliness stayed with me through the rest of the night.
Even the best moments of the night were affected by that one incident—by that nonincident—in front of my old house. His lack of interest in me was a reminder. Even though I had a history in that house, it didn't matter. You can't go back to how things were. How you thought they were.
All you really have . . . is now.
Those of us on the tapes, we can't go back, either. We can never
not
find a package on our doorstep. Or in our mailbox. From that moment on, we're different.
Which explains my overreaction, Clay. And that's why you'll get these tapes. To explain. To say I'm sorry.
Does she remember? Does she remember that I apologized to her that night? Is that why she's apologizing to me?
The party was well underway by the time I got there. Most people, unlike me, didn't have to wait for their parents to fall asleep.
The usual crowd hung out by the front door of the party, drunk out of their minds, greeting everyone with a raised cup of beer. I would think Hannah would be a hard name to slur, but those guys did it pretty well. Half of them kept repeating my name, trying to get it right, while the other half laughed.
But they were harmless. Fun drunks make a nice addition to any party. Not looking to fight. Not looking to score. Just looking to get drunk and laugh.
I remember those guys. Like the mascots of the party. “Clay! Whatchoo doon here? Bah-ha-ha-ha!”
The music was loud and no one was dancing. It could have been any party . . . except for one thing.
Clay Jensen.
I'm sure you heard a lot of sarcastic remarks when you first arrived, but by the time I got there, to everyone else you were just a part of the party. But unlike everyone else, you were the whole reason I came.

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