Thirteen Reasons Why (4 page)

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Authors: Jay Asher

BOOK: Thirteen Reasons Why
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So embarrassing.
Earlier, when I asked my mom how to get a boy's attention, she said, “Play hard to get.” So that's what I was doing. And sure enough, it worked. You started hanging around my classes waiting for me.
It seemed like weeks went by before you finally asked for my number. But I knew you eventually would, so I practiced saying it out loud. Real calm and confident like I didn't really care. Like I gave it out a hundred times a day.
Yes, boys at my old school had asked for my number. But here, at my new school, you were the first.
No. That's not true. But you were the first to actually get my number.
It's not that I didn't want to give it out before. I was just cautious. New town. New school. And this time, I was going to be in control of how people saw me. After all, how often do we get a second chance?
Before you, Justin, whenever anyone asked, I'd say all the right numbers up until the very last one. And then I'd get scared and mess up . . . sort of accidentally on purpose.
I heave my backpack onto my lap and unzip the largest pocket.
I was getting way too excited watching you write down my number. Luckily, you were way too nervous to notice. When I finally spat out that last number—the correct number! —I smiled so big.
Meanwhile, your hand was shaking so badly that I thought you were going to screw it up. And I was not going to let that happen.
I pull out her map and unfold it on the workbench.
I pointed at the number you were writing. “That should be a seven,” I said.
“It is a seven.”
I use a wooden ruler to smooth out the creases.
“Oh. Well, as long as you know it's a seven.”
“I do,” you said. But you scratched it out anyway and made an even shakier seven.
I stretched the cuff of my sleeve into my palm and almost reached over to wipe the sweat from your forehead . . . something my mother would've done. But thankfully, I didn't do that. You never would've asked another girl for her number again.
Through the side garage door, Mom calls my name. I lower the volume, ready to hit Stop if it opens.
“Yes?”
By the time I got home, you'd already called. Twice.
“I want you to keep working,” Mom says, “but I need to know if you're having dinner with us.”
My mom asked who you were, and I said we had a class together. You were probably just calling with a homework question. And she said that's exactly what you had told her.
I look down at the first red star. C-4. I know where that is. But should I go there?
I couldn't believe it. Justin, you lied to my mom.
So why did that make me so happy?
“No,” I say. “I'm heading to a friend's house. For his project.”
Because our lies matched. It was a sign.
“That's fine,” Mom says. “I'll keep some in the fridge and you can heat it up later.”
My mom asked what class we had and I said math, which wasn't a total lie. We both had math. Just not together. And not the same type.
“Good,” Mom said. “That's what he told me.”
I accused her of not trusting her own daughter, grabbed the slip of paper with your number from her hand, and ran upstairs.
I'll go there. To the first star. But before that, when this side of the tape is over, I'll go to Tony's.
Tony never upgraded his car stereo so he still plays tapes. That way, he says, he's in control of the music. If he gives someone a ride and they bring their own music, too bad. “The format's not compatible,” he tells them.
When you answered the phone, I said, “Justin? It's Hannah. My mom said you called with a math problem.”
Tony drives an old Mustang handed down from his brother, who got it from his dad, who probably got it from his dad. At school there are few loves that compare to the one between Tony and his car. More girls have dumped him out of car envy than my lips have even kissed.
You were confused, but eventually you remembered lying to my mom and, like a good boy, you apologized.
While Tony doesn't classify as a close friend, we have worked on a couple of assignments together so I know where he lives. And most important of all, he owns an old Walkman that plays tapes. A yellow one with a skinny plastic headset that I'm sure he'll let me borrow. I'll take a few tapes with me and listen to them as I walk through Hannah's old neighborhood, which is only a block or so from Tony's.
“So, Justin, what's the math problem?” I asked. You weren't getting off that easy.
Or maybe I'll take the tapes somewhere else. Somewhere private. Because I can't listen here. Not that Mom or Dad will recognize the voice in the speakers, but I need room. Room to breathe.
And you didn't miss a beat. You told me Train A was leaving your house at 3:45 PM. Train B was leaving my house ten minutes later.
You couldn't see this, Justin, but I actually raised my hand like I was in school rather than sitting on the edge of my bed. “Pick me, Mr. Foley. Pick me,” I said. “I know the answer.”
When you called my name, “Yes, Miss Baker?” I threw Mom's hard-to-get rule right out the window. I told you the two trains met at Eisenhower Park at the bottom of the rocket slide.
What did Hannah see in him? I never got that. Even she admits she was unable to put her finger on it. But for an average-looking guy, so many girls are into Justin.
Sure, he is kind of tall. And maybe they find him intriguing. He's always looking out windows, contemplating something.
A long pause at your end of the line, Justin. And I mean a looooooong pause. “So, when do the trains meet?” you asked.
“Fifteen minutes,” I said.
You said fifteen minutes seemed awfully slow for two trains going full speed.
Whoa. Slow down, Hannah.
I know what you're all thinking. Hannah Baker is a slut.
Oops. Did you catch that? I said, “Hannah Baker
is
.” Can't say that anymore.
She stops talking.
I drag the stool closer to the workbench. The two spindles in the tape deck, hidden behind a smoky plastic window, pull the tape from one side to the other. A gentle hiss comes through the speaker. A soft static hum.
What is she thinking? At that moment, are her eyes shut? Is she crying? Is her finger on the Stop button, hoping for the strength to press it? What is she doing? I can't hear!
Wrong.
Her voice is angry. Almost trembling.
Hannah Baker is not, and never was, a slut. Which begs the question, What have you heard?
I simply wanted a kiss. I was a freshman girl who had never been kissed. Never. But I liked a boy, he liked me, and I was going to kiss him. That's the story—the whole story—right there.
What was the other story? Because I did hear something.
The few nights leading up to our meeting in the park, I'd had the same dream. Exactly the same. From beginning to end. And for your listening pleasure, here it is.
But first, a little background.
My old town had a park similar to Eisenhower Park in one way. They both had that rocket ship. I'm sure it was made by the same company because they looked identical. A red nose points to the sky. Metal bars run from the nose all the way down to green fins holding the ship off the ground. Between the nose and the fins are three platforms, connected by three ladders. On the top level is a steering wheel. On the mid level is a slide that leads down to the playground.
On many nights leading up to my first day of school here, I'd climb to the top of that rocket and let my head fall back against the steering wheel. The night breeze blowing through the bars calmed me. I'd just close my eyes and think of home.
I climbed up there once, only once, when I was five. I screamed and cried my head off and would not come down for anything. But Dad was too big to fit through the holes. So he called the fire department, and they sent a female firefighter up to get me. They must've had a lot of those rescues because, a few weeks ago, the city announced plans to tear the rocket slide down.
I think that's the reason, in my dreams, my first kiss took place at the rocket ship. It reminded me of innocence. And I wanted my first kiss to be just that. Innocent.
Maybe that's why she didn't red-star the park. The rocket might be gone before the tapes make it through the entire list.
So back to my dreams, which started the day you began waiting outside my classroom door. The day I knew you liked me.
Hannah took off her shirt and let Justin put his hands up her bra. That's it. That's what I heard happened in the park that night.
But wait. Why would she do that in the middle of a park?
The dream starts with me at the top of the rocket, holding on to the steering wheel. It's still a playground rocket, not a real one, but every time I turn the wheel to the left, the trees in the park lift up their roots and sidestep it to the left. When I turn the wheel to the right, they sidestep it to the right.
Then I hear your voice calling up from the ground. “Hannah! Hannah! Stop playing with the trees and come see me.”
So I leave the steering wheel and climb through the hole in the top platform. But when I reach the next platform, my feet have grown so huge they won't fit through the next hole.
Big feet? Seriously? I'm not into dream analysis, but maybe she was wondering if Justin had a big one.
I poke my head through the bars and shout, “My feet are too big. Do you still want me to come down?”
“I love big feet,” you shout back. “Come down the slide and see me. I'll catch you.”
So I sit on the slide and push off. But the wind resistance on my feet makes me go so slow. In the time it takes me to reach the bottom of the slide, I've noticed that your feet are extremely small. Almost nonexistent.
I knew it!
You walk to the end of the slide with your arms out, ready to catch me. And wouldn't you know it, when I jump off, my huge feet don't step on your little feet.
“See? We were made for each other,” you say. Then you lean in to kiss me. Your lips getting closer . . . and closer . . . and . . . I wake up.
Every night for a week I woke up in the exact same about-to-be-kissed spot. But now, Justin, I would finally be meeting you. At that park. At the bottom of that slide. And damn it, you were going to kiss the hell out of me whether you liked it or not.
Hannah, if you kissed back then like you kissed at the party, trust me, he liked it.
I told you to meet me there in fifteen minutes. Of course, I only said that to make sure I got there before you. By the time you walked into the park, I wanted to be inside that rocket and all the way up, just like in my dreams. And that's how it happened . . . minus the dancing trees and funky feet.
From my viewpoint at the top of the rocket, I saw you come in at the far end of the park. You checked your watch every few steps and walked over to the slide, looking all around, but never up.
So I spun the steering wheel as hard as I could to make it rattle. You took a step back, looked up, and called my name. But don't worry, even though I wanted to live out my dream, I didn't expect you to know every single line and tell me to stop playing with the trees and come down.
“Be right down,” I said.
But you told me to stop. You'd climb up to where I was.
So I shouted back, “No! Let me take the slide.”
Then you repeated those magical, dreamlike words, “I'll catch you.”
Definitely beats my first kiss. Seventh grade, Andrea Williams, behind the gym after school. She came over to my table at lunch, whispered the proposition in my ear, and I had a hard-on for the rest of the day.
When the kiss was over, three strawberry-lip-gloss seconds later, she turned and ran away. I peeked around the gym and watched two of her friends each hand her a five-dollar bill. I couldn't believe it! My lips were a ten-dollar bet.
Was that good or bad? Probably bad, I decided.
But I've loved strawberry lip gloss ever since.
I couldn't help smiling as I climbed down the top ladder. I sat myself on the slide—my heart racing. This was it. All my friends back home had their first kisses in middle school. Mine was waiting for me at the bottom of a slide, exactly as I wanted it. All I had to do was push off.
And I did.
I know it didn't really happen like this, but when I look back, it all happens in slow motion. The push. The slide. My hair flying behind me. You raising your arms to catch me. Me raising mine so you could.
So when did you decide to kiss me, Justin? Was it during your walk to the park? Or did it simply happen when I slid into your arms?
Okay, who out there wants to know my very first thought during my very first kiss? Here it is: Somebody's been eating chilidogs.
Nice one, Justin.
I'm sorry. It wasn't that bad, but it was the first thing I thought.
I'll take strawberry lip gloss any day.
I was so anxious about what kind of kiss it would be— because my friends back home described so many types—and it turned out to be the beautiful kind. You didn't shove your tongue down my throat. You didn't grab my butt. We just held our lips together . . . and kissed.

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