Thirteen Reasons Why (27 page)

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Authors: Jay Asher

BOOK: Thirteen Reasons Why
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“And then you'd just ask if they had the tapes?”
“No. They would've denied it, right? So I'd hold up a tape when they got close and tell them to get in because I had a song I wanted them to hear. Every time, based on their reaction, I knew.”
“And then you'd play one of her tapes?”
“No. If they didn't run away, I'd have to do something, so I'd play them a song,” he says. “Any song. They would sit there, where you are, wondering why in the hell I was playing them this song. But if I was right, their eyes would glaze over, like they were a million miles away.”
“So why you?” I ask. “Why'd she give the tapes to you?”
“I don't know,” he says. “The only thing I can think of is because I gave her the recorder. She thought I had a stake in it and would play along.”
“You're not on them, but you're still a part.”
He faces the windshield and grips the steering wheel. “I've got to go.”
“I didn't mean anything by that,” I say. “Honest.”
“I know. But it's late. My dad's going to start wondering if I broke down somewhere.”
“What, you don't want him messing under your hood again?” I grab the door handle and then, remembering, let go and pull out my phone. “I need you to do something. Can you say hello to my mom?”
“Sure.”
I scroll through the list of names, hit Send, and she picks up right away.
“Clay?”
“Hey, Mom.”
“Clay, where are you?” She sounds hurt.
“I told you I might be out late.”
“I know. You did. I was just hoping to hear from you by now.”
“I'm sorry. But I'm going to need a little longer. I may need to stay at Tony's tonight.”
Right on cue, “Hello, Mrs. Jensen.”
She asks if I've been drinking.
“Mom, no. I swear.”
“Okay, well, this is for his history project, right?”
I flinch. She wants to believe my excuses so bad. Every time I lie, she wants to believe me so much.
“I trust you, Clay.”
I tell her I'll be home before school to get my stuff, then we hang up.
“Where are you going to stay?” Tony asks.
“I don't know. I'll probably go home. But I don't want her to worry if I don't.”
He turns the key, the engine starts, and he flips on the headlights. “Do you want me to take you somewhere?”
I grab the door handle and nod toward the house. “This is where I'm at in the tapes,” I say. “But thanks.”
His eyes stare straight ahead.
“Honestly. Thank you,” I say. And when I say it, I mean it for more than just the ride. For everything. For how he reacted when I broke down and cried. For trying to make me laugh on the most horrible night of my life.
It feels good knowing someone understands what I'm listening to, what I'm going through. Somehow, it makes it not as scary to keep listening.
I get out of the car and shut the door. His car pulls away.
I press Play.
Back to the party, everyone. But don't get too comfy, we'll be leaving in just a minute.
Half a block away, Tony's Mustang stops at an intersection, takes a left, and drives away.
If time was a string connecting all of your stories, that party would be the point where everything knots up. And that knot keeps growing and growing, getting more and more tangled, dragging the rest of your stories into it.
When Justin and I finally broke that awful, painful stare, I wandered down the hall and back into the party. Staggered in, really. But not from the alcohol. From everything else.
I sit on the curb, a few feet from where I vomited out of Tony's car. If whoever lives here, because I have no idea whose party it was, wants to come out and ask me to leave, I welcome it. Please do.
I grabbed for the piano in the living room. Then the piano bench. And I sat.
I wanted to leave, but where would I go? I couldn't go home. Not yet.
And wherever I went, how would I get there? I was too weak to walk. At least, I thought I was too weak. But in truth, I was too weak to try. The only thing I knew for certain was that I wanted to get out of there and not think about anything or anyone anymore.
Then a hand touched my shoulder. A gentle squeeze.
It was Jenny Kurtz.
The cheerleader from the Student Body office.
Jenny, this one's for you.
I drop my head down to my knees.
Jenny asked if I needed a ride home, and I almost laughed. Was it so obvious? Did I look that terrible?
So I looped my arm in hers and she helped me up. Which felt good, letting someone help me. We walked out the front door, through a crowd either passed out on the porch or smoking in the yard.
Somewhere, at that moment, I was walking from block to block trying to figure out why I'd left that party. Trying to figure out, trying to understand, what had just happened between me and Hannah.
The sidewalk was damp. My feet, numb and heavy, shuffled across the pavement. I listened to the sound of every pebble and leaf that I stepped on. I wanted to hear them all. To block out the music and the voices behind me.
While blocks away, I could still hear that music. Distant. Muffled. Like I couldn't get far enough away.
And I can still remember every song that played.
Jenny, you didn't say a thing. You didn't ask me any questions. And I was so grateful. Maybe you've had things happen, or seen things happen at parties that you just couldn't discuss. Not right away, at least. Which is sort of fitting, because I haven't discussed any of this until now.
Well . . . no . . . I tried. I tried once, but he didn't want to hear it.
Is that the twelfth story? The thirteenth? Or something else entirely? Is it one of the names written on her paper that she won't tell us about?
So, Jenny, you led me to your car. And even though my thoughts were somewhere else—my eyes focused on nothing—I felt your touch. You held my arm with such tenderness as you lowered me into the passenger seat. You buckled me in, got in your seat, then we left.
What happened next, I'm not entirely sure. I wasn't paying attention because, in your car, I felt secure. The air inside was warm and comforting. The wiper blades, on a slow speed, gently pulled me out of my thoughts and into the car. Into reality.
The rain wasn't heavy, but it blurred the windshield just enough to keep everything dreamlike. And I needed that. It kept my world from becoming too real, too fast.
And then . . . it hit. There's nothing like an accident to bring the world crashing back.
An accident? Another one? Two in one night? How come I never heard about this one?
The front wheel on my side slammed into and jumped the curb. A wooden post smacked into your front bumper and snapped back like a toothpick.
God. No.
A Stop sign fell backward in front of your headlights. It caught under your car and you screamed and slammed on the brakes. In the side mirror, I watched sparks fly onto the road as we slid to a stop.
Okay, now I'm awake.
We sat for a moment, staring through the windshield. No words, not a glance between us. The wipers smeared the rain from side to side. And my hands stayed gripped to my seatbelt, thankful we only hit a sign.
The accident with the old man. And the guy from school. Did Hannah know? Did she know Jenny caused it?
Your door opened and I watched you walk to the front of your car, then crouch between the headlights for a closer look. You ran a hand over the dent and let your head droop forward. I couldn't tell if you were pissed. Or were you crying?
Maybe you were laughing at how horrible the night was turning out.
I know where to go. I don't need the map. I know exactly where the next star is, so I stand up to start walking.
The dent wasn't bad. I mean, it wasn't good, but you had to feel some relief. It could have been worse. It could have been much, much worse. For example . . . you could have hit something else.
She knows.
Something alive.
Whatever your initial thoughts, you stood up with a blank expression. Just standing there, staring at the dent, shaking your head.
Then you caught my eye. And I'm sure I saw a frown, even if it lasted only a split second. But that frown turned into a smile. Followed by a shrug.
And what were the first words you said when you got back in the car? “Well, that sucks.” Then you put your key in the ignition and . . . I stopped you. I couldn't let you drive away.
At the intersection where Tony turned left, I take a right. It's still two blocks away, but I know it's there. The Stop sign.
You shut your eyes and said, “Hannah, I'm not drunk.”
Well, I didn't accuse you of being drunk, Jenny. But I was wondering why the hell you couldn't keep your car on the road.
“It's raining,” you said.
And yes, true, it was. Barely.
I told you to park the car.
You told me to be reasonable. We both lived close by and you'd stick to the residential streets—as if that made it any better.
I see it. A metal pole holding up a Stop sign, its reflective letters visible even this far away. But on the night of the accident, it was a different sign. The letters weren't reflective and the sign had been fastened to a wooden post.
“Hannah, don't worry,” you said. Then you laughed. “Nobody obeys Stop signs anyway. They just roll on through. So now, because there isn't one there, it's legal. See? People will thank me.”
Again, I told you to park the car. We'd get a ride home from someone at the party. I'd pick you up first thing in the morning and drive you to your car.
But you tried again. “Hannah, listen.”
“Park it,” I said. “Please.”
And then you told me to get out. But I wouldn't. I tried reasoning with you. You were lucky it was only a sign. Imagine what could happen if I let you drive us all the way home.
But again, “Get out.”
I sat for a long time with my eyes shut, listening to the rain and the wipers.
“Hannah! Get . . . out!”
So finally, I did. I opened the car door and stepped out. But I didn't shut it. I looked back at you. And you stared through your windshield—through the wipers—gripping the wheel.
Still a block away, but the only thing I can focus on is the Stop sign straight ahead.
I asked if I could use your phone. I saw it sitting there right below the stereo.
“Why?” you asked.
I'm not sure why I told you the truth. I should have lied. “We need to at least tell someone about the sign,” I said.
You kept your eyes straight ahead. “They'll trace it. They can trace phone calls, Hannah.” Then you started up the car and told me to shut the door.
I didn't.
So you reversed the car, and I jumped back to keep the door from knocking me over.
You didn't care that the metal sign was crushing—grating—the underside of your car. When you cleared it, the sign lay at my feet, warped and streaked with silver scratches.
You revved the engine and I took the hint, stepping back onto the curb. Then you peeled away, causing the door to slam shut, picking up speed the further you got . . . and you got away.
In fact, you got away with much more than knocking down a sign, Jenny.
And once again, I could have stopped it . . . somehow.
We all could have stopped it. We all could have stopped something. The rumors. The rape.
You.
There must have been something I could have said. At the very least, I could have taken your keys. Or at the very, very least, I could have reached in and stolen your phone to call the police.
Actually, that's the only thing that would've mattered. Because you found your way home in once piece, Jenny. But that wasn't the problem. The sign was knocked down, and that was the problem.
B-6 on your map. Two blocks from the party there's a Stop sign. But on that night, for part of the night, there wasn't. And it was raining. And someone was trying to deliver his pizzas on time. And someone else, headed in the opposite direction, was turning.
The old man.
There was no Stop sign on that corner. Not on that night. And one of them, one of the drivers, died.

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