Thirteen Reasons Why (7 page)

There's more than a few guys I can picture doing that. The sarcasm. The arrogance.

And there it is. The neon sign of Blue Spot Liquor.

On this block, only two stores remain open: Blue Spot Liquor and Restless Video across the street. Blue Spot looks just as grimy as the last time I walked by it. Even the cigarette and alcohol ads look the same. Like wallpaper in the front window.

A brass bell jingles when I open the door. The same bell Hannah listened to whenever she came in for a candy fix. Instead of letting it swing shut behind me, I hold the edge of the door and slowly push it shut, watching it ring the bell again.

“Can I help you?”

Without looking, I already know it's not Wally.

But why am I disappointed? I didn't come to see Wally.

He asks again, a little louder, “Can I help you?”

I can't bring myself to look toward the front counter. Not yet. I don't want to imagine her standing there.

At the back of the store, behind a wall of see-through doors, are the refrigerated drinks. And even though I'm not thirsty, I go there. I open one of the doors and take an orange soda, the first plastic bottle I touch. Then I walk to the front of the store and pull out my wallet.

A wire rack loaded with candy bars hangs from the front counter. These are the ones Hannah liked.

My left eye begins to twitch.

“Is that all?” he asks.

I place the soda on the counter and look down, rubbing my eye. The pain begins somewhere above my eye, but it goes deeper. Behind my eyebrow. A pinching I've never felt before.

“There's more behind you,” the clerk says. He must think I'm looking at the candy.

I grab a Butterfinger from the rack and place it next to my drink. I put a few dollars on the counter and slide them over to him.

He slides back a couple of coins and I notice a plastic nametag stuck to the register.

“Does he still work here?” I ask.

“Wally?” The clerk exhales through his nose. “Day shift.”

When I leave, the brass bell jingles.

Across the street, the neon sign of Restless Video flickers erratically.

I know who Hannah's talking about now. I've seen his wrist-grabbing stunt before. It always makes me want to grab him by the shirt and push him until he lets the girl go.

But instead, every time, I pretend not to notice.

What could I do, anyway?

I sit on the chipped curb outside of Blue Spot, setting the orange soda next to me and balancing the Butterfinger on my knee. Not that I have an appetite for anything sweet.

So why did I buy it? Was it only because Hannah used to buy candy from the same rack? And why does that matter? I went to the first red star. And the second. I don't need to go everywhere or do everything she says.

I tap one end of the candy bar, making it teeter-totter on my knee.

I'm starting to understand. I'm starting to see what Hannah means. And that opens up a black hole in the pit of my stomach.

Best Lips. That was another category on the list.

It wasn't till that list came out that I even noticed Angela Romero's lips. But after that, I became fascinated by them. When I watched her give speeches during class, I had no idea what words came out of her mouth. I just watched those lips move up and down. Mesmerized when she said things like “slippery slope,” which, behind her lips, exposed the underside of her tongue.

The rest of Angela was nowhere near as mesmerizing as her lips. Not bad, just not mesmerizing.

Then, last summer at a friend's house, we played spin the bottle after a bunch of us admitted we were spin-the-bottle virgins. And I refused to let the game end till my spin landed on Angela. Or till her spin landed on me. When that happened, I pressed my lips, agonizingly slowly and precisely, against hers.

Later on, Angela and I made out on her back porch. I just couldn't get enough of those lips.

All because of a list.

I pop open the Walkman and pull out the first tape.

In the smallest pocket of my backpack, I find the next tape. The one with a blue number three written in the corner. I drop that into the deck and snap the door shut.

Before Hannah's voice kicks in, there's a pause.

Across the street, behind the buildings, the sun continues its fall. All the streetlamps are on, up and down the block. I grab the Butterfinger from my knee, the soda from beside me, and stand up.

There's a trash can, an oil drum spray-painted blue, near the front door of Blue Spot Liquor. I drop the unwrapped Butterfinger into it, unable to imagine my stomach holding down anything solid, and walk away.

I twist the top off my orange soda. It hisses and I take a sip.

In case you don't remember, Ms. Antilly was the guidance counselor for students with last names beginning
A
through
G
. Later that year, she moved to another school district.

I remember she was replaced by Mr. Porter. It was supposed to be a temporary position, but he's still at it. An English teacher as well as a guidance counselor.

An icy sweat breaks across my forehead. Mr. Porter? Does he have something to do with this?