Thirteen Reasons Why (11 page)

Again, it's not me. I didn't even know Hannah wrote poetry.

Definitely twisted. But who is she?

And why do I care?

God. Does everyone use that excuse?

I squirm a little, shifting in my seat.

We moved into my bedroom and sat cross-legged on the bed, facing each other, talking about everything imaginable. To catch our Peeping Tom, we knew we needed to keep the talking quiet. We needed to hear that first . . .
Click.

She winked at me, then got up on her knees and worked her hands forward like a cat stretching until she was all the way down on my bed.
Click.

I sincerely hope you burned or erased those pictures, Tyler. Because if they get out, even if it's not your fault, I'd hate to think what might happen to you.

I straddled her back.
Click.

Pushed aside her hair.
Click.

And began rubbing her shoulders.
Click. Click.

“It means he's doing something else.”
Click.

“It's time for some body lotion,” she said.
Click.

Beneath my arms, my shirt is slightly damp. I shift uncomfortably in my seat again. But, God, I can't stop listening.

She reached into the drawer, pushed some things around, then covered her mouth again. “Hannah?” she said. “How many of these do you have? You are definitely a naughty girl.”
Click. Click.

Tyler, wherever you are, I am so sorry. You deserve this, but I'm sorry.

You are such an idiot, Tyler.

Her voice trembles.

She pauses. And within that silence I realize how intensely I've been staring at nothing. Staring in the direction of my mug on the far end of the table. But not at it.

I want to, but I'm too intimidated to look at the people around me. They have to be watching me now. Trying to understand the pained look on my face. Trying to figure out who this poor kid is, listening to outdated audiotapes.

I look through the window, past my reflection, to the barely lit patio garden. I can't tell if anyone's still there, beyond the brick-and-ivy column, sitting at her table.

A table that, at one time, was Hannah's other safe place.

But I'm ready for it to be me, Hannah. I'm ready to get this over with.

There's a long pause. A rustling of leaves.

I hear it. She taps on the window. Twice.

I slip off the headphones, wrap the yellow cord tightly around the Walkman, and tuck it in my jacket pocket.

Across the room, Monet's bookshelf is loaded with old books. Discards, mostly. Paperback westerns, New Age, sci-fi.

Carefully weaving through the crowded tables, I walk over to it.

A massive thesaurus sits beside a dictionary that's missing its hardcover spine. Down the exposed paper spine someone wrote DICTIONARY in heavy black ink. Stacked on the same shelf, each in a different color, are five books. They're approximately the same size as yearbooks, but purchased for their blank pages. Scribble books, they call them. Each year, a new one is added and people scrawl whatever they want inside. They mark special occasions, write horrible poetry, sketch things that are beautiful or grotesque, or just rant.

Each book has a scrap of duct tape on the spine with a year written on it. I pull out the one from our freshman year. With all the time Hannah spent at Monet's, maybe she wrote something in here. Like a poem. Or maybe she had other talents I didn't know about. Maybe she knew how to draw. I'm just looking for something apart from the ugliness of these tapes. I need that right now. I need to see her in a different way.

Since most people date their entries, I flip toward the back. To September. And there it is.

To keep the page, I shut the book on my index finger and take it back to my table. I take a slow sip of lukewarm coffee, reopen the book, and read the words scribbled in red ink near the top: Everyone needs an olly-olly-oxen-free.

It's signed with three sets of initials: J.D. A.S. H.B.

Jessica Davis. Alex Standall. Hannah Baker.

Below the initials, pressed into the crease between the pages, someone stuck an upside-down photograph. I pull it out, flip it over, then spin it rightside up.

It's Hannah.

God, I love her smile. And her hair, it's still long. One of her arms is wrapped around the waist of another student. Courtney Crimsen. And behind them is a crowd of students. Everyone's either holding a bottle, a can, or a red plastic cup. It's dark at the party and Courtney doesn't look happy. But she doesn't look mad, either.

She looks nervous, I think.

Why?

I stare at the picture in the scribble book. Hannah's arm around Courtney's waist at some random party. Hannah is happy. Courtney is nervous. But I have no idea why.