I hated poetry until someone showed me how to appreciate it. He told me to see poetry as a puzzle. It’s up to the reader to decipher the code, or the words, based on everything they know about life and emotions.
Did the poet use red to symbolize blood? Anger? Lust? Or is the wheelbarrow simply red because red sounded better than black?
I remember that one. From English. There was a big discussion on the meaning of red. I have no idea what we decided in the end.
The same person who taught me to appreciate poetry also taught me the value in writing it. And honestly, there is no better way to explore your emotions than with poetry.
Or audiotapes.
If you’re angry, you don’t have to write a poem dealing with the cause of your anger. But it needs to be an angry poem. So go ahead…write one. I know you’re at least a little bit angry with me.
And when you’re done with your poem, decipher it as if you’d just found it printed in a textbook and knew absolutely nothing about its author. The results can be amazing…and scary. But it’s always cheaper than a therapist.
I did that for a while. Poetry, not a therapist.
Maybe a therapist would have helped, Hannah.
I bought a spiral notebook to keep all of my poems in one place. A couple days a week, after school, I’d go to Monet’s and write a poem or two.
My first few attempts were a bit sad. Not much depth or subtlety. Pretty straightforward. But still, some came out fairly well. At least, I think they did.
Then, without even trying, I memorized the very first poem in that notebook. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to shake it from my head even today. So here it is, for your appreciation…or amusement.
If my love were an ocean, there would be no more land.
If my love were a desert, you would see only sand.
If my love were a star—late at night, only light.
And if my love could grow wings,
I’d be soaring in flight.
Go ahead. Laugh. But you know you’d buy it if you saw it on a greeting card.
There’s a sudden ache deep inside my chest.
Just knowing I’d be going to Monet’s to write poetry made the days more bearable. Something funny, shocking, or hurtful might happen and I’d think, This is going to make for one fascinating poem.
Over my shoulder, I see Tony walking out the front door. Which seems weird.
Why didn’t he stop to say good-bye?
To me, I suppose, these tapes are a form of poetic therapy.
Through the front window, I watch Tony get in his car.
As I tell you these stories, I’m discovering certain things. Things about myself, yes, but also about you. All of you.
He flips on the headlights.
And the closer we get to the end, the more connections I’m discovering. Deep connections. Some that I’ve told you about, linking one story to the next. While others, I haven’t told you about at all.
The Mustang shudders as Tony revs the engine. Then slowly, his car backs up.
Maybe you’ve even discovered some connections that I haven’t. Maybe you’re one step ahead of the poet.
No, Hannah. I’m barely keeping up.
And when I say my final words…well, probably not my final words, but the last words on these tapes…it’s going to be one tight, well-connected, emotional ball of words.
In other words, a poem.
Watching Tony’s car through the window is like watching a movie, the Mustang backing slowly offscreen. But the headlights don’t gradually fade away, which they should if he kept backing up or turned away. Instead, they just stop.
As if turned off.
Looking back, I stopped writing in my notebook when I stopped wanting to know myself anymore.
Is he out there, sitting in his car, waiting? Why?
If you hear a song that makes you cry and you don’t want to cry anymore, you don’t listen to that song anymore.
But you can’t get away from yourself. You can’t decide not to see yourself anymore. You can’t decide to turn off the noise in your head.
With Tony’s headlights turned off, the windows of the diner are just a stretch of black glass. Every so often, at the far end of the parking lot, a car drives down the road and a sliver of light glides from one end of the glass to the other.
But the only steady source of illumination, though distant, appears in the upper right-hand corner. A blurry pink-and-blue light. The tip of the Crestmont’s neon sign peeking over the rooftops of every business around it.
God. What I wouldn’t give to relive that summer.
When we were alone, it was so easy to talk to Hannah. It was so easy to laugh with her. But whenever people came around, I got shy. I backed off. I didn’t know how to act anymore.
In that tiny fishbowl box office, my only connection to my coworkers in the lobby was a red phone. No buttons to punch, just a receiver. But whenever I picked it up and Hannah answered on the other end, I got nervous. As if I wasn’t calling from thirty feet away, but calling her at home.
“I need change,” I would say.
“Again?” she’d respond. But always with a smile in her voice. And every time, I felt my face grow warm with embarrassment. Because the truth was, I asked for change a lot more when she was working than when she wasn’t.
A couple of minutes later, there’d be a knock on the door and I’d straighten my shirt and let her in. With a tiny cash box in hand, she’d squeeze by me, agonizingly close, to change some of my bills. And sometimes, on slow nights, she would sit in my chair and tell me to close the door.
Whenever she said that, I struggled to keep my imagination in check. Because even though windows kept us exposed on three sides, like attractions in a carnival show, and even though she only said it because we weren’t supposed to leave the door open, anything could happen within that cramped space.
Or so I wished.
Those moments, however brief and rare, made me feel so special. Hannah Baker chose to spend her free moments with me. And because we were at work, no one would think anything of it. No one could read into it.
But why? Why, whenever anyone saw us, did I pretend it meant nothing? We were working, that’s what I wanted them to believe. Not hanging out. Just working.
Why?
Because Hannah had a reputation. A reputation that scared me.
That truth first came to light a few weeks ago, at a party, with Hannah directly in front of me. An amazing moment when everything seemed to be falling in place.
Looking down into her eyes, I couldn’t help telling her I was sorry. Sorry for waiting so long to let her know how I felt.
For a brief moment, I was able to admit it. To her. To myself. But I could never admit it again. Till now.
But now, it’s too late.
And that’s why, right at this moment, I feel so much hate. Toward myself. I deserve to be on this list. Because if I hadn’t been so afraid of everyone else, I might have told Hannah that someone cared. And Hannah might still be alive.
I pull my gaze back from the neon sign.
Sometimes I would stop by Monet’s for a hot chocolate on my way home. I’d start my homework. Or sometimes I’d read. But I wasn’t writing poetry anymore.
I needed a break…from myself.
I slide my hand from under my chin to the back of my neck. The bottom strands of my hair are drenched in sweat.
But I loved poetry. I missed it. And one day, after several weeks, I decided to go back to it. I decided to use poetry to make myself happy.
Happy poems. Bright and happy sunshiny poems. Happy, happy, happy. Like the two women pictured on the flyer at Monet’s.
They taught a free course called Poetry: To Love Life. They promised to teach not only how to love poetry, but through poetry, how to better love ourselves.
Sign me up!
D-7 on your map. The community room at the public library.
It’s too dark to go there n
ow.
The poetry class began at the same time the last bell rang at school, so I’d race over there to try and make it without being too late. But even when I was late, everyone seemed happy to have me there—to provide the “feminine teen perspective” they called it.
Looking around, I see that I’m the only one left in Rosie’s. They don’t close for another thirty minutes. And even though I’m not eating or drinking anymore, the man behind the counter hasn’t asked me to leave. So I’ll stay.
Imagine ten or twelve orange chairs arranged in a circle, with the happy women from the flyer sitting at opposite ends. Only problem was, from day one, they weren’t happy. Someone, whoever made that flyer, must have digitally turned their frowns upside down.
They wrote about death. About the evilness of men. About the destruction of—and I quote—“the greenish, bluish orb with wisps of white.”
Seriously, that’s how they described it. They went on to call Earth a knocked-up gaseous alien needing an abortion.
Another reason I hate poetry. Who says “orb” instead of “ball” or “sphere?”
“Expose yourself,” they said. “Let us see your deepest and your darkest.”
My deepest and my darkest? What are you, my gynecologist?
Hannah.
So many times I wanted to raise my hand and say, “Um, so, when do we get to the happy stuff? The stuff about loving life? You know, Poetry: To Love Life? That’s what the flyer said. That’s why I’m here.”
In the end, I only made it through three of those poetry groups. But something did come of it. Something good?
No.
Hmm…I wonder.
See, someone else was in that group. Another high schooler with a perspective adored by the older poets. Who was it? The editor of our school’s very own Lost-N-Found Gazette.
Ryan Shaver.
You know who I’m talking about. And I’m sure you, Mr. Editor, can’t wait for me to say your name out loud.
So here you go, Ryan Shaver. The truth shall set you free.
The motto of the Lost-N-Found.
You’ve known this for a while, Ryan. I’m sure of it. At the first mention of poetry, you knew this one was about you. You had to. Though I’m sure you must have thought, This can’t be why I’m on the tapes. It wasn’t a big deal.
The poem from school. God, it was hers.
Remember, this is one tight, well-connected, emotional ball I’m constructing here.
I close my eyes tight, covering my eyes with my hand.
I crush my teeth together, jaw muscles burning, to keep from screaming. Or crying. I don’t want her to read it. I don’t want to hear that poem in her voice.
Would you like to hear the last poem I wrote before quitting poetry? Before quitting poetry for good?
No?
Fine. But you’ve already read it. It’s very popular at our school.
I allow my eyelids, my jaw, to relax.
The poem. We discussed it in English. We read it aloud many times.
And Hannah was there for it all.
Some of you may recall it now. Not word for word, but you know what I’m talking about. The Lost-N-Found Gazette. Ryan’s semiannual collection of items found lying around campus.
Like a love letter tossed under a desk, never discovered by its intended love. If Ryan found it, he’d scratch out the give-away names and scan it for use in an upcoming gazette.
Photographs that fell out of binders…he scanned them, too.
History notes covered in doodles by an extremely bored student…he scanned them.
Some people may wonder how Ryan found so many interesting items to scan. Did he really find them at all? Or did he steal them? I asked him that very question after one of our poetry meetings. And he swore that everything he printed was found purely by chance.
Sometimes, he admitted, people did slip items they found into his locker. Those, he said, he couldn’t vouch for one hundred percent. That’s why he scratched out names and phone numbers. And photographs, as a rule, couldn’t be too embarrassing.
He’d gather five or six pages of good, quirky material and print up fifty copies. Then he’d staple them together and drop them off at random places throughout school. Restrooms. Locker rooms. On the track.
“Never in the same spot,” he told me. He thought it was fitting for people to stumble across his magazine of stumbled across items.
But guess what? My poem? He stole it.
I pull a napkin out of the holder and wipe the abrasive paper across my eyes.
Each week, after our poetry group, Ryan and I would sit on the library steps and talk. That first week, we simply laughed about the poems the other people had written and read. We laughed about how depressing they all were.
“Wasn’t this supposed to make us happy?” he asked. Apparently, he signed up for the same reason as me.
I look up. The man behind the counter tugs on the strings of a heavy trash bag. It’s closing time.
“Can I get a glass of water?” I ask.
After the second week of class, we sat on those library steps and read some of our own poems to each other. Poems we’d written at different points in our lives.
He looks at my eyes, at the skin rubbed raw by the napkin.
But only happy poems. Poems about loving life. Poems we would never read to that depression-loving group of miserable poets inside.
And, as poets never do, we explained ourselves. Line for line.
The third week, we took the biggest chance of all and handed each other our entire notebooks of poetry.
He pushes a glass of ice water in front of me. Except for that glass and the napkin dispensers, the entire length of the counter is empty.
Wow! That took a lot of courage. For me, definitely. I’m sure for you, too, Ryan. And for the next two hours, with the sun going down, we sat on those concrete steps, turning pages.
His handwriting was horrible, so it took me a bit longer to read through his poems. But they were amazing. Much deeper than any of mine.
His stuff sounded like real poetry. Professional poetry. And someday, I’m sure of it, kids will be forced to analyze his poems out of a textbook.
I touch the cold glass, wrapping my fingers around it.
Of course, I had no idea what his poems meant. Not exactly. But I felt the emotions precisely. They were absolutely beautiful. And I felt almost ashamed at what he must have been thinking as he went through my notebook. Because reading through his, I realized how little time I’d spent on mine. I should have taken the time to choose better words. More emotional words.
But one of my poems grabbed him. And he wanted to know more about it…like when I wrote it.
But I didn’t tell him.
I don’t drink the water. I watch a single drop slide down the glass and bump against my finger.
I wrote it the same day a group of students got angry that someone had the nerve to ask for help regarding suicide. Remember why they got upset? Because whoever wrote the note didn’t sign her name.
How insensitive.
It was anonymous. Just like the poem that appeared in the Lost-N-Found.
So Ryan wanted to know why I wrote the poem.
With that one, I told him, the poem had to speak for itself. But I was interested in knowing what he thought it meant.
On the surface, he said, the poem was about acceptance—acceptance from my mother. But more than that, I wanted her approval. And I wanted certain people—in this case a boy—to stop overlooking me.
A boy?
At the base of the glass, the water creates a delicate suction, then lets go. I take a sip and let a small cube of ice slip into my mouth.
I asked if he thought it meant anything deeper.
I hold the ice on my tongue. It’s freezing, but I want it to melt there.
Part of me was joking. I thought he’d figured out my poem exactly. But I wanted to know what a teacher assigning the poem might want his or her students to di
scover. Because teachers always overdo it.
But you found it, Ryan. You found the hidden meaning. You found what even I couldn’t find in my own poem.
The poem wasn’t about my mom, you said. Or a boy. It was about me. I was writing a letter to myself…hidden in a poem.
I flinched when you told me that. I got defensive—even angry. But you were right. And I felt scared, and sad, by my own words.
You told me I wrote that poem because I was afraid of dealing with myself. And I used my mom as an excuse, accusing her of not appreciating or accepting me, when I should have been saying those words into a mirror.
“And the boy?” I asked. “What does he represent?”
It’s me. Oh God. It’s me. I know that now.
I cover my ears. Not to block any outside noise. The diner is almost completely silent. But I want to feel her words, all of them, as they’re said.
While I waited for your answer, I searched my backpack for tissue. At any moment, I knew I might cry.
You told me that no boy was overlooking me more than I was overlooking myself. At least, that’s what you thought it meant. And that’s why you asked about the poem. You felt it went deeper than even you could figure out.
Well, Ryan, you were right. It went much, much deeper than that. And if you knew that—if that’s what you thought—then why did you steal my notebook? Why did you print my poem, the poem that you yourself called “scary” in the Lost-N-Found? Why did you let other people read it?
And dissect it. And make fun of it.
It was never a lost poem, Ryan. And you never found it, so it did not belong in your collection.
But in your collection is exactly where other people found it. That’s where teachers stumbled across it right before their lectures on poetry. That’s where classrooms full of students cut up my poem, searching for its meaning.
In our class, no one got it right. Not even close. But at the time, we all thought we did. Even Mr. Porter.
Do you know what Mr. Porter said before handing out my poem? He said that reading a poem by an unknown member of our school was the same as reading a classic poem by a dead poet. That’s right—a dead poet. Because we couldn’t ask either one about its true meaning.