Thirteen Reasons Why

  “It’s true,” you said.

  And then, just like that, I let go. My shoulders went limp. My legs fell apart. I knew exactly what I was doing.

  Not once had I given in to the reputation you’d all set for me. Not once. Even though sometimes it was hard. Even though, sometimes, I found myself attracted to someone who only wanted to get with me because of what they’d heard. But I always said no to those people. Always!

  Until Bryce.

  So congratulations, Bryce. You’re the one. I let my reputation catch up with me—I let my reputation become me—with you. How does it feel?

  Wait, don’t answer that. Let me say this first: I was not attracted to you, Bryce. Ever. In fact, you disgusted me.

  And I’m going to kick your ass. I swear it.

  You were touching me…but I was using you. I needed you, so I could let go of me, completely.

  For everyone listening, let me be clear. I did not say no or push his hand away. All I did was turn my head, clench my teeth, and fight back tears. And he saw that. He even told me to relax.

  “Just relax,” he said. “Everything will be okay.” As if letting him finger me was going to cure all my problems.

  But in the end, I never told you to get away…and you didn’t.

  You stopped rubbing circles on my stomach. Instead, you rubbed back and forth, gently, along my waist. Your pinky made its way under the top of my panties and rolled back and forth, from hip to hip. Then another finger slipped below, pushing your pinky further down, brushing it through my hair.

  And that’s all you needed, Bryce. You started kissing my shoulder, my neck, sliding your fingers in and out. And then you kept going. You didn’t stop there.

  I’m sorry. Is this getting too graphic for some of you? Too bad.

  When you were done, Bryce, I got out of the hot tub and walked two houses away. The night was over.

  I was done.

  I tighten my fist and lift it in front of my face. Through my teary eyes, I watch the blood squeeze through my fingers. The skin is cut deep in a few places, torn by the rusted fence.

  No matter where Hannah wants me to go next, I know where I’m spending the rest of my night. But first, I need to clean my hand. The cuts sting, but I mostly feel weak from the sight of my own blood.

  I head for the nearest gas station. It’s a couple of blocks down and not too far out of my way. I flick my hand a few times, dripping dark spots of blood onto the sidewalk.

  When I reach the station, I tuck my hurt hand into my pocket and pull open the glass door of the mini-mart. I find a clear bottle of rubbing alcohol and a small box of Band-Aids, drop a few bucks on the counter, and ask for a key to the restroom.

  “Restrooms are around back,” the woman behind the counter says.

  I turn the key in the lock and push the restroom door open with my shoulder. Then I rinse my hand beneath cold water and watch the blood circle down the drain. I crack the seal on the bottle of alcohol and, in one motion because I won’t do it if I think, empty the entire bottle over my hand.

  My whole body tenses and I curse as loud and as hard as I can. It feels like my skin is peeling away from the muscle.

  After what seems like nearly an hour, I can finally bend and flex my fingers again. Using my free hand and my teeth, I apply some Band-Aids to my cut hand.

  I return the key and the woman says nothing more than, “Have a good night.”

  When I reach the sidewalk, I start jogging again. There’s only one tape left. A blue number thirteen painted in the corner.

  CASSETTE 7: SIDE A

  Eisenhower Park is empty. I stand silently at the entrance, taking it all in. This is where I’ll spend the night. Where I’ll listen to the last words Hannah Baker wants to say before I let myself fall asleep.

  Lampposts stand in the various play areas, but most of the bulbs are either burnt out or busted. The bottom half of the rocket slide is hidden in darkness. But near the top, where the rocket climbs higher than the swings and the trees, moonlight hits the metal bars all the way up to the peak.

  I step onto an area of sand surrounding the rocket. I duck beneath its bottom platform, lifted up from the ground by three large metal fins. Above me, a circle the size of a manhole is cut into the lowest level. A metal ladder descends to the sand.

  When I stand up, my shoulders poke through the hole. With my good hand, I grip the lip of the circle and climb to the first platform.

  I reach into my jacket pocket and press Play.

  One…last…try.

  She’s whispering. The recorder is close to her mouth and with each break in her words I can hear her breathe.

  I’m giving life one more chance. And this time, I’m getting help. I’m asking for help because I cannot do this alone. I’ve tried that.

  You didn’t, Hannah. I was there for you and you told me to leave.

  Of course, if you’re listening to this, I failed. Or he failed. And if he fails, the deal is sealed.

  My throat tightens, and I start climbing up the next ladder.

  Only one person stands between you and this collection of audiotapes: Mr. Porter.

  No! He cannot know about this.

  Hannah and I both have Mr. Porter for first-period English. I see him every day. I do not want him to know about this. Not about me. Not about anyone. To bring an adult into this, someone from school, is beyond what I imagined.

  Mr. Porter, let’s see how you do.

  The sound of Velcro tearing apart. Then stuffing. She’s shoving the recorder into something. A backpack? Her jacket?

  She knocks.

  And knocks again.

  —Hannah. Glad you made it.

  The voice is muffled, but it’s him. Deep, but friendly.

  —Come in. Sit here.

  Thank you.

  Our English teacher, but also the guidance counselor for students with last names A through G. Hannah Baker’s guidance counselor.

  —Are you comfortable? Do you want some water?

  I’m fine. Thank you.

  —So, Hannah, how can I help you? What would you like to talk about?

  Well, that’s…I don’t know, really. Just everything, I guess.

  —That might take a while.

  A long pause. Too long.

  —Hannah, it’s okay. I’ve got as much time as you need. Whenever you’re ready.

  It’s just…things. Everything’s so hard right now.

  Her voice is shaky.

  I don’t know where to begin. I mean, I kind of do. But there’s so much and I don’t know how to sum it all up.

  —You don’t need to sum it all up. Why don’t we begin with how you’re feeling today.

  Right now?

  —Right now.

  Right now I feel lost, I guess. Sort of empty.

  —Empty how?

  Just empty. Just nothing. I don’t care anymore.

  —About?

  Make her tell you. Keep asking questions, but make her tell you.

  About anything. School. Myself. The people in my school.

  —What about your friends?

  You’re going to have to define “friends” if you want an answer to that question.

  —Don’t tell me you don’t have friends, Hannah. I see you in the halls.

  Seriously, I need a definition. How do you know what a friend is?

  —Someone you can turn to when…

  Then I don’t have any. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? I’m turning to you.

  —Yes. You are. And I’m glad you’re here, Hannah.

  I crawl across the second platform and kneel beside an opening in the bars. An opening big enough for people to crawl through to reach the slide.

  You don’t know how hard it was to set up this meeting.

  —My schedule’s been fairly open this week.

  Not hard to schedule. Hard to get myself here.

  Moonlight catches the smooth metal of the slide. I can imagine Hannah here, about two years ag
o, pushing off and sliding down.

  Slipping away.

  —Again, I’m glad that you’re here, Hannah. So tell me, when you leave this office, how do you want things to be different for you?

  You mean, how can you help?

  —Yes.

  I guess I…I don’t know. I’m not sure what I’m expecting.

  —Well, what do you need right now that you’re not getting? Let’s start there.

  I need it to stop.

  —You need what to stop?

  I need everything to stop. People. Life.

  I push myself back from the slide.

  —Hannah, do you know what you just said?

  She knows what she said, Mr. Porter. She wants you to notice what she said and help her.

  —You said you wanted life to stop, Hannah. Your life?

  No response.

  —Is that what you meant to say, Hannah? Those are very serious words, you know.

  She knows every word that comes out of her mouth, Mr. Porter. She knows they’re serious words. Do something!

  I know. They are. I’m sorry.

  Don’t apologize. Talk to him!

  I don’t want my life to end. That’s why I’m here.

  —So what happened, Hannah? How did we get here?

  We? Or how did I get here?

  —You, Hannah. How did you get to this point? I know you can’t sum it all up. It’s the snowball effect, am I right?

  Yes. The snowball effect. That’s what she’s been calling it.

  —It’s one thing on top of another. It’s too much, isn’t it?

  It’s too hard.

  —Life?

  Another pause.

  I grab onto the outer bars of the rocket and pull myself up. My bandaged hand hurts. It stings to put my weight on it, but I don’t care.

  —Here. Take this. An entire box of tissues just for you. Never been used.

  A laugh. He got her to laugh!

  Thank you.

  —Let’s talk about school, Hannah. So I can get some idea how we—I’m sorry—how you got to this point.

  Okay.

  I start climbing to the top level.

  —When you think of school, what’s the first thing that comes to mind?

  Learning, I guess.

  —Well, that’s good to hear.

  I’m kidding.

  Now Mr. Porter laughs.

  I do learn here, but that’s not what school is for me.

  —Then what is it for you?

  A place. Just a place filled with people that I’m required to be with.

  I sit on the top platform.

  —And that’s hard for you?

  At times.

  —With certain people, or people in general?

  With certain people. But also…everyone.

  —Can you be a little more specific?

  I scoot backward across the platform and lean against the metal steering wheel. Above the tree line, the half-moon is almost too bright to look at.

  It’s hard because I don’t know who’s going to…you know…get me next. Or how.

  —What do you mean, “get” you?

  Not like a conspiracy or anything. But it feels like I never know when something’s going to pop out of the woodwork.

  —And get you?

  I know, it sounds silly.

  —Then explain.

  It’s hard to explain unless you’ve heard some of the rumors about me.

  —I haven’t. Teachers, especially a teacher moonlighting as a counselor, tend to get left out of student gossip. Not that we don’t have our own gossip.

  About you?

  He laughs.

  —It depends. What have you heard?

  Nothing. I’m joking.

  —But you’ll tell me if you hear anything.

  I promise.

  Don’t joke, Mr. Porter. Help her. Get back to Hannah. Please.

  —When was the last time a rumor…popped up?

  See, that’s it. Not all of them are rumors.

  —Okay.

  No. Listen…

  Please listen.

  Years ago I was voted…you know, in one of those polls. Well, not really a poll, but someone’s stupid idea of a list. A best-of and worst-of thing.

  He doesn’t respond. Did he see it? Does he know what she’s talking about?

  And people have been reacting to it ever since.

  —When was the last time?

  I hear her pull a tissue from the box.

  Recently. At a party. I swear, one of the worst nights of my life.

  —Because of a rumor?

  So much more than a rumor. But partly, yes.

  —Can I ask what happened at this party?

  It wasn’t really during the party. It was after.

  —Okay, Hannah, can we play Twenty Questions?

  What?

  —Sometimes it’s hard for people to open up, even to a counselor where everything is strictly confidential.

  Okay.

  —So, can we play Twenty Questions?

  Yes.

  —At this party you mentioned, are we talking about a boy?

  Yes. But again, it wasn’t during the party.

  —I understand that. But we need to start somewhere.

  Okay.

  He exhales deeply.

  —I’m not going to judge you, Hannah, but did anything happen that night that you regret?

  Yes.

  I stand up and walk to the outer bars of the rocket. Wrapping my hands around two of the bars, I touch my face to the empty space between them.

  —Did anything happen with this boy—and you can be totally honest with me, Hannah—did anything happen that might be considered illegal?

  You mean rape? No. I don’t think so.

  —Why don’t you know?

  Because there were circumstances.

  —Alcohol?

  Maybe, but not with me.

  —Drugs?

  No, just more circumstances.

  —Are you thinking of pressing charges?

  No. I’m…no.

  I exhale a full breath of air.

  —Then what are your options?

  I don’t know.

  Tell her, Mr. Porter. Tell her what her options are.

  —What can we do to solve this problem, Hannah? Together.

  Nothing. It’s over.

  —Something needs to be done, Hannah. Something needs to change for you.

  I know. But what are my options? I need you to tell me.

  —Well, if you won’t press charges, if you’re not sure if you even can press charges, then you have two options.

  What? What are they?

  She sounds hopeful. She’s putting too much hope in his answers.

  —One, you can confront him. We can call him in here to discuss what happened at this party. I can call you both out of…

  You said there were two options.

  —Or two, and I’m not trying to be blunt here, Hannah, but you can move on.

  You mean, do nothing?

  I grip the bars and shut my eyes tight.

  —It is an option, and that’s all we’re talking about. Look, something happened, Hannah. I believe you. But if you won’t press charges and you won’t confront him, you need to consider the possibility of moving beyond this.

  And if that’s not a possibility? Then what? Because guess what, Mr. Porter, she won’t do it.

  Move beyond this?

  —Is he in your class, Hannah?

  He’s a senior.

  —So he’ll be gone next year.

  You want me to move beyond this.

  It’s not a question, Mr. Porter. Don’t take it as one. She’s thinking out loud. It’s not an option because she can’t do it. Tell her you’re going to help her.

  There’s a rustle.

  Thank you, Mr. Porter.

  No!

  —Hannah. Wait. You don’t need to leave.

  I scream through the bars. Over th
e trees. “No!”

  I think I’m done here.

  Do not let her leave.

  I got what I came for.

  —I think there’s more we can talk about, Hannah.

  No, I think we’ve figured it out. I need to move on and get over it.

  —Not get over it, Hannah. But sometimes there’s nothing left to do but move on.

  Do not let her leave that room!

  You’re right. I know.

  —Hannah, I don’t understand why you’re in such a hurry to leave.

  Because I need to get on with things, Mr. Porter. If nothing’s going to change, then I’d better get on with it, right?

  —Hannah, what are you talking about?

  I’m talking about my life, Mr. Porter.

  A door clicks.

  —Hannah, wait.

  Another click. Now the tearing of Velcro.

  Footsteps. Picking up speed.

  I’m walking down the hall.

  Her voice is clear. It’s louder.

  His door is closed behind me. It’s staying closed.

  A pause.

  He’s not coming.

  I press my face hard against the bars. They feel like a vise tightening against my skull the further I push.

  He’s letting me go.

  The point behind my eyebrow is throbbing so hard, but I don’t touch it. I don’t rub it. I let it pound.

  I think I’ve made myself very clear, but no one’s stepping forward to stop me.

  Who else, Hannah? Your parents? Me? You were not very clear with me.

  A lot of you cared, just not enough. And that…that is what I needed to find out.

  But I didn’t know what you were going through, Hannah.

  And I did find out.

  The footsteps continue. Faster.

  And I’m sorry.

  The recorder clicks off.

  With my face pressing against the bars, I begin to cry. If anyone is walking through the park, I know they can hear me. But I don’t care if they hear me because I can’t believe I just heard the last words I’ll ever hear from Hannah Baker.

  “I’m sorry.” Once again, those were the words. And now, anytime someone says I’m sorry, I’m going to think of her.

  But some of us won’t be willing to say those words back. Some of us will be too angry at Hannah for killing herself and blaming everyone else.

  I would have helped her if she’d only let me. I would have helped her because I want her to be alive.

  The tape vibrates in the Walkman as it reaches the end of its spool.