Thirteen Reasons Why

  Well, what did you want to hear? Because I’ve heard so many stories that I don’t know which one is the most popular. But I do know which is the least popular.

  The truth.

  Now, the truth is the one you won’t forget.

  I can still see Justin huddled among his friends at school. I remember Hannah walking by, and the whole group stopped talking. They averted their eyes. And when she passed, they started laughing.

  But why do I remember this?

  Because I wanted to talk to Hannah so many times after Kat’s going-away party, but I was too shy. Too afraid. Watching Justin and his friends that day, I got the sense that there was more to her than I knew.

  Then, later, I heard about her getting felt up at the rocket slide. And she was so new to school that the rumors overshadowed everything else I knew about her.

  Hannah was beyond me, I figured. Too experienced to even think about me.

  So thank you, Justin. Sincerely. My very first kiss was wonderful. And for the month or so that we lasted, and everywhere that we went, the kisses were wonderful. You were wonderful.

  But then you started bragging.

  A week went by and I heard nothing. But eventually, as they always will, the rumors reached me. And everyone knows you can’t disprove a rumor.

  I know. I know what you’re thinking. As I was telling the story, I was thinking the same thing myself. A kiss? A rumor based on a kiss made you do this to yourself?

  No. A rumor based on a kiss ruined a memory that I hoped would be special. A rumor based on a kiss started a reputation that other people believed in and reacted to. And sometimes, a rumor based on a kiss has a snowball effect.

  A rumor, based on a kiss, is just the beginning.

  Turn the tape over for more.

  I reach for the stereo, ready to press Stop.

  And Justin, honey, stick around. You’re not going to believe where your name pops up next.

  I hold my finger over the button, listening to the soft hum in the speakers, the faint squeak of the spindles winding the tape, waiting for her voice to return.

  But it doesn’t. The story is over.

  When I get to Tony’s, his Mustang is parked against the curb in front of his house. The hood is propped open, and he and his dad are leaning over the engine. Tony holds a small flashlight while his dad tightens something deep inside with a wrench.

  “Did it break down,” I ask, “or is this just for fun?”

  Tony glances over his shoulder and, when he sees me, drops the flashlight into the engine. “Damn.”

  His dad stands up and wipes his oily hands across the front of his greased-up T-shirt. “Are you kidding? It’s always fun.” He looks at Tony and winks. “It’s even more fun when it’s something serious.”

  Scowling, Tony reaches in for the flashlight. “Dad, you remember Clay.”

  “Sure,” his dad says. “Of course. Good to see you again.” He doesn’t reach forward to shake my hand. And with the amount of grease smeared onto his shirt, I’m not offended.

  But he’s faking it. He doesn’t remember me.

  “Oh, hey,” his dad says, “I do remember you. You stayed for dinner once, right? Big on the ‘please’ and ‘thank-yous’.”

  I smile.

  “After you left, Tony’s mom was after us for a week to be more polite.”

  What can I say? Parents like me.

  “Yeah, that’s him,” Tony says. He grabs a shop rag to clean his hands. “So what’s going on, Clay?”

  I repeat his words in my head. What’s going on? What’s going on? Oh, well, since you asked, I got a bunch of tapes in the mail today from a girl who killed herself. Apparently, I had something to do with it. I’m not sure what that is, so I was wondering if I could borrow your Walkman to find out.

  “Not much,” I say.

  His dad asks if I’d mind getting in the car and starting it for them. “The key’s in the ignition.”

  I sling my backpack over to the passenger seat and slide in behind the wheel.

  “Wait. Wait!” his dad yells. “Tony, shine it over here.”

  Tony’s standing beside the car. Watching me. When our eyes meet, they lock and I can’t pull away. Does he know? Does he know about the tapes?

  “Tony,” his dad repeats. “The light.”

  Tony breaks the stare and leans in with the flashlight. In the space between the dash and the hood, his gaze slips back and forth from me to the engine.

  What if he’s on the tapes? What if his story is right before mine? Is he the one who sent them to me?

  God, I am freaking out. Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe I just look guilty of something and he’s picking up on that.

  While I wait for the cue to start the car, I look around. Behind the passenger seat, on the floor, is the Walkman. It’s just sitting there. The headphones’ cord is wrapped tightly around the player. But what’s my excuse? Why do I need it?

  “Tony, here, take the wrench and let me hold the flashlight,” his dad says. “You’re jiggling it too much.”

  They swap flashlight for wrench and, at that moment, I grab for the Walkman. Just like that. Without thinking. The middle pocket of my backpack is open, so I stuff it in there and zip it shut.

  “Okay, Clay,” his dad calls. “Turn it.”

  I turn the key and the engine starts right up.

  Through the gap above the dash, I watch his dad’s smile. Whatever he’s done, he’s satisfied. “A little fine-tuning to make her sing,” he says over the engine. “You can shut it off now, Clay.”

  Tony lowers the hood and clicks it shut. “I’ll see you inside, Dad.”

  His dad nods, lifts a metal toolbox from the street, bundles up some greasy rags, then heads for the garage.

  I pull my backpack over my shoulder and step out of the car.

  “Thanks,” Tony says. “If you didn’t show up, we’d probably be out here all night.”

  I slip my arm through the other strap and adjust the backpack. “I needed to get out of the house,” I say. “My mom was getting on my nerves.”

  Tony looks at the garage. “Tell me about it,” he says. “I need to start my homework and my dad wants to tinker under the hood some more.”

  The streetlamp overhead flickers on.

  “So, Clay,” he says, “what’d you come out here for?”

  I feel the weight of the Walkman in my backpack.

  “I was just walking by and saw you outside. Thought I’d say hi.”

  His eyes stare a little too long, so I look over at his car.

  “I’m heading to Rosie’s to see what’s up,” he says. “Can I give you a lift?”

  “Thanks,” I say, “but I’m only walking a few blocks.”

  He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Where you off to?”

  God, I hope he’s not on the list. But what if he is? What if he already listened to the tapes and knows exactly what’s going on in my head? What if he knows exactly where I’m going? Or worse, what if he hasn’t received the tapes yet? What if they get sent to him further down the line?

  If that’s the case, he’ll remember this moment. He’ll remember my stalling. My not wanting to tip him off or warn him.

  “Nowhere,” I say. I put my hands in my pockets, too. “So, you know, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He doesn’t say a word. Just watches me turn to leave. At any moment I expect him to yell, “Hey! Where’s my Walkman?” But he doesn’t. It’s a clean getaway.

  I take a right at the first corner and continue walking. I hear the car’s engine start and the crunch of gravel as the wheels of his Mustang roll forward. Then he steps on the gas, crosses the street behind me, and keeps going.

  I slide my backpack off my shoulders and down to the sidewalk. I pull out the Walkman. I unwrap the cord and slip the yellow plastic headphones over my head, pushing the tiny speaker nubs into my ears. Inside my backpack are the first four tapes, which are one or two more than I’ll probably have time to
listen to tonight. The rest I left at home.

  I unzip the smallest pocket and remove the first tape. Then I slide it into the deck, B-side out, and shut the plastic door.

  CASSETTE 1: SIDE B

  Welcome back. And thanks for hanging out for part two.

  I wiggle the Walkman into my jacket pocket and turn up the volume.

  If you’re listening to this, one of two things has just happened. A: You’re Justin, and after hearing your little tale you want to hear who’s next. Or B: You’re someone else and you’re waiting to see if it’s you.

  Well…

  A line of hot sweat rises along my hairline.

  Alex Standall, it’s your turn.

  A single bead of sweat slides down my temple and I wipe it away.

  I’m sure you have no idea why you’re on here, Alex. You probably think you did a good thing, right? You voted me Best Ass in the Freshman Class. How could anyone be angry at that?

  Listen.

  I sit on the curb with my shoes in the gutter. Near my heel, a few blades of grass poke up through the cement. Though the sun has barely started dipping beneath the rooftops and trees, streetlamps are lit on both sides of the road.

  First, Alex, if you think I’m being silly—if you think I’m some stupid little girl who gets her panties in a bunch over the tiniest things, taking everything way too seriously, no one’s making you listen. Sure, I am pressuring you with that second set of tapes, but who cares if people around town know what you think of my ass, right?

  In the houses on this block, and in my house several blocks away, families are finishing up their dinners. Or they’re loading dishwashers. Or starting their homework.

  For those families, tonight, everything is normal.

  I can name a whole list of people who would care. I can name a list of people who would care very much if these tapes got out.

  So let’s begin, shall we?

  Curling forward, I hug my legs and lay my forehead on my knees.

  I remember sitting in second period the morning your list came out. Ms. Strumm obviously had an amazing weekend because she did absolutely no prep work whatsoever.

  She had us watch one of her famously dull documentaries. What it was on, I don’t recall. But the narrator did have a thick British accent. And I remember picking at an old piece of tape stuck on my desk to keep from falling asleep. To me, the narrator’s voice was nothing more than background noise.

  Well, the narrator’s voice…and the whispers.

  When I looked up, the whispers stopped. Any eyes looking at me turned away. But I saw that paper getting passed around. A single sheet making its way up and down the aisles. Eventually, it made its way to the desk behind me—to Jimmy Long’s desk—which groaned as his body weight shifted.

  Any of you who were in class that morning, tell me: Jimmy was taking a sneaky-peek over the back of my chair, wasn’t he? That’s all I could picture as he whispered, “You bet it is.”

  I grip my knees tighter. Jackass Jimmy.

  Someone whispered, “You idiot, Jackass.”

  I turned around, but I was not in a whispering mood. “You bet what is?”

  Jimmy, who’ll drink up the attention any girl gives him, gave a halfsmile and glanced down at the paper on his desk. Again came the “idiot” whisper—this time repeated across the room as if no one wanted me in on the joke.

  When I first saw that list, given to me in history class, there were a few names I didn’t recognize. A few new students I hadn’t met yet or wasn’t sure I had their names right. But Hannah, I knew her name. And I laughed when I saw it. She was building quite a reputation in a short amount of time.

  Only now do I realize, that her reputation started in Justin Foley’s imagination.

  I tilted my head so I could read the upside-down title of the paper: FRESHMAN CLASS—WHO’S HOT / WHO’S NOT.

  Jimmy’s desk groaned again as he sat back, and I knew Ms. Strumm was coming, but I had to find my name. I didn’t care why I was on the list. At the time, I don’t think I even cared which side of the list I was on. There’s just something about having everyone agree on something—something about you—that opens a cage of butterflies in your stomach. And as Ms. Strumm walked up the aisle, ready to grab that list before I found my name, the butterflies went berserk.

  Where is my name? Where? Got it!

  Later that day, passing Hannah in the halls, I took a look back as she walked by. And I had to agree. She definitely belonged in that category.

  Ms. Strumm snatched the list away and I turned back to the front of the room. After a few minutes, gaining the nerve to look, I snuck a peek to the other side of the room. As expected, Jessica Davis looked pissed.

  Why? Because right next to my name, but in the other column, was hers.

  Her pencil tapped against her notebook at Morse code–speed and her face was burning red.

  My only thought? Thank God I don’t know Morse code.

  Truth is, Jessica Davis is so much prettier than I am. Write up a list of every body part and you’ll have a row of checkmarks the whole way down for each time her body beats mine.

  I disagree, Hannah. All the way down.

  Everyone knows Worst Ass in the Freshman Class was a lie. You can’t even consider it stretching the truth. But I’m sure no one cared why Jessica ended up on that side of your list, Alex.

  Well, no one except you…and me…and Jessica makes three.

  And a lot more than that, I’m guessing, are about to find out.

  Maybe some people think you were right in choosing me. I don’t think so. But let me put it this way, I don’t think my ass—as you call it—was the deciding factor. I think the deciding factor…was revenge.

  I tear the blades of grass out of the gutter and stand up to leave. As I start walking, I rub the blades between my fingers till they fall away.

  But this tape is not about your motivation, Alex. Though that is coming up. This tape is about how people change when they see your name on a stupid list. This tape is about…

  A pause in her speech. I reach into my jacket and turn the volume up. She’s uncrinkling a piece of paper. Smoothing it out.

  Okay. I just looked over every name—every story—that completes these tapes. And guess what. Every single event documented here may never have happened had you, Alex, not written my name on that list. It’s that simple.

  You needed a name to put down opposite Jessica’s. And since everyone at school already had a perverted image of me after Justin’s little number, I was the perfect choice, wasn’t I?

  And the snowball keeps a-rollin’. Thanks, Justin.

  Alex’s list was a joke. A bad one, true. But he had no idea it would affect her like this. This isn’t fair.

  And what about me? What did I do? How will Hannah say that I scarred her? Because I have no idea. And after people hear about it, what are they going to think when they see me? Some of them, at least two of them, already know why I’m on here. Do they see me differently now?

  No. They can’t. Because my name does not belong with theirs. I should not be on this list I’m sure of it.

  I did nothing wrong!

  So to back up a bit, this tape isn’t about why you did what you did, Alex. It’s about the repercussions of what you did. More specifically, it’s about the repercussions to me. It’s about those things you didn’t plan—things you couldn’t plan.

  God. I don’t believe it.

  The first red star. Hannah’s old house. There it is.

  But I don’t believe it.

  This house was my destination one other time. After a party. An elderly couple lives there now. And one night, about a month ago, the husband was driving his car a few blocks away, talking to his wife on the phone when he hit another car.

  I shut my eyes and shake my head against the memory. I don’t want to see it. But I can’t help it. The man was hysterical. Crying. “I need to call her! I need to call my wife!” His phone had disappeared somewhere in the
crash. We tried using mine to call her back, but his wife’s phone kept ringing. She was confused, too afraid to click over. She wanted to stay on the line, the line her husband had called her on.

  She had a bad heart, he said. She needed to know he was okay.

  I called the police, using my phone, and told the man I would continue trying to reach his wife. But he told me I needed to tell her. She needed to know he was okay. Their house wasn’t far.

  A tiny crowd had gathered, some of them taking care of the person in the other car. He was from our school. A senior. And he was in much worse shape than the old man. I shouted for a few of them to wait with my guy till an ambulance arrived. Then I left, racing toward his house to calm his wife. But I didn’t know I was also racing toward a house Hannah once lived in.

  This house.

  But this time, I walk. Like Justin and Zach, I walk down the center of the road toward East Floral Canyon where two streets meet like an upside-down T, just as Hannah described it.

  The curtains in the bay window are shut for the night. But the summer before our freshman year, Hannah stood there with Kat. The two of them looked out, to where I am now, and they watched two boys walk up the street. They watched them step off the road and onto the wet grass, slipping and tumbling over each other.

  I keep walking till I reach the gutter, pressing the toes of my shoes against the curb. I step up onto the grass and just stand there. A simple, basic step. I don’t slip, and I can’t help wondering, had Justin and Zach made it to Hannah’s front door, would she have fallen for Zach instead of Justin a few months later? Would Justin have been wiped out of the picture? Would the rumors never have started?

  Would Hannah still be alive?

  The day your list came out wasn’t too traumatic. I survived. I knew it was a joke. And the people I saw standing in the halls, huddled around whoever had a copy, they knew it was a joke, too. One big, fat, happy joke.

  But what happens when someone says you have the best ass in the freshman class? Let me tell you, Alex, because you’ll never know. It gives people—some people—the go-ahead to treat you like you’re nothing but that specific body part.