by Jay Asher
What? There was nothing in my drawer worthy of a reaction like that. There was nothing in my whole room worthy of that.
“I didn’t know you were into this,” she said, nice and loud. “We should use it…together.”
“Um, okay,” I said.
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.
Very clever, I thought. “Why don’t you count them?”
So she did. “Let’s see, now. Here’s one…and two…”
I slid one foot off the bed.
“…three!”
I jumped at the window and yanked the cord. The blinds flew up. I looked for your face but you were moving so fast.
The other girl, she wasn’t looking at your face, Tyler.
“Oh my God!” she screamed. “He’s cramming his dick in his pants.”
Tyler, wherever you are, I am so sorry. You deserve this, but I’m sorry.
So who were you? I saw your height and your hair, but I couldn’t see your face clearly enough.
Still, you gave yourself up, Tyler. The next day at school I asked so many people the exact same question, Where were you last night? Some said they were at home or at a friend’s house. Or at the movies. None of your business. But you, Tyler, you had the most defensive—and interesting—response of all.
“What, me? Nowhere.”
And for some reason, telling me you were nowhere made your eyes twitch and your forehead break into a sweat.
You are such an idiot, Tyler.
Hey, at least you’re original. And at least you stopped coming around my house. But your presence, Tyler, that never left.
After your visits, I twisted my blinds shut every night. I locked out the stars and I never saw lightning again. Each night, I simply turned out the lights and went to bed.
Why didn’t you leave me alone, Tyler? My house. My bedroom. They were supposed to be safe for me. Safe from everything outside. But you were the one who took that away.
Well…not all of it.
Her voice trembles.
But you took away what was left.
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 Trying to figure out who this poor kid is, listening to outdated audiotapes.
So how important is your security, Tyler? What about your privacy? Maybe it’s not as important to you as it was for me, but that’s not for you to decide.
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.
So who was this mystery girl featured in your story, Tyler? Who smiled so beautifully when I rubbed her back? Who helped me expose you? Should I tell?
That depends. What did she ever do to me?
For the answer…insert tape three.
But I’m ready for it to be me, Hannah. I’m ready to get this over with.
Oh, and Tyler, I’m standing outside your window again. I walked away to finish your story, but your bedroom light has been out for some time…so I’m back now.
There’s a long pause. A rustling of leaves.
Knock-knock, Tyler.
I hear it. She taps on the window. Twice.
Don’t worry. You’ll find out soon enough.
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?
CASSETTE 3: SIDE A
Courtney Crimsen. What a pretty name. And yes, a very pretty girl, as well. Pretty hair. Pretty smile. Perfect skin.
And you’re also very nice. Everyone says so.
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.
Yes, Courtney, you’re sweet to everyone you meet in the halls. You’re sweet to everyone as they walk with you to your car after school.
I sip my coffee, which is getting cold.
You’re definitely one of the most popular girls in school. And you…are…just…so…sweet. Right?
Wrong.
I pound back the coffee to empty the mug.
Yes, my dear listeners, Courtney is nice to whomever she comes in contact with or whomever she’s talking to. And yet, ask yourselves—is it all a show?
I carry my mug to the pour-it-yourself bar for a refill.
I think it is. Now, let me tell you why.
First off, to everyone listening, I doubt Tyler will let you see the pictures he took of me giving Courtney a backrub.
The container of half-n-half slips from my grip and clatters to the counter. I catch it before it falls to the floor, then look over my shoulder. The girl behind the register tips her head back and laughs.
Courtney’s the one from Hannah’s room?
Hannah takes an extra-long pause. She knows that info needs to sink in.
If you have seen those pictures, lucky you. I’m sure they’re very sexy. But as you now know, they’re also very posed.
Posed. What an interesting word to sum up Courtney’s tale. Because when you’re posed, you know someone’s watching. You put on your very best smile. You let your sweetest personality shine.
Unlike Courtney’s photo in the scribble book.
And in high school, people are always watching so there’s always a reason to pose.
I press the top of the urn and a stream of dark coffee spills into the mug.
I don’t thi
nk you do this intentionally, Courtney. And that’s why I put you on these tapes. To let you know that what you do affects others. More specifically, it affected me.
Courtney does come off as genuinely sweet. Hearing her story here, on these tapes, must have killed her.
A shiver crawls up my back. “Killed her.” A phrase I will now drop from my vocabulary.
Courtney Crimsen. The name sounds almost too perfect. And as I said, you look perfect, too. The only thing left…is to be perfect.
With my coffee, cream, and sugar cubes mixed, I return to my table.
So that’s where I give you credit. You could have taken the bitch route and still had all the friends and boyfriends you could handle. But instead you took the sweet route, so everyone would like you and not a soul would hate you.
Let me be very clear. I do not hate you, Courtney. In fact, I don’t even dislike you. But for a time, I thought you and I were becoming friends.
I don’t remember that. I don’t think I ever saw them hanging out.
It turns out you were just grooming me to be another tally mark under People Who Think Courtney Crimsen Is a Really Neat Girl. Another guaranteed vote for Most Liked in the senior yearbook.
And once you did it to me, and I realized it, I watched you do it to others.
Here, Courtney, is your contribution to the anthology of my life.
Did you like that? The anthology of my life?
I just made it up.
I pull my backpack onto my lap and unzip the largest pocket.
The day after Tyler took the candid shots of our student bodies began like any other. The bell to first period rang and Courtney, as usual, ran in a couple seconds late. Not that it mattered, because Mrs. Dillard wasn’t there yet, either.
Also not unusual.
I remove Hannah’s map and unfold it on the small table.
When you were done chatting to the person in front of you, Courtney, I tapped you on the shoulder. The moment you looked into my eyes, we both began laughing. We spoke a bunch of two-or three-word sentences but I don’t remember who said what, because whatever you said were my thoughts, as well.
“So weird.”
“I know.”
“What the hell?”
“Can you imagine?”
“So funny.”
Then, when Mrs. Dillard finally came in, you turned around to face the front of the room. And when class was over, you left.
I search the map for the red star at Tyler’s house. Part of me feels strange about keeping such a close track of Hannah’s story. Like I’m obsessed. Too obsessed. While another part of me wants to deny the obsession.
It wasn’t until I stepped into the hall on my way to second period that I thought, Wait a sec. She didn’t say good-bye.
I’m just doing what she asked. That’s not obsession. It’s respect. I’m living out her last requests.
Did you say good-bye on any other day? No, not often. But after the previous night, this time it felt intentional. I guess I thought that after what we’d experienced less than twenty-four hours before, we would now be more than just casual acquaintances.
A-4. A red star on Tyler’s house.
But that, evidently, is what we’d become once again. We said hello in the halls and sometimes you said good-bye to me after class, but never more than you said it to anyone else.
Until the night of the party.
Until the night you needed me again.
I need a moment to catch up. I can’t listen anymore till I do that.
I slip off the headphones and hang them around my neck. The girl I took Wood Shop with walks around with a plastic tub, gathering mugs and plates from empty tables. I look away toward the dark window when she clears the place next to me. Her reflection glances my way several times, but I don’t turn around.
When she leaves, I sip my coffee and try my hardest not to think. I just wait.
Fifteen minutes later, a bus drives by the front door of Monet’s and the waiting is over. I grab the map, toss my backpack over my shoulder, and run out the door.
The bus is stopped at the far corner. I race down the sidewalk, up the bus steps, and find an empty seat near the middle.
The driver looks at me in the rearview mirror. “I’m ahead of schedule,” he says. “We’ll be sitting here a couple minutes.”
I nod, press the headphones into my ears, and look out the window.
Let me tell you that there is a much bigger, more important party later in the tapes.
Is that it? Is that where I come in?
But this is the party that brings Courtney into the mix.
I was at school, backpack on my shoulder, heading out of first period when you grabbed my hand.
“Hannah, wait up,” you said. “How are you?”
Your smile, your teeth…flawless.
I probably said, “Fine,” or, “Good. How are you?” But truthfully, I didn’t care, Courtney. Every time our eyes caught each other in a crowded hall and I watched your gaze jump to someone else, I lost a little more respect for you. And sometimes I wondered how many people in that one hallway felt the same.
You went on to ask if I’d heard about the party later that night. I said that I had, but that I didn’t feel like going and wandering around looking for someone to talk to. Or I didn’t feel like wandering around looking for someone to save me from talking to someone else.
“We should go together,” you said. And you tilted your head to the side, flashed your smile, and—though I’m probably imagining this—I think I even saw you bat your eyes.
Yeah, that’s Courtney. No one can resist her, and she flirts with everyone.
“Why?” I asked. “Why should we go to a party together?”
That obviously took you by surprise. I mean, you are who you are and everyone wants to go to a party with you. To at least be seen entering a party with you. Everyone! Boys. Girls. It doesn’t matter. That’s the kind of admiration people have for you.
Have? Or had? Because I have a feeling that’s about to change.
Most of them, unfortunately, don’t realize how carefully you plan that image.
You repeated my question. “Why should we go to a party together? Hannah, so we can hang out.”
I asked why you wanted to hang out after ignoring me for so long. But of course, you denied ignoring me at all. You said I must have misread things. And the party would be a good chance to get to know each other better.
And although I was still suspicious, you are who you are and everyone wants to go to a party with you.
But you knew, Hannah. You knew, but you still went. Why?
“Great!” you said. “Can you drive?”
And my heart tumbled a bit.
But I pulled it back up and ignored my suspicions once again. “Sure, Courtney,” I said. “What time?”
You flipped open your notebook and ripped out a piece of paper. In tiny blue letters you wrote your address, the time, and your initials: C.C. You handed me the paper, said, “This is going to be great!” then gathered up your stuff and left.
The bus door slides shut and we pull away from the curb.
Guess what, Courtney? On your way out the door, you forgot to say good-bye.
So here’s my theory as to why you wanted to go to a party with me: You knew I was pissed at being ignored by you. At the very least, you knew I was hurt. And that was not good for your flawless reputation. That had to be fixed.
D-4 on your map, everybody. Courtney’s house.
I reopen the map.
When I pulled up to the curb, your front door flew open. Out you came, bounding off the porch and down the walkway. Your mom, before shutting the front door, bent down to get a good look inside my car.
Don’t worry, Mrs. Crimsen, I thought. No boys in here. No alcohol. No drugs. No fun.
Why do I feel so compelled to follow her map? I don’t need to. I’m listening to the tapes, every single one, front and back, and that should be enough.
But it’s not.
You opened the passenger door, sat down, and buckled up. “Thanks for the lift,” you said.
I’m not following the map because she wants me to. I’m following it because I need to understand. Whatever it takes, I need to truly understand what happened to her.
A lift? Already having doubts about why you invited me, that was not the hello I wanted to hear.
D-4. It’s only a handful of blocks from Tyler’s house.
I wanted to be wrong about you, Courtney. I did. I wanted you to see it as me picking you up so we could go to a party together. And that is very different from me giving you a lift.
At that moment, I knew how the party would play out for us. But how it ended? Well, that was a surprise. That…was weird.
Bolted to the back of each seat, behind a square sheet of Plexiglas, is a map of all the city’s bus routes. From where I caught this one, the bus will drive by Courtney’s house, turn left a block before Tyler’s, then stop.
We parked two and a half blocks away, which was actually the closest spot we could get. I have one of those car stereos that continues playing even after I shut off the engine. It won’t stop until someone opens a door. But that night, when I opened the door, the music didn’t stop…it just sounded distant.
“Oh my God,” you said. “I think that music’s coming from the party!”
Did I mention we were two and a half blocks away? That’s how loud it was. That party was absolutely begging for a police visit.
Which is why I don’t go to many parties. I’m so close to being valedictorian. One mistake could mess it all up for me.
We took our place in the stream of students heading to the party—like joining a bunch of salmon heading upstream to mate. When we got there, two football players—never to be seen at a party without their jerseys—stood on opposite sides of the gate collecting beer money. So I reached into my pocket for some cash.
Over the loud music, you shouted to me, “Don’t worry about it.”
We got to the gate and one of they guys said, “Two bucks a cup.” Then he realized who he was talking to. “Oh. Hey, Courtney. Here you go.” And he handed you a red plastic cup.