Jay Asher - Thirteen Reasons Why

“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.

Two bucks? That’s it? They must charge girls differently.

You nodded your head in my direction. The guy smiled, then handed me a cup. But when I grabbed for it, he didn’t let go. He told me his replacement was coming any minute and that we should hang out. I smiled at him, but you grabbed me by the arm and pulled me through the gate.

“Don’t,” you said. “Trust me.”

I asked why, but you were scanning the crowd and didn’t hear me.

I don’t remember any stories of Courtney and any football players. Basketball players, yes. Many of them. But football? None.

Then you said we should split up. And do you want to know my first thought when you said that, Courtney? Gee, that sure didn’t take long.

You said there were a few people you needed to see and that we should meet up later. I lied and said there were some people I needed to see, too.

Then you told me not to leave without you. “You’re my ride, remember?”

How could I forget, Courtney?

The bus turns onto Courtney’s street, with For Sale signs posted in about a third of the yards. When we pass Courtney’s house, I half expect to see a red star spray-painted on the front door. But the porch is buried in darkness. No porch light. No lights in any window at all.

But you smiled at me. And finally, you said the magic word. “Good-bye.” And good-bye was exactly what you meant.

“Miss your stop, Clay?”

An icy chill shoots up my spine.

A voice. A girl’s voice. But not from the headphones.

Someone called my name. But from where?

Across the aisle, the dark belt of windows acts like a mirror. I see the reflection of a girl sitting behind me. Maybe my age. But do I know her? I turn my body around and look over the backrest.

Skye Miller. My eighth-grade crush. She smiles, or maybe it’s more of a smirk, because she knows she startled the hell out of me.

Skye’s always been pretty, but she acts like the thought’s never crossed her mind. Especially the past couple of years. She dresses in dull, loose clothing every day. Almost burying herself within them. Tonight, it’s a bulky gray sweatshirt and matching pants.

I pull the headphones from my ears. “Hey, Skye.”

“Miss your house?” she asks. More words than she’s spoken to me in a long time. More words than I’ve heard her speak to anyone in a long time. “He’ll stop if you ask him to.”

I shake my head. No. Not my house.

The bus takes a left at the next intersection and pulls up to the curb. The door slides open and the driver yells back, “Anyone?”

I look to the front of the bus, into the rearview mirror, and catch the driver’s eye. Then I turn back to Skye. “Where are you going?” I ask.

The smirk returns. Her eyes stay focused on mine. She’s trying so hard to make me feel uncomfortable. And it’s working.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she finally says.

Why does she do this? What happened between eighth grade and now? Why does she insist on being an outcast? What changed? No one knows. One day, at least it seemed that fast, she just stopped wanting to be a part of anything.