Jay Asher - Thirteen Reasons Why

“Just tell me where you are,” she says.

Leaning forward on the metal bench, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m at Rosie’s.”

“The diner? Are you getting work done there?” She waits for an answer, but I don’t have one. “Doesn’t it get loud?”

The street is empty. No cars. No noise. No commotion in the background. She knows I’m not telling the truth.

“When are you going to leave?” I ask.

“As soon as I get the tapes.”

“Great.” I start walking. “I’ll see you soon.”

Listen to the conversations around you. Are people wondering why you’re sitting there alone? Now glance over your shoulder. Did a conversation stop? Did their eyes turn away?

I’m sorry if this sounds pathetic, but you know it’s true. You’ve never gone there by yourself, have you?

I haven’t.

It’s a totally different experience. And deep down you know the reason you’ve never gone alone is the reason I just explained. But if you do go, and you don’t order anything, everyone’s going to think the same thing about you that they thought about me. That you’re waiting for someone.

So sit there. And every few minutes, glance at the clock on the wall. The longer you wait-and this is true-the slower the hands will move.

Not today. When I get there, my heart will be racing as I watch the hands spin closer and closer to Mom walking through the door.

I start to run.

When fifteen minutes are up, you have my permission to order a shake. Because fifteen minutes is ten minutes longer than it should take even the slowest person to walk there from school.

Somebody…isn’t coming.

Now, if you need a recommendation, you can’t go wrong with the banana-and-peanut-butter shake.

Then keep waiting, however long it takes to finish your shake. If thirty minutes go by, start digging in with your spoon so you can get the hell out of there. That’s what I did.

You’re an ass, Marcus. You stood her up when you never even had to ask her out to begin with. It was a fund-raiser for Cheer Camp. If you didn’t want to take it seriously, you didn’t have to.

Thirty minutes is a long time to wait for a Valentine’s date. Especially inside Rosie’s Diner by yourself. It also gives you plenty of time to wonder what happened. Did he forget? Because he seemed sincere. I mean, even the cheerleader thought he meant it, right?

I keep running.

Calm down, Hannah. That’s what I kept telling myself. You’re not setting yourself up for a fall. Calm down. Does that sound familiar to anyone else? Isn’t that how I convinced myself not to pull my survey out of the box?

Okay, stop. Those were the thoughts running through my head after waiting thirty minutes for Marcus to show up. Which probably didn’t put me in a good frame of mind for when he finally did show up.

My running slows. Not because I’m out of breath or my legs are ready to collapse. I’m not physically tired. But I’m exhausted.

If Marcus didn’t stand her up, then what?

He sat down on the stool next to me and apologized. I told him that I’d almost given up and left. He looked at my empty milkshake glass and apologized again. But in his mind, he wasn’t late. He wasn’t sure I would even be there.

And I’m not going to hold that against him. Apparently, he thought we were joking about the date. Or he assumed we were joking about the date. But halfway home, he stopped, thought about it, and headed to Rosie’s just in case.

And that’s why you’re on this tape, Marcus. You turned around just in case. Just in case I, Hannah Baker-Miss Reputation-was waiting for you.

And sadly, I was. At the time, I just thought it might be fun.

At the time, I was stupid.

There’s Rosie’s. Across the street. At the far end of the parking lot.

See, when Marcus came into Rosie’s, he wasn’t alone. No, Marcus came into Rosie’s with a plan. Part of that plan was to move us away from the counter to a booth near the back. Near the pinball machines. With me on the inside.

Me, sandwiched between him…and a wall.

The parking lot is nearly empty. Only a few cars directly in front of Rosie’s, but none of them are Mom’s. So I stop.

If you want, if you’re sitting at Rosie’s right now, stay at the counter. It’s more comfortable there. Believe me.

I stand on the curb, breathing deep, exhaling hard. A red hand flashes at the intersection across the street.

I don’t know how much of his plan was thought out. Maybe he arrived with just an endgame. A goal. And like I said, Marcus is funny. So there we were, sitting in a booth with our backs to the rest of the diner, laughing. At one point Marcus had me laughing so hard that my stomach hurt. I leaned over, touching my forehead to his shoulder, begging him to stop.

The hand keeps flashing, urging me to make up my mind. Telling me to hurry. I still have time to run across the street, jump the curb, and race through the parking lot to Rosie’s.

But I don’t.

And that’s when his hand touched my knee. That’s when I knew.

The hand stops flashing. A solid, bright red hand.

And I turn around. I can’t go in there. Not yet.

I stopped laughing. I nearly stopped breathing. But I kept my forehead against your shoulder, Marcus. There was your hand, on my knee. From out of nowhere. The same way I was grabbed in the liquor store.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

“Do you want me to move it?” you asked.

I didn’t answer.

I press my hand against my stomach. It’s too much. Too much to handle.

I’ll go to Rosie’s. In a minute. And hopefully, I’ll get there before Mom.

But first, the theater where Hannah and I worked for one summer. A place where she was safe: the Crestmont.

And I didn’t move away from you, either.

It was like you and your shoulder weren’t connected anymore. Your shoulder was just a prop to rest my head against while I figured things out. And I couldn’t look away as your fingertips caressed my knee…and started moving up.

“Why are you doing that?” I asked.

It’s only a block away, and maybe it’s not a red star on her map, but it should’ve been.

It’s a red star to me.

Your shoulder rotated and I lifted my head, but now your arm was behind my back and pulling me close. And your other hand was touching my leg. My upper thigh.

I looked over the back of the booth to the other booths, to the counter, trying to catch someone’s eye. And a few people glanced over, but they all turned away.

Below the table, my fingers were fighting to pry your fingers off. To loosen your grip. To push you away. And I didn’t want to yell-it wasn’t to that level yet-but my eyes were begging for help.

I shove my hands in my pockets, balled into fists. I want to slam them into a wall or punch them through a store window. I’ve never hit anything or anyone before, and already, just tonight, I’ve wanted to hit Marcus with that rock.

But everyone turned away. No one asked if there was a problem.

Why? Were they being polite?

Was that it, Zach? Were you just being polite?

Zach? Again? With Justin on the first tape, falling on Hannah’s lawn. Then interrupting me and Hannah at Kat’s going-away party.

I hate this. I don’t want to find out how everyone fits together anymore.

“Stop it,” I said. And I know you heard me because, with me looking over the backrest, my mouth was just inches away from your ear. “Stop it.”

The Crestmont. I round the corner and, less than half a block away, there it is. One of the few landmarks in town. The last art deco theater in the state.

“Don’t worry,” you said. And maybe you knew your time was short because your hand immediately slid up from my thigh. All the way up.