Jay Asher - Thirteen Reasons Why

“The second set of tapes,” he says. “Hannah wasn’t bluffing. I’ve got them.”

“Oh, God.” I cover my face with both hands. Behind my eyebrow, the pounding is back again. With the base of my palm, I press on it. Hard.

“It’s okay,” he says.

I can’t look at him. What does he know? About me? What has he heard? “What’s okay?”

“What were you listening to in there?”

“What?”

“Which tape?”

I can try and deny it, pretend I have no clue what he’s talking about. Or I can get out of his car and leave. But either way, he knows.

“It’s okay, Clay. Honest. Which tape?”

With my eyes still shut, I press my knuckles against my forehead. “Ryan’s,” I say. “The poem.” Then I look at him.

He leans his head back, eyes closed.

“What?” I ask.

No answer.

“Why’d she give them to you?”

He touches the key-chain dangling in the ignition. “Can I drive while you listen to the next tape?”

“Tell me why she gave them to you.”

“I’ll tell you,” he says, “if you’ll just listen to the next tape right now.”

“Why?”

“Clay, I’m not joking. Listen to the tape.”

“Then answer my question.”

“Because it’s about you, Clay.” He lets go of his keys. “The next tape is about you.”

Nothing.

My heart doesn’t jump. My eyes don’t flinch. I don’t breathe.

And then.

I snap my arm back, my elbow into the seat. Then I smash it into the door and I want to pound my head sideways into the window. But I pound it back against the headrest instead.

Tony lays a hand on my shoulder. “Listen to it,” he says. “And don’t leave this car.”

He turns the ignition.

With tears falling, I roll my head to face him. But he’s staring straight ahead.

I open the door of the Walkman and pull out the tape. The fifth tape. A dark blue number nine in the corner. My tape. I am number nine.

I drop the tape back into the Walkman and, holding the player in both hands, close it like a book.

Tony puts the car in gear and drives through the empty parking lot, heading for the street.

Without looking, I run my thumb across the top of the Walkman, feeling for the button that brings me into the story.

Romeo, oh Romeo. Wherefore art thou, Romeo?

My story. My tape. This is how it begins.

Good question, Juliet. And I wish I knew the answer.

Tony shouts over the engine. “Clay, it’s okay!”

To be totally honest, there was never a point where I said to myself, Clay Jensen…he’s the one.

Just hearing my name, the pain in my head doubles. I feel an agonizing twist in my heart.

I’m not even sure how much of the real Clay Jensen I got to know over the years. Most of what I knew was secondhand information. And that’s why I wanted to know him better. Because everything I heard-and I mean everything!-was good.

It was one of those things where, once I noticed it, I couldn’t stop noticing it.

Kristen Rennert, for example. She always wears black. Black pants. Or black shoes. Black shirt. If it’s a black jacket, and that’s the only black she’s wearing, she won’t take it off all day. The next time you see her, you’ll notice it. And then you won’t be able to stop noticing it.

Steve Oliver’s the same way. Whenever he raises his hand to say something, or ask a question, he always begins with the words “all right.”

“Mr. Oliver?”

“All right, if Thomas Jefferson was a slave owner…”

“Mr. Oliver?”

“All right, I got 76.1225.”

“Mr. Oliver?”

“All right, can I have a hall pass?”

Seriously. Every time. And now you’ll notice it, too…every time.

Yes, I’ve noticed it, Hannah. But let’s get on with it. Please.

Overhearing gossip about Clay became a similar distraction. And like I said, I didn’t know him very well, but my ears perked up whenever I heard his name. I guess I wanted to hear something-anything-juicy. Not because I wanted to spread gossip. I just couldn’t believe someone could be that good.

I glance at Tony and roll my eyes. But he’s driving, looking straight ahead.

If he actually was that good…wonderful. Great! But it became a personal game of mine. How long could I go on hearing nothing but good things about Clay Jensen?

Normally, when a person has a stellar image, another person’s waiting in the wings to tear them apart. They’re waiting for that one fatal flaw to expose itself.

But not with Clay.

Again, I look over at Tony. This time, he’s smirking.

I hope this tape doesn’t make you run out and dig for that deep, dark, and dirty secret of his…which I’m sure is there. At least one or two of them, right?

I’ve got a few.

But wait, isn’t that what you’re doing, Hannah? You’re setting him up as Mr. Perfect only to tear him down. You, Hannah Baker, were the one waiting in the wings. Waiting for a flaw. And you found it. And now you can’t wait to tell everyone what it is and ruin his image.

To which I say…no.

My chest relaxes, freeing a breath of air I didn’t even know I was holding.

And I hope you’re not disappointed. I hope you aren’t just listening-salivating-for gossip. I hope these tapes mean more to you than that.

Clay, honey, your name does not belong on this list.

I lean my head against the window and close my eyes, concentrating on the cold glass. Maybe if I listen to the words but concentrate on the cold, maybe I can hold it together.

You don’t belong in the same way as the others. It’s like that song: One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn’t belong.

And that’s you, Clay. But you need to be here if I’m going to tell my story. To tell it more completely.

“Why do I have to hear this?” I ask. “Why didn’t she just skip me if I don’t belong?”

Tony keeps driving. If he looks anywhere other than straight ahead, it’s only briefly into the rearview mirror.

“I would’ve been happier never hearing this,” I say.

Tony shakes his head. “No. It would drive you crazy not knowing what happened to her.”

I stare through the windshield at the white lines glowing in the headlights. And I realize he’s right.

“Besides,” he says, “I think she wanted you to know.”

Maybe, I think. But why? “Where are we going?”

He doesn’t answer.

Yes, there are some major gaps in my story. Some parts I just couldn’t figure out how to tell. Or couldn’t bring myself to say out loud. Events I haven’t come to grips with…that I’ll never come to grips with. And if I never have to say them out loud, then I never have to think them all the way through.

But does that diminish any of your stories? Are your stories any less meaningful because I’m not telling you everything?

No.

Actually, it magnifies them.

You don’t know what went on in the rest of my life. At home. Even at school. You don’t know what goes on in anyone’s life but your own. And when you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re not messing with just that part. Unfortunately, you can’t be that precise and selective. When you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re messing with their entire life.

Everything…affects everything.

The next few stories are centered around one night.

The party.

They’re centered around our night, Clay. And you know what I mean by our night because, through all the years we’ve spent going to the same school or working together at the movie theater, there’s only one night when we connected. when we really connected.

That night as well drags many of you into the story…one of you for the second time. A random night that none of you can take back.