Jay Asher - Thirteen Reasons Why

I approach the entrance to the parking lot, a patch of ivy with a wide slab of etched stone welcoming us back to high school. COURTESY OF THE CLASS OF ’93. I’ve walked past this stone many times over the past three years, but not once with the parking lot this full. Not once, because I have never been this late.

Till today.

For two reasons.

One: I waited outside the post office doors. Waiting for them to open so I could mail a shoebox full of audiotapes. I used a brown paper bag and a roll of packing tape to rewrap it, conveniently forgetting to add my return address. Then I mailed the package to Jenny Kurtz, changing the way she’ll see life, how she’ll see the world, forever.

And two: Mr. Porter. If I sit there in first period, with him writing on the board or standing behind the podium, the only place I can imagine looking is in the middle of the room, one desk to the left.

The empty desk of Hannah Baker.

People stare at her desk every day. But today, for me, is profoundly different than yesterday. So I’ll take my time at my locker. And in the restroom. Or wandering through the halls.

I follow a sidewalk that traces the outer edge of the school parking lot. I follow it across the front lawn, through the glass double doors of the main building. And it feels strange, almost sad, to walk through the empty halls. Each step I take sounds so lonely.

Behind the trophy display are five freestanding banks of lockers, with offices and restrooms on either side. I see a few other students late for school, gathering their books.

I reach my locker, lean my head forward, and rest it against the cool metal door. I concentrate on my shoulders and neck, relaxing the muscles. I concentrate on my breathing to slow it down. Then I turn the combination dial to five. Then left to four, then right to twenty-three.

How many times did I stand right here, thinking I would never get a chance with Hannah Baker?

I had no idea how she felt about me. No idea who she really was. Instead, I believed what other people said about her. And I was afraid what they might say about me if they knew I liked her.

I spin the dial, clearing the combination.

Five.

Four.

Twenty-three.

How many times after the party did I stand right here, when Hannah was still alive, thinking my chances with her were over? Thinking I said or did something wrong. Too afraid to talk to her again. Too afraid to try.

And then, when she died, the chances disappeared forever.

It all began a few weeks ago, when a map slipped through the vents of my locker.

I wonder what’s in Hannah’s locker right now. Is it empty? Did the custodian pack everything into a box, drop it in a storage closet, waiting for her parents to return? Or does her locker remain untouched, exactly as she left it?

With my forehead still pressed against the metal, I turn my head just enough to look into the nearest hallway, toward the always-open door to first period. Mr. Porter’s room.

Right there, outside his door, is where I last saw Hannah Baker alive.

I close my eyes.

Who am I going to see today? Besides me, eight people at this school have already listened to the tapes. Eight people, today, are waiting to see what the tapes have done to me. And over the next week or so, as the tapes move on, I’ll be doing the same to the rest of them.

In the distance, muffled by a classroom wall, comes a familiar voice. I slowly open my eyes. But the voice will never sound friendly again.

“I need someone to take this to the front office for me.”

Mr. Porter’s voice creeps down the hall straight at me. The muscles in my shoulders feel tight, heavy, and I pound my fist into the locker.

A chair squeaks, followed by footsteps leaving his room. My knees feel ready to crumble, waiting for the student to see me and ask why I’m not in class.

From a bank of lockers further up, someone clicks a locker shut.

Coming out of Mr. Porter’s class, Steve Oliver nods his head at me and smiles. The student from the other locker rounds the corner into the hall, almost colliding into Steve.

She whispers, “I’m sorry,” then moves around him to get by.

Steve looks down at her but doesn’t respond, just keeps up his pace, moving closer to me. “All right, Clay!” he says. Then he laughs. “Someone’s late for class, huh?”

Beyond him, in the hallway, the girl turns. It’s Skye.

The back of my neck starts sweating. She looks at me, and I hold her gaze for a few steps, then she turns to keep walking.

Steve walks up close, but I don’t look at him. I motion for him to move to the side. “Talk to me later,” I say.

Last night, on the bus, I left without talking to Skye. I wanted to talk with her, I tried to, but I let her slide out of the conversation. Over the years, she’s learned how to avoid people. Everyone.

I step away from my locker and watch her continue down the hall.

I want to say something, to call her name, but my throat tightens.

Part of me wants to ignore it. To turn around and keep myself busy, doing anything, till second period.

But Skye’s walking down the same stretch of hall where I watched Hannah slip away two weeks ago. On that day, Hannah disappeared into a crowd of students, allowing the tapes to say her good-bye. But I can still hear the footsteps of Skye Miller, sounding weaker and weaker the further she gets.

And I start walking, toward her.

I pass the open door to Mr. Porter’s room and, in one hurried glance, pull in more than I expected. The empty desk near the center of the room. Empty for two weeks and for the rest of the year. Another desk, my desk, empty for one day. Dozens of faces turn toward me. They recognize me, but they don’t see everything. And there’s Mr. Porter, facing away, but starting to turn.

A flood of emotion rushes into me. Pain and anger. Sadness and pity. But most surprising of all, hope.

I keep walking.

Skye’s footsteps are growing louder now. And the closer I get to her, the faster I walk, and the lighter I feel. My throat begins to relax.

Two steps behind her, I say her name.

“Skye.”

JOAN MARIE

for saying, “I do,”

and when I almost gave up because I thought

I’d never sell a book,

for saying, “You will.”

ROBIN MELLOM & EVE PORINCHAK

“The road to publication is like a churro-

long and bumpy, but sweet.”

You two made it sweet.

(Disco Mermaids forever!)

MOM & DAD & NATE

for encouraging my creative pursuits from the beginning…

no matter how ridiculous.

LAURA RENNERT

for saying, “I can sell this.”

KRISTEN PETTIT

for saying, “Can I buy this?”

Your editorial guidance brought this book to a whole new level.

S.L.O.W. FOR CHILDREN

(my critique group)

for being so critical…in a good way.

LIN OLIVER & STEPHEN MOOSER AT SCBWI

for years of professional support and encouragement

(the Work-In-Progress grant was nice, too).

ROXYANNE YOUNG AT SMART WRITERS.COM

for believing in this book from the beginning

(the Grand Prize designation was nice, too).

KATHLEEN DUEY

for mentoring me through the early stages of this creative pursuit.

CHRIS CRUTCHER

for writing Stotan!, the first teen novel I ever read.

and for encouraging me to finish this, the first teen novel

I ever wrote.

KATE O’SULLIVAN

Your excitement about this novel kept me excited

about this novel.

THE LIBRARIANS & BOOKSELLERS OF SHERIDAN, WYOMING & SAN LUIS OBISPO, CALIFORNIA

Not just co-workers, but friends.

NANCY HURD

The reason I wrote my first book…thirteen years ago.