Thirteen Reasons Why(15)

Tightening his shoelaces, and without looking at me, Alex denied the rumor. “Just so you know.”

“Fine,” I said. “Fine, Jessica. Thank you for helping me the first few weeks of school. It meant a lot. And I’m sorry Alex screwed that up with this stupid little list of his, but he did.”

I told her I knew all about their relationship. On that first day at Monet’s, he had been checking one of us out. And it wasn’t me. And yes, that made me jealous. And if it helped her get over it, I accepted any blame she wanted to put on me for the two of them breaking up. But…it…was…not…true!

I reach Monet’s.

Two guys stand outside, leaning against the wall. One smokes a cigarette and the other is burrowed deep into his jacket.

But all Jessica heard was me accepting blame.

She rose up beside her chair—glaring down at me—and swung.

So tell me, Jessica, which did you mean to do? Punch me, or scratch me? Because it felt like a little bit of both. Like you couldn’t really decide.

And what was it you called me? Not that it matters, but just for the record. Because I was too busy lifting my hand and ducking—but you got me!—and I missed what you said.

That tiny scar you’ve all seen above my eyebrow, that’s the shape of Jessica’s fingernail…which I plucked out myself.

I noticed that scar a few weeks ago. At the party. A tiny flaw on a pretty face. And I told her how cute it was.

Minutes later, she started freaking out.

Or maybe you’ve never seen it. But I see it every morning when I get ready for school. “Good morning, Hannah,” it says. And every night when I get ready for bed. “Sleep tight.”

I push open the heavy wood-and-glass door to Monet’s. Warm air rushes out to grab me and everyone turns, upset at the person letting in the cold. I slink inside and shut the door behind me.

But it’s more than just a scratch. It’s a punch in the stomach and a slap in the face. It’s a knife in my back because you would rather believe some made-up rumor than what you knew to be true.

Jessica, my dear, I’d really love to know if you dragged yourself to my funeral. And if you did, did you notice your scar?

And what about you—the rest of you—did you notice the scars you left behind?

No. Probably not.

That wasn’t possible.

Because most of them can’t be seen with the naked eye.

Because there was no funeral, Hannah.





CASSETTE 2: SIDE B




In honor of Hannah, I should order a hot chocolate. At Monet’s, they serve them with tiny marshmallows floating on top. The only coffee shop I know of that does that.

But when the girl asks, I say coffee, because I’m cheap. The hot chocolate costs a whole dollar more.

She slides an empty mug across the counter and points to the pour-it-yourself bar. I pour in just enough half-and-half to coat the bottom of the mug. The rest I fill with Hairy Chest Blend because it sounds highly caffeinated and maybe I can stay up late to finish the tapes.

I think I need to finish them, and finish them tonight.

But should I? In one night? Or should I find my story, listen to it, then just enough of the next tape to see who I’m supposed to pass them off to?

“What’re you listening to?” It’s the girl from behind the counter. She’s beside me now, tilting the stainless steel containers of half-and-half, low fat, and soy. She’s checking to see if they’re full. A couple of black lines, a tattoo, stretch up from her collar and disappear into her short, cropped hair.

I glance down at the yellow headphones hanging around my neck. “Just some tapes.”

“Cassette tapes?” She picks up the soy and holds it against her stomach. “Interesting. Anyone I’ve heard of?”

I shake my head no and drop three cubes of sugar into my coffee.

She cradles the soy with her other arm then puts out her hand. “We went to school together, two years ago. You’re Clay, right?”

I put down the mug then slide my hand into hers. Her palm is warm and soft.

“We had one class together,” she says, “but we didn’t talk much.”

She looks a little familiar. Maybe her hair’s different.

“You wouldn’t recognize me,” she says. “I’ve changed a lot since high school.” She rolls her heavily made-up eyes. “Thank God.”

I place a wooden stirrer into my coffee and mix it. “Which class did we have?”

“Wood Shop.”

I still don’t remember her.

“The only thing I got out of that class were splinters,” she says. “Oh, and I made a piano bench. Still no piano, but at least I’ve got the bench. Do you remember what you made?”

I stir my coffee. “A spice rack.” The creamer mixes in and the coffee turns a light brown with some dark coffee grounds rising to the surface.

“I always thought you were the nicest guy,” she says. “In school, everyone thought so. Kind of quiet, but that’s okay. Back then, people thought I talked too much.”

A customer clears his throat at the counter. We both glance at him, but he doesn’t look away from the drink list.

She turns back to me and we shake hands again. “Well, maybe I’ll see you around, when there’s more time to talk.” Then she walks back behind the counter.