Thirteen Reasons Why(16)

That’s me. Nice Guy Clay.

Would she still say that if she heard these tapes?

I head to the back of Monet’s, toward the closed door that leads to the patio. Along the way, tables full of people stretch their legs or tilt back their chairs to form an obstacle course that begs me to spill my drink.

A drop of warm coffee spills onto my finger. I watch it slide across my knuckles and drip to the floor. I rub the toe of my shoe over the spot till it disappears. And I recall, earlier today, watching a slip of paper fall outside the shoe store.

After Hannah’s suicide, but before the shoebox of tapes arrived, I found myself walking by Hannah’s mom and dad’s shoe store many times. It was that store that brought her to town in the first place. After thirty years in business, the owner of the store was looking to sell and retire. And Hannah’s parents were looking to move.

I’m not sure why I walked by there so many times. Maybe I was searching for a connection to her, some connection outside of school, and it’s the only one I could think of. Looking for answers to questions I didn’t know how to ask. About her life. About everything.

I had no idea the tapes were on their way to explain it all.

The day after her suicide was the first time I found myself at their store, standing outside the front door. The lights were out. A single sheet of paper taped to the front window said, WELL BE OPEN SOON in thick black marker.

It was written in a hurry, I figured. They just forgot the apostrophe.

On the glass door, a delivery person had left a self-adhesive note. Among a list of other options, “Will try again tomorrow” was checked.

A few days later, I went back. Even more notes were stuck to the glass.

On my way home from school earlier today, I went by the store one more time. As I read the dates and notes on each piece of paper, the oldest note became unstuck and fluttered to the ground, resting beside my shoe. I picked it up and searched the door for the most recent note. Then I lifted a corner of that note and stuck the older one beneath it.

They’ll be back soon, I thought. They must have taken her home for the burial. Back to her old town. Unlike old age or cancer, no one anticipates a suicide. They simply left without a chance to get things in order.

I open the patio door at Monet’s, careful not to spill any more of my coffee.

Around the garden, to keep the atmosphere relaxed, the lights are kept low. Every table, including Hannah’s in the far back corner, is occupied. Three guys in baseball caps sit there, hunched over textbooks and notebooks, none of them talking.

I go back inside and sit at a small table near a window. It overlooks the garden, but Hannah’s table is hidden by a brick column choked with ivy.

I take a deep breath.

As the stories go by, one by one, I find myself relieved when my name isn’t mentioned. Followed by a fear of what she hasn’t yet said, of what she’s going to say, when my turn comes.

Because my turn is coming. I know that. And I want it to be over with.

What did I do to you, Hannah?





While I wait for her first words, I stare out the window. It’s darker outside than in here. When I pull my gaze back and focus my eyes, I can see my own reflection in the glass.

And I look away.

I glance down at the Walkman on the table. There’s still no sound, but the Play button is pressed. Maybe the tape didn’t lock in place.

So I hit Stop.





Then Play again.





Nothing.

I roll my thumb over the volume dial. The static in the headphones gets louder so I turn it back down. And I wait.

Shh!…if you’re talking in the library.

Her voice, it’s a whisper.

Shh!…in a movie theater or church.

I listen closer.

Sometimes there’s no one around to tell you to be quiet…to be very, very quiet. Sometimes you need to be quiet when you’re all alone. Like me, right now.

Shh!

At the crowded tables that fill the rest of the room, people talk. But the only words I understand are Hannah’s. The other words become a muffled background noise occasionally tipped by a sharp laugh.

For example, you’d better be quiet—extremely quiet—if you’re going to be a Peeping Tom. Because what if they heard?

I let out a breath of air. It’s not me. Still not me.

What if she…what if I…found out?

Guess what, Tyler Down? I found out.

I lean back in my chair and close my eyes.

I feel sorry for you, Tyler. I do. Everyone else on these tapes, so far, must feel a little relieved. They came off as liars or jerks or insecure people lashing out at others. But your story, Tyler…it’s kind of creepy.

I take my first sip of coffee.

A Peeping Tom? Tyler? I never knew.

And I feel a little creepy telling it, too. Why? Because I’m trying to get closer to you, Tyler. I’m trying to understand the excitement of staring through someone’s bedroom window. Watching someone who doesn’t know they’re being watched. Trying to catch them in the act of…

What were you trying to catch me in the act of, Tyler? And were you disappointed? Or pleasantly surprised?

Okay, a show of hands, please. Who knows where I am?

I set down my coffee, lean forward, and try to imagine her recording this.