Thirteen Reasons Why(23)

Bolted to the back of each seat, behind a square sheet of Plexiglas, is a map of all the city’s bus routes. From where I caught this one, the bus will drive by Courtney’s house, turn left a block before Tyler’s, then stop.

We parked two and a half blocks away, which was actually the closest spot we could get. I have one of those car stereos that continues playing even after I shut off the engine. It won’t stop until someone opens a door. But that night, when I opened the door, the music didn’t stop…it just sounded distant.

“Oh my God,” you said. “I think that music’s coming from the party!”

Did I mention we were two and a half blocks away? That’s how loud it was. That party was absolutely begging for a police visit.

Which is why I don’t go to many parties. I’m so close to being valedictorian. One mistake could mess it all up for me.

We took our place in the stream of students heading to the party—like joining a bunch of salmon heading upstream to mate. When we got there, two football players—never to be seen at a party without their jerseys—stood on opposite sides of the gate collecting beer money. So I reached into my pocket for some cash.

Over the loud music, you shouted to me, “Don’t worry about it.”

We got to the gate and one of they guys said, “Two bucks a cup.” Then he realized who he was talking to. “Oh. Hey, Courtney. Here you go.” And he handed you a red plastic cup.

Two bucks? That’s it? They must charge girls differently.

You nodded your head in my direction. The guy smiled, then handed me a cup. But when I grabbed for it, he didn’t let go. He told me his replacement was coming any minute and that we should hang out. I smiled at him, but you grabbed me by the arm and pulled me through the gate.

“Don’t,” you said. “Trust me.”

I asked why, but you were scanning the crowd and didn’t hear me.

I don’t remember any stories of Courtney and any football players. Basketball players, yes. Many of them. But football? None.

Then you said we should split up. And do you want to know my first thought when you said that, Courtney? Gee, that sure didn’t take long.

You said there were a few people you needed to see and that we should meet up later. I lied and said there were some people I needed to see, too.

Then you told me not to leave without you. “You’re my ride, remember?”

How could I forget, Courtney?

The bus turns onto Courtney’s street, with For Sale signs posted in about a third of the yards. When we pass Courtney’s house, I half expect to see a red star spray-painted on the front door. But the porch is buried in darkness. No porch light. No lights in any window at all.

But you smiled at me. And finally, you said the magic word. “Good-bye.” And good-bye was exactly what you meant.

“Miss your stop, Clay?”

An icy chill shoots up my spine.

A voice. A girl’s voice. But not from the headphones.





Someone called my name. But from where?

Across the aisle, the dark belt of windows acts like a mirror. I see the reflection of a girl sitting behind me. Maybe my age. But do I know her? I turn my body around and look over the backrest.

Skye Miller. My eighth-grade crush. She smiles, or maybe it’s more of a smirk, because she knows she startled the hell out of me.

Skye’s always been pretty, but she acts like the thought’s never crossed her mind. Especially the past couple of years. She dresses in dull, loose clothing every day. Almost burying herself within them. Tonight, it’s a bulky gray sweatshirt and matching pants.

I pull the headphones from my ears. “Hey, Skye.”

“Miss your house?” she asks. More words than she’s spoken to me in a long time. More words than I’ve heard her speak to anyone in a long time. “He’ll stop if you ask him to.”

I shake my head. No. Not my house.

The bus takes a left at the next intersection and pulls up to the curb. The door slides open and the driver yells back, “Anyone?”

I look to the front of the bus, into the rearview mirror, and catch the driver’s eye. Then I turn back to Skye. “Where are you going?” I ask.

The smirk returns. Her eyes stay focused on mine. She’s trying so hard to make me feel uncomfortable. And it’s working.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she finally says.

Why does she do this? What happened between eighth grade and now? Why does she insist on being an outcast? What changed? No one knows. One day, at least it seemed that fast, she just stopped wanting to be a part of anything.

But this is my stop and I should get off. It’s halfway between two of the red stars: Tyler’s house and Courtney’s.

Or instead, I could stay and talk with Skye. To be more exact, I could stay and try to talk with her. An almost guaranteed one-way conversation.

“See you tomorrow,” she says.

And that’s it. The conversation’s over. Part of me, I admit, is relieved.

“See you later,” I say.

I lift my backpack over my shoulder and walk to the front of the bus. I thank the driver and return to the cold air outside. The door shuts behind me. The bus pulls away. Skye’s window passes with her head resting against the glass and her eyes shut.

I pull my backpack onto both shoulders and tighten the straps. Alone once again, I start walking. To Tyler’s house.