Thirteen Reasons Why(32)

Me, sandwiched between him…and a wall.

The parking lot is nearly empty. Only a few cars directly in front of Rosie’s, but none of them are Mom’s. So I stop.

If you want, if you’re sitting at Rosie’s right now, stay at the counter. It’s more comfortable there. Believe me.

I stand on the curb, breathing deep, exhaling hard. A red hand flashes at the intersection across the street.

I don’t know how much of his plan was thought out. Maybe he arrived with just an endgame. A goal. And like I said, Marcus is funny. So there we were, sitting in a booth with our backs to the rest of the diner, laughing. At one point Marcus had me laughing so hard that my stomach hurt. I leaned over, touching my forehead to his shoulder, begging him to stop.

The hand keeps flashing, urging me to make up my mind. Telling me to hurry. I still have time to run across the street, jump the curb, and race through the parking lot to Rosie’s.

But I don’t.

And that’s when his hand touched my knee. That’s when I knew.

The hand stops flashing. A solid, bright red hand.

And I turn around. I can’t go in there. Not yet.

I stopped laughing. I nearly stopped breathing. But I kept my forehead against your shoulder, Marcus. There was your hand, on my knee. From out of nowhere. The same way I was grabbed in the liquor store.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

“Do you want me to move it?” you asked.

I didn’t answer.

I press my hand against my stomach. It’s too much. Too much to handle.

I’ll go to Rosie’s. In a minute. And hopefully, I’ll get there before Mom.

But first, the theater where Hannah and I worked for one summer. A place where she was safe: the Crestmont.

And I didn’t move away from you, either.

It was like you and your shoulder weren’t connected anymore. Your shoulder was just a prop to rest my head against while I figured things out. And I couldn’t look away as your fingertips caressed my knee…and started moving up.

“Why are you doing that?” I asked.

It’s only a block away, and maybe it’s not a red star on her map, but it should’ve been.

It’s a red star to me.

Your shoulder rotated and I lifted my head, but now your arm was behind my back and pulling me close. And your other hand was touching my leg. My upper thigh.

I looked over the back of the booth to the other booths, to the counter, trying to catch someone’s eye. And a few people glanced over, but they all turned away.

Below the table, my fingers were fighting to pry your fingers off. To loosen your grip. To push you away. And I didn’t want to yell—it wasn’t to that level yet—but my eyes were begging for help.

I shove my hands in my pockets, balled into fists. I want to slam them into a wall or punch them through a store window. I’ve never hit anything or anyone before, and already, just tonight, I’ve wanted to hit Marcus with that rock.

But everyone turned away. No one asked if there was a problem.

Why? Were they being polite?

Was that it, Zach? Were you just being polite?

Zach? Again? With Justin on the first tape, falling on Hannah’s lawn. Then interrupting me and Hannah at Kat’s going-away party.

I hate this. I don’t want to find out how everyone fits together anymore.

“Stop it,” I said. And I know you heard me because, with me looking over the backrest, my mouth was just inches away from your ear. “Stop it.”

The Crestmont. I round the corner and, less than half a block away, there it is. One of the few landmarks in town. The last art deco theater in the state.

“Don’t worry,” you said. And maybe you knew your time was short because your hand immediately slid up from my thigh. All the way up.

So I rammed both of my hands into your side, throwing you to the floor.

Now, when someone falls out of a booth, it’s kind of funny. It just is. So you’d think people would’ve started laughing. Unless, of course, they knew it wasn’t an accident. So they knew something was going on in that booth, they just didn’t feel like helping.

Thanks.

The wraparound marquee stretching over the sidewalk. The ornate sign reaching to the sky like an electric peacock feather. Each letter flickers on one at a time, C-R-E-S-T-M-O-N-T, like filling in a crossword puzzle with neon letters.

Anyway, you left. You didn’t storm out. Just called me a tease, loud enough for everyone to hear, and walked out.

So now, let’s back up. To me, sitting at the counter, getting ready to leave. To me, thinking Marcus wasn’t showing up because he simply didn’t care. And I’ll tell you what I was thinking then. Because now, it applies even more.

I walk toward the Crestmont. The other stores I pass are all closed for the night. A solid wall of darkened windows. But then a triangular wedge cuts away from the sidewalk, its walls and marble floor the same colors as the neon sign, pointing in to the lobby. And in the middle of the wedge, the box office. Like a tollbooth, with windows on three sides and a door in the rear.

That’s where I worked on most nights.

For the longest time, from almost day one at this school, it seemed that I was the only one who cared about me.

Put all of your heart into getting that first kiss…only to have it thrown back in your face.