Thirteen Reasons Why(38)

That sure looked like a lot of fun, Zach.

And that’s when I caught you. With a single finger, you touched the lip of my bag and tilted it down just enough to peek inside.

Nothing.

So you headed toward the door without checking your own bag, which I found very interesting.

The man behind the counter picks up my glass and, with a chocolate-stained rag, wipes the counter.

Of course, that didn’t prove anything. Maybe you just liked seeing who was getting notes and who wasn’t…with a particular interest in me.

So the next day, I came into Mrs. Bradley’s room during lunch. I took my paper bag off the rack and reattached it with the tiniest sliver of tape. Inside, I placed a little note folded in half.

Again, when class was over, I waited outside and watched. But I didn’t talk to anyone this time. I just watched.

The perfect setup.

You touched the lip of my bag, saw the note, and reached in. The bag fell to the floor and your face turned bright red. But you bent down and scooped it up anyway. And my reaction? Disbelief. I mean, I saw it. I expected it, even. But I still couldn’t believe it.

While my original plan called for me to confront you right then and there, I jumped to the side—out of the doorway.

In a hurry, you rounded the corner…and there we were. Face-to-face. My eyes stung as I stared at you. Then I broke that stare and lowered my head. And you took off down the hall.

She didn’t want him to explain. There was no explanation. She saw it with her own eyes.

When you were halfway down the hall, still walking fast, I saw you look down as if reading something. My note? Yes.

You turned for just a moment to see if I was watching. And for that moment, I was scared. Would you confront me and tell me you were sorry? Yell at me?

The answer? None of the above. You just turned and kept walking, getting closer and closer to the doors leading outside, closer to your escape.

And as I stood there in the hallway—alone—trying to understand what had just happened and why, I realized the truth: I wasn’t worth an explanation—not even a reaction. Not in your eyes, Zach.

She pauses.

For the rest of you listening, the note was addressed to Zach by name. Maybe he sees it now as a prologue to these tapes. Because in there, I admitted that I was at a point in my life where I really could have used any encouragement anyone might have left me. Encouragement…that he stole.

I bite on my thumb, calming the urge to look over my shoulder at Tony. Does he wonder what I’m listening to? Does he care?

But I couldn’t take it anymore. You see, Zach’s not the only one with a slow boil.

I shouted after him, “Why?”

In the hallway, there were still a few people changing classes. All of them jumped. But only one of them stopped. And he stood there, facing me, cramming my note in his back pocket.

I screamed that word over and over again. Tears, finally spilling over, ran down my face. “Why? Why, Zach?”

I heard about that. Hannah flipping out for no apparent reason, embarrassing herself in front of so many people.

But they were wrong. There was a reason.

So now, let’s get personal. In the spirit of opening up—of full disclosure—let me offer you this: My parents love me. I know they do. But things have not been easy recently. Not for about a year. Not since you-know-what opened outside of town.

I remember that. Hannah’s parents were on the news every night, warning that if the huge shopping center went up, it would put the downtown stores out of business. They said no one would shop there anymore.

When that happened, my parents became distant. There was suddenly a lot for them to think about. A lot of pressure to make ends meet. I mean, they talked to me, but not like before.

When I cut my hair, my mom didn’t even notice.

And as far as I knew—thank you, Zach—no one at school noticed, either.

I noticed.

In the back of our class, Mrs. Bradley also had a paper bag. It hung with the rest of ours on the spinning bookrack. We could use it—and she encouraged it—for notes about her teaching. Critical or otherwise. She also wanted us to recommend topics for future discussions.

So I did just that. I wrote a note to Mrs. Bradley that read: “Suicide. It’s something I’ve been thinking about. Not too seriously, but I have been thinking about it.”

That’s the note. Word for word. And I know it’s word for word because I wrote it dozens of times before delivering it. I’d write it, throw it away, write it, crumple it up, throw it away.

But why was I writing it to begin with? I asked myself that question every time I printed the words onto a new sheet of paper. Why was I writing this note? It was a lie. I hadn’t been thinking about it. Not really. Not in detail. The thought would come into my head and I’d push it away.

But I pushed it away a lot.

And it was a subject we never discussed in class. But I was sure more people than just me had thought about it, right? So why not discuss it as a group?

Or deep down, maybe there was more. Maybe I wanted someone to figure out who wrote the note and secretly come to my rescue.

Maybe. I don’t know. But I was careful never to give myself away.

The haircut. Averting your eyes in the halls. You were careful, but still, there were signs. Little signs. But they were there.

And then, just like that, you snapped back.