Thirteen Reasons Why(4)

Before you, Justin, whenever anyone asked, I’d say all the right numbers up until the very last one. And then I’d get scared and mess up…sort of accidentally on purpose.

I heave my backpack onto my lap and unzip the largest pocket.

I was getting way too excited watching you write down my number. Luckily, you were way too nervous to notice. When I finally spat out that last number—the correct number!—I smiled so big.

Meanwhile, your hand was shaking so badly that I thought you were going to screw it up. And I was not going to let that happen.

I pull out her map and unfold it on the workbench.

I pointed at the number you were writing. “That should be a seven,” I said.

“It is a seven.”

I use a wooden ruler to smooth out the creases.

“Oh. Well, as long as you know it’s a seven.”

“I do,” you said. But you scratched it out anyway and made an even shakier seven.

I stretched the cuff of my sleeve into my palm and almost reached over to wipe the sweat from your forehead…something my mother would’ve done. But thankfully, I didn’t do that. You never would’ve asked another girl for her number again.

Through the side garage door, Mom calls my name. I lower the volume, ready to hit Stop if it opens.

“Yes?”

By the time I got home, you’d already called. Twice.

“I want you to keep working,” Mom says, “but I need to know if you’re having dinner with us.”

My mom asked who you were, and I said we had a class together. You were probably just calling with a homework question. And she said that’s exactly what you had told her.

I look down at the first red star. C-4. I know where that is. But should I go there?

I couldn’t believe it. Justin, you lied to my mom.

So why did that make me so happy?

“No,” I say. “I’m heading to a friend’s house. For his project.”

Because our lies matched. It was a sign.

“That’s fine,” Mom says. “I’ll keep some in the fridge and you can heat it up later.”

My mom asked what class we had and I said math, which wasn’t a total lie. We both had math. Just not together. And not the same type.

“Good,” Mom said. “That’s what he told me.”

I accused her of not trusting her own daughter, grabbed the slip of paper with your number from her hand, and ran upstairs.

I’ll go there. To the first star. But before that, when this side of the tape is over, I’ll go to Tony’s.

Tony never upgraded his car stereo so he still plays tapes. That way, he says, he’s in control of the music. If he gives someone a ride and they bring their own music, too bad. “The format’s not compatible,” he tells them.

When you answered the phone, I said, “Justin? It’s Hannah. My mom said you called with a math problem.”

Tony drives an old Mustang handed down from his brother, who got it from his dad, who probably got it from his dad. At school there are few loves that compare to the one between Tony and his car. More girls have dumped him out of car envy than my lips have even kissed.

You were confused, but eventually you remembered lying to my mom and, like a good boy, you apologized.

While Tony doesn’t classify as a close friend, we have worked on a couple of assignments together so I know where he lives. And most important of all, he owns an old Walkman that plays tapes. A yellow one with a skinny plastic headset that I’m sure he’ll let me borrow. I’ll take a few tapes with me and listen to them as I walk through Hannah’s old neighborhood, which is only a block or so from Tony’s.

“So, Justin, what’s the math problem?” I asked. You weren’t getting off that easy.

Or maybe I’ll take the tapes somewhere else. Somewhere private. Because I can’t listen here. Not that Mom or Dad will recognize the voice in the speakers, but I need room. Room to breathe.

And you didn’t miss a beat. You told me Train A was leaving your house at 3:45 PM. Train B was leaving my house ten minutes later.

You couldn’t see this, Justin, but I actually raised my hand like I was in school rather than sitting on the edge of my bed. “Pick me, Mr. Foley. Pick me,” I said. “I know the answer.”

When you called my name, “Yes, Miss Baker?” I threw Mom’s hard-to-get rule right out the window. I told you the two trains met at Eisenhower Park at the bottom of the rocket slide.

What did Hannah see in him? I never got that. Even she admits she was unable to put her finger on it. But for an average-looking guy, so many girls are into Justin.

Sure, he is kind of tall. And maybe they find him intriguing. He’s always looking out windows, contemplating something.

A long pause at your end of the line, Justin. And I mean a looooooong pause. “So, when do the trains meet?” you asked.

“Fifteen minutes,” I said.

You said fifteen minutes seemed awfully slow for two trains going full speed.

Whoa. Slow down, Hannah.

I know what you’re all thinking. Hannah Baker is a slut.

Oops. Did you catch that? I said, “Hannah Baker is.” Can’t say that anymore.

She stops talking.

I drag the stool closer to the workbench. The two spindles in the tape deck, hidden behind a smoky plastic window, pull the tape from one side to the other. A gentle hiss comes through the speaker. A soft static hum.