Thirteen Reasons Why(41)

A couple of minutes later, there’d be a knock on the door and I’d straighten my shirt and let her in. With a tiny cash box in hand, she’d squeeze by me, agonizingly close, to change some of my bills. And sometimes, on slow nights, she would sit in my chair and tell me to close the door.

Whenever she said that, I struggled to keep my imagination in check. Because even though windows kept us exposed on three sides, like attractions in a carnival show, and even though she only said it because we weren’t supposed to leave the door open, anything could happen within that cramped space.

Or so I wished.

Those moments, however brief and rare, made me feel so special. Hannah Baker chose to spend her free moments with me. And because we were at work, no one would think anything of it. No one could read into it.

But why? Why, whenever anyone saw us, did I pretend it meant nothing? We were working, that’s what I wanted them to believe. Not hanging out. Just working.

Why?

Because Hannah had a reputation. A reputation that scared me.

That truth first came to light a few weeks ago, at a party, with Hannah directly in front of me. An amazing moment when everything seemed to be falling in place.

Looking down into her eyes, I couldn’t help telling her I was sorry. Sorry for waiting so long to let her know how I felt.

For a brief moment, I was able to admit it. To her. To myself. But I could never admit it again. Till now.

But now, it’s too late.

And that’s why, right at this moment, I feel so much hate. Toward myself. I deserve to be on this list. Because if I hadn’t been so afraid of everyone else, I might have told Hannah that someone cared. And Hannah might still be alive.

I pull my gaze back from the neon sign.





Sometimes I would stop by Monet’s for a hot chocolate on my way home. I’d start my homework. Or sometimes I’d read. But I wasn’t writing poetry anymore.

I needed a break…from myself.

I slide my hand from under my chin to the back of my neck. The bottom strands of my hair are drenched in sweat.

But I loved poetry. I missed it. And one day, after several weeks, I decided to go back to it. I decided to use poetry to make myself happy.

Happy poems. Bright and happy sunshiny poems. Happy, happy, happy. Like the two women pictured on the flyer at Monet’s.

They taught a free course called Poetry: To Love Life. They promised to teach not only how to love poetry, but through poetry, how to better love ourselves.

Sign me up!

D-7 on your map. The community room at the public library.

It’s too dark to go there now.

The poetry class began at the same time the last bell rang at school, so I’d race over there to try and make it without being too late. But even when I was late, everyone seemed happy to have me there—to provide the “feminine teen perspective” they called it.

Looking around, I see that I’m the only one left in Rosie’s. They don’t close for another thirty minutes. And even though I’m not eating or drinking anymore, the man behind the counter hasn’t asked me to leave. So I’ll stay.

Imagine ten or twelve orange chairs arranged in a circle, with the happy women from the flyer sitting at opposite ends. Only problem was, from day one, they weren’t happy. Someone, whoever made that flyer, must have digitally turned their frowns upside down.

They wrote about death. About the evilness of men. About the destruction of—and I quote—“the greenish, bluish orb with wisps of white.”

Seriously, that’s how they described it. They went on to call Earth a knocked-up gaseous alien needing an abortion.

Another reason I hate poetry. Who says “orb” instead of “ball” or “sphere?”

“Expose yourself,” they said. “Let us see your deepest and your darkest.”

My deepest and my darkest? What are you, my gynecologist?

Hannah.

So many times I wanted to raise my hand and say, “Um, so, when do we get to the happy stuff? The stuff about loving life? You know, Poetry: To Love Life? That’s what the flyer said. That’s why I’m here.”

In the end, I only made it through three of those poetry groups. But something did come of it. Something good?

No.

Hmm…I wonder.

See, someone else was in that group. Another high schooler with a perspective adored by the older poets. Who was it? The editor of our school’s very own Lost-N-Found Gazette.

Ryan Shaver.

You know who I’m talking about. And I’m sure you, Mr. Editor, can’t wait for me to say your name out loud.

So here you go, Ryan Shaver. The truth shall set you free.

The motto of the Lost-N-Found.

You’ve known this for a while, Ryan. I’m sure of it. At the first mention of poetry, you knew this one was about you. You had to. Though I’m sure you must have thought, This can’t be why I’m on the tapes. It wasn’t a big deal.

The poem from school. God, it was hers.

Remember, this is one tight, well-connected, emotional ball I’m constructing here.

I close my eyes tight, covering my eyes with my hand.

I crush my teeth together, jaw muscles burning, to keep from screaming. Or crying. I don’t want her to read it. I don’t want to hear that poem in her voice.

Would you like to hear the last poem I wrote before quitting poetry? Before quitting poetry for good?