Thirteen Reasons Why(61)

She’s whispering. The recorder is close to her mouth and with each break in her words I can hear her breathe.

I’m giving life one more chance. And this time, I’m getting help. I’m asking for help because I cannot do this alone. I’ve tried that.

You didn’t, Hannah. I was there for you and you told me to leave.

Of course, if you’re listening to this, I failed. Or he failed. And if he fails, the deal is sealed.

My throat tightens, and I start climbing up the next ladder.

Only one person stands between you and this collection of audiotapes: Mr. Porter.

No! He cannot know about this.

Hannah and I both have Mr. Porter for first-period English. I see him every day. I do not want him to know about this. Not about me. Not about anyone. To bring an adult into this, someone from school, is beyond what I imagined.

Mr. Porter, let’s see how you do.

The sound of Velcro tearing apart. Then stuffing. She’s shoving the recorder into something. A backpack? Her jacket?

She knocks.

And knocks again.

—Hannah. Glad you made it.

The voice is muffled, but it’s him. Deep, but friendly.

—Come in. Sit here.

Thank you.

Our English teacher, but also the guidance counselor for students with last names A through G. Hannah Baker’s guidance counselor.

—Are you comfortable? Do you want some water?

I’m fine. Thank you.

—So, Hannah, how can I help you? What would you like to talk about?

Well, that’s…I don’t know, really. Just everything, I guess.

—That might take a while.

A long pause. Too long.

—Hannah, it’s okay. I’ve got as much time as you need. Whenever you’re ready.

It’s just…things. Everything’s so hard right now.

Her voice is shaky.

I don’t know where to begin. I mean, I kind of do. But there’s so much and I don’t know how to sum it all up.

—You don’t need to sum it all up. Why don’t we begin with how you’re feeling today.

Right now?

—Right now.

Right now I feel lost, I guess. Sort of empty.

—Empty how?

Just empty. Just nothing. I don’t care anymore.

—About?

Make her tell you. Keep asking questions, but make her tell you.

About anything. School. Myself. The people in my school.

—What about your friends?

You’re going to have to define “friends” if you want an answer to that question.

—Don’t tell me you don’t have friends, Hannah. I see you in the halls.

Seriously, I need a definition. How do you know what a friend is?

—Someone you can turn to when…

Then I don’t have any. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? I’m turning to you.

—Yes. You are. And I’m glad you’re here, Hannah.

I crawl across the second platform and kneel beside an opening in the bars. An opening big enough for people to crawl through to reach the slide.

You don’t know how hard it was to set up this meeting.

—My schedule’s been fairly open this week.

Not hard to schedule. Hard to get myself here.

Moonlight catches the smooth metal of the slide. I can imagine Hannah here, about two years ago, pushing off and sliding down.

Slipping away.

—Again, I’m glad that you’re here, Hannah. So tell me, when you leave this office, how do you want things to be different for you?

You mean, how can you help?

—Yes.

I guess I…I don’t know. I’m not sure what I’m expecting.

—Well, what do you need right now that you’re not getting? Let’s start there.

I need it to stop.

—You need what to stop?

I need everything to stop. People. Life.

I push myself back from the slide.

—Hannah, do you know what you just said?

She knows what she said, Mr. Porter. She wants you to notice what she said and help her.

—You said you wanted life to stop, Hannah. Your life?

No response.

—Is that what you meant to say, Hannah? Those are very serious words, you know.

She knows every word that comes out of her mouth, Mr. Porter. She knows they’re serious words. Do something!

I know. They are. I’m sorry.

Don’t apologize. Talk to him!

I don’t want my life to end. That’s why I’m here.

—So what happened, Hannah? How did we get here?

We? Or how did I get here?

—You, Hannah. How did you get to this point? I know you can’t sum it all up. It’s the snowball effect, am I right?

Yes. The snowball effect. That’s what she’s been calling it.

—It’s one thing on top of another. It’s too much, isn’t it?

It’s too hard.

—Life?

Another pause.

I grab onto the outer bars of the rocket and pull myself up. My bandaged hand hurts. It stings to put my weight on it, but I don’t care.

—Here. Take this. An entire box of tissues just for you. Never been used.

A laugh. He got her to laugh!