Thirteen Reasons Why(8)

I wiggle the Walkman into my jacket pocket and turn up the volume.

If you’re listening to this, one of two things has just happened. A: You’re Justin, and after hearing your little tale you want to hear who’s next. Or B: You’re someone else and you’re waiting to see if it’s you.

Well…

A line of hot sweat rises along my hairline.

Alex Standall, it’s your turn.

A single bead of sweat slides down my temple and I wipe it away.

I’m sure you have no idea why you’re on here, Alex. You probably think you did a good thing, right? You voted me Best Ass in the Freshman Class. How could anyone be angry at that?

Listen.

I sit on the curb with my shoes in the gutter. Near my heel, a few blades of grass poke up through the cement. Though the sun has barely started dipping beneath the rooftops and trees, streetlamps are lit on both sides of the road.

First, Alex, if you think I’m being silly—if you think I’m some stupid little girl who gets her panties in a bunch over the tiniest things, taking everything way too seriously, no one’s making you listen. Sure, I am pressuring you with that second set of tapes, but who cares if people around town know what you think of my ass, right?

In the houses on this block, and in my house several blocks away, families are finishing up their dinners. Or they’re loading dishwashers. Or starting their homework.

For those families, tonight, everything is normal.

I can name a whole list of people who would care. I can name a list of people who would care very much if these tapes got out.

So let’s begin, shall we?

Curling forward, I hug my legs and lay my forehead on my knees.

I remember sitting in second period the morning your list came out. Ms. Strumm obviously had an amazing weekend because she did absolutely no prep work whatsoever.

She had us watch one of her famously dull documentaries. What it was on, I don’t recall. But the narrator did have a thick British accent. And I remember picking at an old piece of tape stuck on my desk to keep from falling asleep. To me, the narrator’s voice was nothing more than background noise.

Well, the narrator’s voice…and the whispers.

When I looked up, the whispers stopped. Any eyes looking at me turned away. But I saw that paper getting passed around. A single sheet making its way up and down the aisles. Eventually, it made its way to the desk behind me—to Jimmy Long’s desk—which groaned as his body weight shifted.

Any of you who were in class that morning, tell me: Jimmy was taking a sneaky-peek over the back of my chair, wasn’t he? That’s all I could picture as he whispered, “You bet it is.”

I grip my knees tighter. Jackass Jimmy.

Someone whispered, “You idiot, Jackass.”

I turned around, but I was not in a whispering mood. “You bet what is?”

Jimmy, who’ll drink up the attention any girl gives him, gave a halfsmile and glanced down at the paper on his desk. Again came the “idiot” whisper—this time repeated across the room as if no one wanted me in on the joke.

When I first saw that list, given to me in history class, there were a few names I didn’t recognize. A few new students I hadn’t met yet or wasn’t sure I had their names right. But Hannah, I knew her name. And I laughed when I saw it. She was building quite a reputation in a short amount of time.

Only now do I realize, that her reputation started in Justin Foley’s imagination.

I tilted my head so I could read the upside-down title of the paper: FRESHMAN CLASS—WHO’S HOT / WHO’S NOT.

Jimmy’s desk groaned again as he sat back, and I knew Ms. Strumm was coming, but I had to find my name. I didn’t care why I was on the list. At the time, I don’t think I even cared which side of the list I was on. There’s just something about having everyone agree on something—something about you—that opens a cage of butterflies in your stomach. And as Ms. Strumm walked up the aisle, ready to grab that list before I found my name, the butterflies went berserk.

Where is my name? Where? Got it!

Later that day, passing Hannah in the halls, I took a look back as she walked by. And I had to agree. She definitely belonged in that category.

Ms. Strumm snatched the list away and I turned back to the front of the room. After a few minutes, gaining the nerve to look, I snuck a peek to the other side of the room. As expected, Jessica Davis looked pissed.

Why? Because right next to my name, but in the other column, was hers.

Her pencil tapped against her notebook at Morse code–speed and her face was burning red.

My only thought? Thank God I don’t know Morse code.

Truth is, Jessica Davis is so much prettier than I am. Write up a list of every body part and you’ll have a row of checkmarks the whole way down for each time her body beats mine.

I disagree, Hannah. All the way down.

Everyone knows Worst Ass in the Freshman Class was a lie. You can’t even consider it stretching the truth. But I’m sure no one cared why Jessica ended up on that side of your list, Alex.

Well, no one except you…and me…and Jessica makes three.

And a lot more than that, I’m guessing, are about to find out.

Maybe some people think you were right in choosing me. I don’t think so. But let me put it this way, I don’t think my ass—as you call it—was the deciding factor. I think the deciding factor…was revenge.