Hello, boys and girls. Hannah Baker here. Live and in stereo.
I don't believe it.
No return engagements. No encore. And this time, absolutely no requests.
No, I can't believe it. Hannah Baker killed herself.
I hope you're ready, because I'm about to tell you the story of my life.
More specifically, why my life ended. And if you're listening to these tapes,
you're one of the reasons why.
What? No!
I'm not saying which tape brings you into the story. But fear not, if you
received this lovely little box, your name will pop up . . . I promise.
Now, why would a dead girl lie?
Hey! That sounds like a joke. Why would a dead girl lie? Answer: Because
she can't stand up.
Is this some kind of twisted suicide note?
Go ahead. Laugh.
Oh well. I thought it was funny.
Before Hannah died, she recorded a bunch of tapes. Why?
The rules are pretty simple. There are only two. Rule number one: You
listen. Number two: You pass it on. Hopefully, neither one will be easy for
you.
"What's that you're playing?"
"Mom!"
I scramble for the stereo, hitting several buttons all at once.
"Mom, you scared me," I say. "It's nothing. A school project."
My go-to answer for anything. Staying out late? School project. Need extra
money? School project. And now, the tapes of a girl. A girl who, two weeks
ago, swallowed a handful of pills.
School project.
"Can I listen?" she asks.
"It's not mine," I say. I scrape the toe of my shoe against the concrete floor.
"I'm helping a friend. It's for history. It's boring."
"Well, that's nice of you," she says. She leans over my shoulder and lifts a
dusty rag, one of my old cloth diapers, to remove a tape measure hidden
underneath. Then she kisses my forehead. "I'll leave you in peace."
I wait till the door clicks shut, then I place a finger over the Play button.
My fingers, my hands, my arms, my neck, everything feels hollow. Not
enough strength to press a single button on a stereo.
I pick up the cloth diaper and drape it over the shoebox to hide it from my
eyes. I wish I'd never seen that box or the seven tapes inside it. Hitting Play
that first time was easy. A piece of cake. I had no idea what I was about to
hear.
But this time, it's one of the most frightening things I've ever done.
I turn the volume down and press Play.
. . . one: You listen. Number two: You pass it on. Hopefully, neither one will be
easy for you.
When you're done listening to all thirteen sides—because there are
thirteen sides to every story—rewind the tapes, put them back in the box, and
pass them on to whoever follows your little tale. And you, lucky number
thirteen, you can take the tapes straight to hell. Depending on your religion,
maybe I'll see you there.
In case you're tempted to break the rules, understand that I did make a
copy of these tapes. Those copies will be released in a very public manner if
this package doesn't make it through all of you.
This was not a spur-of-the-moment decision.
Do not take me for granted . . . again.
No. There's no way she could think that.
You are being watched.
My stomach squeezes in on itself, ready to make me throw up if I let it.
Nearby, a plastic bucket sits upside-down on a footstool. In two strides, if I
need to, I can reach the handle and flip it over.
I hardly knew Hannah Baker. I mean, I wanted to. I wanted to know her
more than I had the chance. Over the summer, we worked together at the
movie theater. And not long ago, at a party, we made out. But we never had
the chance to get closer. And not once did I take her for granted. Not once.
These tapes shouldn't be here. Not with me. It has to be a mistake.
Or a terrible joke.
I pull the trash can across the floor. Although I checked it once already, I
check the wrapping again. A return address has got to be here somewhere.
Maybe I'm just overlooking it.
Hannah Baker's suicide tapes are getting passed around. Someone made a
copy and sent them to me as a joke. Tomorrow at school, someone will laugh
when they see me, or they'll smirk and look away. And then I'll know.
And then? What will I do then?
I don't know.
I almost forgot. If you're on my list, you should've received a map.
I let the wrapping fall back in the trash.
I'm on the list.
A few weeks ago, just days before Hannah took the pills, someone slipped
an envelope through the vent of my locker. The outside of the envelope said:
SAVE THIS—YOU'LL NEED IT in red felt-tip marker. Inside was a folded up map
of the city. About a dozen red stars marked different areas around town.
In elementary school, we used those same chamber of commerce maps to
learn about north, south, east, and west. Tiny blue numbers scattered around
the map matched up with business names listed in the margins.
I kept Hannah's map in my backpack. I meant to show it around school to
see if anyone else got one. To see if anyone knew what it meant. But over
time, it slid beneath my textbooks and notebooks and I forgot all about it.
Till now.
Throughout the tapes, I'll be mentioning several spots around our beloved
city for you to visit. I can't force you to go there, but if you'd like a little more
insight, just head for the stars. Or, if you'd like, just throw the maps away and
I'll never know.
As Hannah speaks through the dusty speakers, I feel the weight of my
backpack pressing against my leg. Inside, crushed somewhere at the bottom,
is her map.
Or maybe I will. I'm not actually sure how this whole dead thing works.
Who knows, maybe I'm standing behind you right now.
I lean forward, propping my elbows on the workbench. I let my face fall
into my hands and I slide my fingers back into unexpectedly damp hair.
I'm sorry. That wasn't fair.
Ready, Mr. Foley?
Justin Foley. A senior. He was Hannah's first kiss.
But why do I know that?
Justin, honey, you were my very first kiss. My very first hand to hold. But
you were nothing more than an average guy. And I don't say that to be mean
—I don't. There was just something about you that made me need to be your
girlfriend. To this day I don't know exactly what that was. But it was there . . .
and it was amazingly strong.
You don't know this, but two years ago when I was a freshman and you
were a sophomore, I used to follow you around. For sixth period, I worked in
the attendance office, so I knew every one of your classes. I even photocopied
your schedule, which I'm sure I still have here somewhere. And when they go
through my belongings, they'll probably toss it away thinking a freshman
crush has no relevance. But does it?
For me, yes, it does. I went back as far as you to find an introduction to my
story. And this really is where it begins.
So where am I on this list, among these stories? Second? Third? Does it
get worse as it goes along? She said lucky number thirteen could take the
tapes to hell.
When you reach the end of these tapes, Justin, I hope you'll understand
your role in all of this. Because it may seem like a small role now, but it
matters. In the end, everything matters.
Betrayal. It's one of the worst feelings.
I know you didn't mean to let me down. In fact, most of you listening
probably had no idea what you were doing—what you were truly doing.
What was I doing, Hannah? Because I honestly have no idea. That night, if
it's the night I'm thinking of, was just as strange for me as it was for you.
Maybe more so, since I still have no idea what the hell happened.
Our first red star can be found at C-4. Take your finger over to C and drop
it down to 4. That's right, like Battleship. When you're done with this tape,
you should go there. We only lived in that house a short while, the summer
before my freshman year, but it's where we lived when we first came to town.
And it's where I first saw you, Justin. Maybe you'll remember. You were in
love with my friend Kat. School was still two months away, and Kat was the
only person I knew because she lived right next door. She told me you were all
over her the previous year. Not literally all over her—just staring and
accidentally bumping into her in the halls.
I mean, those were accidents, right?
Kat told me that at the end-of-school dance, you finally found the nerve to
do more than stare and bump into her. The two of you danced every slow song
together. And soon, she told me, she was going to let you kiss her. The very
first kiss of her life. What an honor!
The stories must be bad. Really bad. That's the only reason the tapes are
passing on from one person to the next. Out of fear.
Why would you want to mail out a bunch of tapes blaming you in a
suicide? You wouldn't. But Hannah wants us, those of us on the list, to hear
what she has to say. And we'll do what she says, passing the tapes on, if only
to keep them away from people not on the list.
"The list." It sounds like a secret club. An exclusive club.
And for some reason, I'm in it.
I wanted to see what you looked like, Justin, so we called you from my
house and told you to come over. We called from my house because Kat didn't
want you to know where she lived . . . well, not yet . . . even though her house
was right next door.
You were playing ball—I don't know if it was basketball, baseball, or what
—but you couldn't come over until later. So we waited.
Basketball. A lot of us played that summer, hoping to make JV as
freshmen. Justin, only a sophomore, had a spot waiting for him on varsity. So
a lot of us played ball with him in hopes of picking up skills over the summer.
And some of us did.
While some of us, unfortunately, did not.
We sat in my front bay window, talking for hours, when all of a sudden you
and one of your friends—hi, Zach!—came walking up the street.
Zach? Zach Dempsey? The only time I've seen Zach with Hannah, even
momentarily, was the night I first met her.
Two streets meet in front of my old house like an upside-down T, so you
were walking up the middle of the road toward us.
Wait. Wait. I need to think.
I pick at a speck of dry orange paint on the workbench. Why am I listening
to this? I mean, why put myself through this? Why not just pop the tape out of
the stereo and throw the entire box of them in the trash?
I swallow hard. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes.
Because it's Hannah's voice. A voice I thought I'd never hear again. I can't
throw that away.
And because of the rules. I look at the shoebox hidden beneath the cloth
diaper. Hannah said she made a copy of each of these tapes. But what if she
didn't? Maybe if the tapes stop, if I don't pass them on, that's it. It's over.
Nothing happens.
But what if there's something on these tapes that could hurt me? What if
it's not a trick? Then a second set of tapes will be released. That's what she
said. And everyone will hear what's on them.
The spot of paint flakes off like a scab.
Who's willing to test her bluff?
You stepped out of the gutter and planted one foot on the lawn. My dad had
the sprinklers running all morning so the grass was wet and your foot slid
forward, sending you into a split. Zach had been staring at the window, trying
to get a better view of Kat's new friend—yours truly—and he tripped over
you, landing beside you on the curb.
You pushed him off and stood up. Then he stood up, and you both looked at
each other, not sure of what to do. And your decision? You ran back down the
street while Kat and I laughed like crazy in the window.
I remember that. Kat thought it was so funny. She told me about it at her
going-away party that summer.
The party where I first saw Hannah Baker.
God. I thought she was so pretty. And new to this town, that's what really
got me. Around the opposite sex, especially back then, my tongue twisted into
knots even a Boy Scout would walk away from. But around her I could be the
new and improved Clay Jensen, high school freshman.
Kat moved away before the start of school, and I fell in love with the boy
she left behind. And it wasn't long until that boy started showing an interest in
me. Which might have had something to do with the fact that I seemed to
always be around.
We didn't share any classes, but our classrooms for periods one, four, and
five were at least close to each other. Okay, so period five was a stretch, and
sometimes I wouldn't get there until after you'd left, but periods one and four
were at least in the same hall.
At Kat's party, everyone hung around the outside patio even though it was
cold. It was probably the coldest night of the summer. And I, of course, forgot
my jacket at home.
After a while, I managed to say hello. And a little while later, you managed
to say it back. Then, one day, I walked by you without saying a word. I knew
you couldn't handle that, and it led to our very first multiword conversation.
No, that's not right. I left my jacket at home because I wanted everyone to
see my new shirt.
What an idiot I was.
"Hey!" you said. "Aren't you going to say hello?"
I smiled, took a breath, then turned around. "Why should I?"
"Because you always say hello."
I asked why you thought you were such an expert on me. I said you
probably didn't know anything about me.
At Kat's party, I bent down to tie my shoe during my first conversation
with Hannah Baker. And I couldn't do it. I couldn't tie my stupid shoelace
because my fingers were too numb from the cold.
To Hannah's credit, she offered to tie it for me. Of course, I wouldn't let
her. Instead, I waited till Zach inserted himself into our awkward conversation
before sneaking inside to thaw my fingers beneath running water.
So embarrassing.
Earlier, when I asked my mom how to get a boy's attention, she said, "Play
hard to get." So that's what I was doing. And sure enough, it worked. You
started hanging around my classes waiting for me.
It seemed like weeks went by before you finally asked for my number. But I
knew you eventually would, so I practiced saying it out loud. Real calm and
confident like I didn't really care. Like I gave it out a hundred times a day.
Yes, boys at my old school had asked for my number. But here, at my new
school, you were the first.
No. That's not true. But you were the first to actually get my number.
It's not that I didn't want to give it out before. I was just cautious. New
town. New school. And this time, I was going to be in control of how people
saw me. After all, how often do we get a second chance?
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.
What is she thinking? At that moment, are her eyes shut? Is she crying? Is
her finger on the Stop button, hoping for the strength to press it? What is she
doing? I can't hear!
Wrong.
Her voice is angry. Almost trembling.
Hannah Baker is not, and never was, a slut. Which begs the question, What
have you heard?
I simply wanted a kiss. I was a freshman girl who had never been kissed.
Never. But I liked a boy, he liked me, and I was going to kiss him. That's the
story—the whole story—right there.
What was the other story? Because I did hear something.
The few nights leading up to our meeting in the park, I'd had the same
dream. Exactly the same. From beginning to end. And for your listening
pleasure, here it is.
But first, a little background.
My old town had a park similar to Eisenhower Park in one way. They both
had that rocket ship. I'm sure it was made by the same company because they
looked identical. A red nose points to the sky. Metal bars run from the nose all
the way down to green fins holding the ship off the ground. Between the nose
and the fins are three platforms, connected by three ladders. On the top level
is a steering wheel. On the mid level is a slide that leads down to the
playground.
On many nights leading up to my first day of school here, I'd climb to the
top of that rocket and let my head fall back against the steering wheel. The
night breeze blowing through the bars calmed me. I'd just close my eyes and
think of home.
I climbed up there once, only once, when I was five. I screamed and cried
my head off and would not come down for anything. But Dad was too big to
fit through the holes. So he called the fire department, and they sent a female
firefighter up to get me. They must've had a lot of those rescues because, a
few weeks ago, the city announced plans to tear the rocket slide down.
I think that's the reason, in my dreams, my first kiss took place at the rocket
ship. It reminded me of innocence. And I wanted my first kiss to be just that.
Innocent.
Maybe that's why she didn't red-star the park. The rocket might be gone
before the tapes make it through the entire list.
So back to my dreams, which started the day you began waiting outside my
classroom door. The day I knew you liked me.
Hannah took off her shirt and let Justin put his hands up her bra. That's it.
That's what I heard happened in the park that night.
But wait. Why would she do that in the middle of a park?
The dream starts with me at the top of the rocket, holding on to the steering
wheel. It's still a playground rocket, not a real one, but every time I turn the
wheel to the left, the trees in the park lift up their roots and sidestep it to the
left. When I turn the wheel to the right, they sidestep it to the right.
Then I hear your voice calling up from the ground. "Hannah! Hannah!
Stop playing with the trees and come see me."
So I leave the steering wheel and climb through the hole in the top
platform. But when I reach the next platform, my feet have grown so huge
they won't fit through the next hole.
Big feet? Seriously? I'm not into dream analysis, but maybe she was
wondering if Justin had a big one.
I poke my head through the bars and shout, "My feet are too big. Do you
still want me to come down?"
"I love big feet," you shout back. "Come down the slide and see me. I'll
catch you."
So I sit on the slide and push off. But the wind resistance on my feet makes
me go so slow. In the time it takes me to reach the bottom of the slide, I've
noticed that your feet are extremely small. Almost nonexistent.
I knew it!
You walk to the end of the slide with your arms out, ready to catch me. And
wouldn't you know it, when I jump off, my huge feet don't step on your little
feet.
"See? We were made for each other," you say. Then you lean in to kiss me.
Your lips getting closer . . . and closer . . . and . . . I wake up.
Every night for a week I woke up in the exact same about-to-be-kissed
spot. But now, Justin, I would finally be meeting you. At that park. At the
bottom of that slide. And damn it, you were going to kiss the hell out of me
whether you liked it or not.
Hannah, if you kissed back then like you kissed at the party, trust me, he
liked it.
I told you to meet me there in fifteen minutes. Of course, I only said that to
make sure I got there before you. By the time you walked into the park, I
wanted to be inside that rocket and all the way up, just like in my dreams. And
that's how it happened . . . minus the dancing trees and funky feet.
From my viewpoint at the top of the rocket, I saw you come in at the far
end of the park. You checked your watch every few steps and walked over to
the slide, looking all around, but never up.
So I spun the steering wheel as hard as I could to make it rattle. You took a
step back, looked up, and called my name. But don't worry, even though I
wanted to live out my dream, I didn't expect you to know every single line and
tell me to stop playing with the trees and come down.
"Be right down," I said.
But you told me to stop. You'd climb up to where I was.
So I shouted back, "No! Let me take the slide."
Then you repeated those magical, dreamlike words, "I'll catch you."
Definitely beats my first kiss. Seventh grade, Andrea Williams, behind the
gym after school. She came over to my table at lunch, whispered the
proposition in my ear, and I had a hard-on for the rest of the day.
When the kiss was over, three strawberry-lip-gloss seconds later, she
turned and ran away. I peeked around the gym and watched two of her friends
each hand her a five-dollar bill. I couldn't believe it! My lips were a ten-dollar
bet.
Was that good or bad? Probably bad, I decided.
But I've loved strawberry lip gloss ever since.
I couldn't help smiling as I climbed down the top ladder. I sat myself on the
slide—my heart racing. This was it. All my friends back home had their first
kisses in middle school. Mine was waiting for me at the bottom of a slide,
exactly as I wanted it. All I had to do was push off.
And I did.
I know it didn't really happen like this, but when I look back, it all happens
in slow motion. The push. The slide. My hair flying behind me. You raising
your arms to catch me. Me raising mine so you could.
So when did you decide to kiss me, Justin? Was it during your walk to the
park? Or did it simply happen when I slid into your arms?
Okay, who out there wants to know my very first thought during my very
first kiss? Here it is: Somebody's been eating chili dogs.
Nice one, Justin.
I'm sorry. It wasn't that bad, but it was the first thing I thought.
I'll take strawberry lip gloss any day.
I was so anxious about what kind of kiss it would be—because my friends
back home described so many types—and it turned out to be the beautiful
kind. You didn't shove your tongue down my throat. You didn't grab my butt.
We just held our lips together . . . and kissed.
And that's it.
Wait. Stop. Don't rewind. There's no need to go back because you didn't
miss a thing. Let me repeat myself. That . . . is . . . all . . . that . . . happened.
Why, did you hear something else?
A shiver races up my spine.
Yes, I did. We all did.
Well, you're right. Something did happen. Justin grabbed my hand, we
walked over to the swings, and we swung. Then he kissed me again the very
same way.
Then? And then, Hannah? What happened then?
Then . . . we left. He went one way. I went the other.
Oh. So sorry. You wanted something sexier, didn't you? You wanted to hear
how my itchy little fingers started playing with his zipper. You wanted to
hear . . .
Well, what did you want to hear? Because I've heard so many stories that I
don't know which one is the most popular. But I do know which is the least
popular.
The truth.
Now, the truth is the one you won't forget.
I can still see Justin huddled among his friends at school. I remember
Hannah walking by, and the whole group stopped talking. They averted their
eyes. And when she passed, they started laughing.
But why do I remember this?
Because I wanted to talk to Hannah so many times after Kat's going-away
party, but I was too shy. Too afraid. Watching Justin and his friends that day, I
got the sense that there was more to her than I knew.
Then, later, I heard about her getting felt up at the rocket slide. And she
was so new to school that the rumors overshadowed everything else I knew
about her.
Hannah was beyond me, I figured. Too experienced to even think about
me.
So thank you, Justin. Sincerely. My very first kiss was wonderful. And for
the month or so that we lasted, and everywhere that we went, the kisses were
wonderful. You were wonderful.
But then you started bragging.
A week went by and I heard nothing. But eventually, as they always will,
the rumors reached me. And everyone knows you can't disprove a rumor.
I know. I know what you're thinking. As I was telling the story, I was
thinking the same thing myself. A kiss? A rumor based on a kiss made you do
this to yourself?
No. A rumor based on a kiss ruined a memory that I hoped would be
special. A rumor based on a kiss started a reputation that other people
believed in and reacted to. And sometimes, a rumor based on a kiss has a
snowball effect.
A rumor, based on a kiss, is just the beginning.
Turn the tape over for more.
I reach for the stereo, ready to press Stop.
And Justin, honey, stick around. You're not going to believe where your
name pops up next.
I hold my finger over the button, listening to the soft hum in the speakers,
the faint squeak of the spindles winding the tape, waiting for her voice to
return.
But it doesn't. The story is over.
When I get to Tony's, his Mustang is parked against the curb in front of his
house. The hood is propped open, and he and his dad are leaning over the
engine. Tony holds a small flashlight while his dad tightens something deep
inside with a wrench.
"Did it break down," I ask, "or is this just for fun?"
Tony glances over his shoulder and, when he sees me, drops the flashlight
into the engine. "Damn."
His dad stands up and wipes his oily hands across the front of his greasedup T-shirt. "Are you kidding? It's always fun." He looks at Tony and winks.
"It's even more fun when it's something serious."
Scowling, Tony reaches in for the flashlight. "Dad, you remember Clay."
"Sure," his dad says. "Of course. Good to see you again." He doesn't reach
forward to shake my hand. And with the amount of grease smeared onto his
shirt, I'm not offended.
But he's faking it. He doesn't remember me.
"Oh, hey," his dad says, "I do remember you. You stayed for dinner once,
right? Big on the 'please' and 'thank-yous'."
I smile.
"After you left, Tony's mom was after us for a week to be more polite."
What can I say? Parents like me.
"Yeah, that's him," Tony says. He grabs a shop rag to clean his hands. "So
what's going on, Clay?"
I repeat his words in my head. What's going on? What's going on? Oh,
well, since you asked, I got a bunch of tapes in the mail today from a girl who
killed herself. Apparently, I had something to do with it. I'm not sure what
that is, so I was wondering if I could borrow your Walkman to find out.
"Not much," I say.
His dad asks if I'd mind getting in the car and starting it for them. "The
key's in the ignition."
I sling my backpack over to the passenger seat and slide in behind the
wheel.
"Wait. Wait!" his dad yells. "Tony, shine it over here."
Tony's standing beside the car. Watching me. When our eyes meet, they
lock and I can't pull away. Does he know? Does he know about the tapes?
"Tony," his dad repeats. "The light."
Tony breaks the stare and leans in with the flashlight. In the space between
the dash and the hood, his gaze slips back and forth from me to the engine.
What if he's on the tapes? What if his story is right before mine? Is he the
one who sent them to me?
God, I am freaking out. Maybe he doesn't know. Maybe I just look guilty
of something and he's picking up on that.
While I wait for the cue to start the car, I look around. Behind the
passenger seat, on the floor, is the Walkman. It's just sitting there. The
headphones' cord is wrapped tightly around the player. But what's my
excuse? Why do I need it?
"Tony, here, take the wrench and let me hold the flashlight," his dad says.
"You're jiggling it too much."
They swap flashlight for wrench and, at that moment, I grab for the
Walkman. Just like that. Without thinking. The middle pocket of my backpack
is open, so I stuff it in there and zip it shut.
"Okay, Clay," his dad calls. "Turn it."
I turn the key and the engine starts right up.
Through the gap above the dash, I watch his dad's smile. Whatever he's
done, he's satisfied. "A little fine-tuning to make her sing," he says over the
engine. "You can shut it off now, Clay."
Tony lowers the hood and clicks it shut. "I'll see you inside, Dad."
His dad nods, lifts a metal toolbox from the street, bundles up some greasy
rags, then heads for the garage.
I pull my backpack over my shoulder and step out of the car.
"Thanks," Tony says. "If you didn't show up, we'd probably be out here
all night."
I slip my arm through the other strap and adjust the backpack. "I needed to
get out of the house," I say. "My mom was getting on my nerves."
Tony looks at the garage. "Tell me about it," he says. "I need to start my
homework and my dad wants to tinker under the hood some more."
The streetlamp overhead flickers on.
"So, Clay," he says, "what'd you come out here for?"
I feel the weight of the Walkman in my backpack.
"I was just walking by and saw you outside. Thought I'd say hi."
His eyes stare a little too long, so I look over at his car.
"I'm heading to Rosie's to see what's up," he says. "Can I give you a lift?"
"Thanks," I say, "but I'm only walking a few blocks."
He shoves his hands into his pockets. "Where you off to?"
God, I hope he's not on the list. But what if he is? What if he already
listened to the tapes and knows exactly what's going on in my head? What if
he knows exactly where I'm going? Or worse, what if he hasn't received the
tapes yet? What if they get sent to him further down the line?
If that's the case, he'll remember this moment. He'll remember my
stalling. My not wanting to tip him off or warn him.
"Nowhere," I say. I put my hands in my pockets, too. "So, you know, I
guess I'll see you tomorrow."
He doesn't say a word. Just watches me turn to leave. At any moment I
expect him to yell, "Hey! Where's my Walkman?" But he doesn't. It's a clean
getaway.
I take a right at the first corner and continue walking. I hear the car's
engine start and the crunch of gravel as the wheels of his Mustang roll
forward. Then he steps on the gas, crosses the street behind me, and keeps
going.
I slide my backpack off my shoulders and down to the sidewalk. I pull out
the Walkman. I unwrap the cord and slip the yellow plastic headphones over
my head, pushing the tiny speaker nubs into my ears. Inside my backpack are
the first four tapes, which are one or two more than I'll probably have time to
listen to tonight. The rest I left at home.
I unzip the smallest pocket and remove the first tape. Then I slide it into
the deck, B-side out, and shut the plastic door.