Welcome back. And thanks for hanging out for part two.
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 half-smile
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.
I tear the blades of grass out of the gutter and stand up to leave. As I start
walking, I rub the blades between my fingers till they fall away.
But this tape is not about your motivation, Alex. Though that is coming up.
This tape is about how people change when they see your name on a stupid
list. This tape is about . . .
A pause in her speech. I reach into my jacket and turn the volume up. She's
uncrinkling a piece of paper. Smoothing it out.
Okay. I just looked over every name—every story—that completes these
tapes. And guess what. Every single event documented here may never have
happened had you, Alex, not written my name on that list. It's that simple.
You needed a name to put down opposite Jessica's. And since everyone at
school already had a perverted image of me after Justin's little number, I was
the perfect choice, wasn't I?
And the snowball keeps a-rollin'. Thanks, Justin.
Alex's list was a joke. A bad one, true. But he had no idea it would affect
her like this. This isn't fair.
And what about me? What did I do? How will Hannah say that I scarred
her? Because I have no idea. And after people hear about it, what are they
going to think when they see me? Some of them, at least two of them, already
know why I'm on here. Do they see me differently now?
No. They can't. Because my name does not belong with theirs. I should not
be on this list. I'm sure of it.
I did nothing wrong!
So to back up a bit, this tape isn't about why you did what you did, Alex.
It's about the repercussions of what you did. More specifically, it's about the
repercussions to me. It's about those things you didn't plan—things you
couldn't plan.
God. I don't believe it.
The first red star. Hannah's old house. There it is.
But I don't believe it.
This house was my destination one other time. After a party. An elderly
couple lives there now. And one night, about a month ago, the husband was
driving his car a few blocks away, talking to his wife on the phone when he
hit another car.
I shut my eyes and shake my head against the memory. I don't want to see
it. But I can't help it. The man was hysterical. Crying. "I need to call her! I
need to call my wife!" His phone had disappeared somewhere in the crash.
We tried using mine to call her back, but his wife's phone kept ringing. She
was confused, too afraid to click over. She wanted to stay on the line, the line
her husband had called her on.
She had a bad heart, he said. She needed to know he was okay.
I called the police, using my phone, and told the man I would continue
trying to reach his wife. But he told me I needed to tell her. She needed to
know he was okay. Their house wasn't far.
A tiny crowd had gathered, some of them taking care of the person in the
other car. He was from our school. A senior. And he was in much worse shape
than the old man. I shouted for a few of them to wait with my guy till an
ambulance arrived. Then I left, racing toward his house to calm his wife. But I
didn't know I was also racing toward a house Hannah once lived in.
This house.
But this time, I walk. Like Justin and Zach, I walk down the center of the
road toward East Floral Canyon where two streets meet like an upside-down
T, just as Hannah described it.
The curtains in the bay window are shut for the night. But the summer
before our freshman year, Hannah stood there with Kat. The two of them
looked out, to where I am now, and they watched two boys walk up the street.
They watched them step off the road and onto the wet grass, slipping and
tumbling over each other.
I keep walking till I reach the gutter, pressing the toes of my shoes against
the curb. I step up onto the grass and just stand there. A simple, basic step. I
don't slip, and I can't help wondering, had Justin and Zach made it to
Hannah's front door, would she have fallen for Zach instead of Justin a few
months later? Would Justin have been wiped out of the picture? Would the
rumors never have started?
Would Hannah still be alive?
The day your list came out wasn't too traumatic. I survived. I knew it was a
joke. And the people I saw standing in the halls, huddled around whoever had
a copy, they knew it was a joke, too. One big, fat, happy joke.
But what happens when someone says you have the best ass in the
freshman class? Let me tell you, Alex, because you'll never know. It gives
people—some people—the go-ahead to treat you like you're nothing but that
specific body part.
Need an example? Fine. B-3 on your maps. Blue Spot Liquor.
It's nearby.
I have no idea why it's called that, but it's only a block or so away from my
first house. I used to walk there any time I had a sweet tooth. Which means,
yes, I went there every day.
Blue Spot has always looked grimy from the sidewalk, so I've never
actually gone inside.
Ninety-five percent of the time, Blue Spot was empty. Just me and the man
behind the register.
I don't think a lot of people know it's even there because it's tiny and
squished between two other stores, both of which have been closed since we
moved here. From the sidewalk, Blue Spot looks like a posting board for
cigarette and alcohol ads. And inside? Well, it looks about the same.
I walk along the sidewalk in front of Hannah's old house. A driveway
climbs up a gentle slope before disappearing beneath a weathered wooden
garage door.
Hanging over the front of the counter, a wire rack holds all the best
candies. Well, they're my favorites anyway. And the moment I open the door,
the man at the register rings me up—cha-ching—even before I pick up a
candy bar, because he knows I never leave without one.
Someone once described the man behind the counter as having the face of
a walnut. And he does! Probably from smoking so much, but having the name
Wally probably doesn't help.
Ever since she arrived, Hannah rode a blue bike to school. I can almost
picture her now. Right here. Backpack on, coasting down the driveway. Her
front wheel turns and she pedals past me on the sidewalk. I watch her ride
down a long stretch of sidewalk, passing trees, parked cars, and houses. I
stand and watch her image disappear.
Again.
Then I turn slowly and walk away.
Honestly, in all the times I've been to Blue Spot, I don't think I've heard
Wally utter a single word. I'm trying to remember a single "hello" or "hey"
or even a friendly grunt. But the only sound I ever heard him utter was
because of you, Alex.
What a pal.
Alex! That's right. Yesterday, someone shoved him in the halls. Someone
shoved Alex into me. But who?
That day, as usual, a bell jingled over the door as I walked in. Cha-ching!
went the register. I picked out a candy bar from the rack on the counter, but I
can't tell you which one because I don't remember.
I caught Alex to keep him from falling. I asked if he was okay, but he just
ignored me, picked up his backpack, and hurried down the hall. Did I do
something to piss him off, I wondered. I couldn't think of anything.
If I wanted to, I could tell you the name of the person who walked in while
I searched my backpack for money. I do remember. But he was just one of
many jerks I've run into over the years.
I don't know, maybe I should expose all of them. But as far as your story
goes, Alex, his action—his horrible, disgusting action—was just an aftereffect
of yours.
Plus, he's got a whole tape all to himself . . .
I wince. What happened in that store because of Alex's list?
No, I don't want to know. And I don't want to see Alex. Not tomorrow.
Not the day after that. I don't want to see him or Justin. Or fat-ass Jackass
Jimmy. God, who else is involved in this?
He threw open the door to Blue Spot. "Hey, Wally!" he said. And he said it
with such arrogance, which sounded so natural coming from his mouth. I
could tell it wasn't the first time he said it that way, acting like Wally was
beneath him. "Oh, Hannah, hey," he said. "I didn't see you there."
Did I mention I was standing at the counter, visible to anyone the moment
they opened the door?
I acknowledged him with a tiny smile, found my money, and dropped it into
Wally's wrinkled hand. Wally, as far as I could tell, didn't respond to him in
any way. Not an eye catch or a twitch or a smile—his usual greeting for me.
I follow the sidewalk around a corner, away from the residential streets, on
my way to Blue Spot.
It's amazing how a town can change so much in one corner. The houses
behind me weren't big or fancy. Very middle class. But they sit back-to-back
with the part of town that's been slowly falling apart for years.
"Hey Wally, guess what?" His breath came from just over my shoulder.
My backpack was resting on the counter while I zipped it shut. Wally's eyes
were focused down, just beyond the edge of the counter, near my waist, and I
knew what was coming.
A cupped hand smacked my ass. And then, he said it. "Best Ass in the
Freshman Class, Wally. Standing right here in your store!"
There's more than a few guys I can picture doing that. The sarcasm. The
arrogance.
Did it hurt? No. But that doesn't matter, does it? Because the question is,
did he have the right to do it? And the answer, I hope, is obvious.
I knocked his hand away with a quick backhand swipe that every girl
should master. And that's when Wally emerged from his shell. That's when
Wally made a sound. His mouth stayed shut, and it was nothing more than a
quick click of the tongue, but that little noise took me by surprise. Inside, I
knew, Wally was a ball of rage.
And there it is. The neon sign of Blue Spot Liquor.
On this block, only two stores remain open: Blue Spot Liquor and Restless
Video across the street. Blue Spot looks just as grimy as the last time I walked
by it. Even the cigarette and alcohol ads look the same. Like wallpaper in the
front window.
A brass bell jingles when I open the door. The same bell Hannah listened
to whenever she came in for a candy fix. Instead of letting it swing shut
behind me, I hold the edge of the door and slowly push it shut, watching it
ring the bell again.
"Can I help you?"
Without looking, I already know it's not Wally.
But why am I disappointed? I didn't come to see Wally.
He asks again, a little louder, "Can I help you?"
I can't bring myself to look toward the front counter. Not yet. I don't want
to imagine her standing there.
At the back of the store, behind a wall of see-through doors, are the
refrigerated drinks. And even though I'm not thirsty, I go there. I open one of
the doors and take an orange soda, the first plastic bottle I touch. Then I walk
to the front of the store and pull out my wallet.
A wire rack loaded with candy bars hangs from the front counter. These are
the ones Hannah liked.
My left eye begins to twitch.
"Is that all?" he asks.
I place the soda on the counter and look down, rubbing my eye. The pain
begins somewhere above my eye, but it goes deeper. Behind my eyebrow. A
pinching I've never felt before.
"There's more behind you," the clerk says. He must think I'm looking at
the candy.
I grab a Butterfinger from the rack and place it next to my drink. I put a
few dollars on the counter and slide them over to him.
Cha-ching!
He slides back a couple of coins and I notice a plastic nametag stuck to the
register.
"Does he still work here?" I ask.
"Wally?" The clerk exhales through his nose. "Day shift."
When I leave, the brass bell jingles.
I swung my backpack over my shoulder and probably whispered, "Excuse
me," but when I moved around him, I purposely avoided his eyes.
I had the door in sight, ready to leave, when he grabbed my wrist and spun
me around.
He said my name, and when I looked into his eyes the joking was gone.
I yanked my arm, but his grip was tight.
Across the street, the neon sign of Restless Video flickers erratically.
I know who Hannah's talking about now. I've seen his wrist-grabbing stunt
before. It always makes me want to grab him by the shirt and push him until
he lets the girl go.
But instead, every time, I pretend not to notice.
What could I do, anyway?
Then the jerk let go and put his hand on my shoulder. "I'm only playing,
Hannah. Just relax."
Okay, let's dissect what just happened. I thought about it the entire walk
home from Blue Spot, which is probably why I don't remember which candy
bar I bought that day.
I sit on the chipped curb outside of Blue Spot, setting the orange soda next
to me and balancing the Butterfinger on my knee. Not that I have an appetite
for anything sweet.
So why did I buy it? Was it only because Hannah used to buy candy from
the same rack? And why does that matter? I went to the first red star. And the
second. I don't need to go everywhere or do everything she says.
First his words—then his actions.
Statement number one: "I'm only playing, Hannah."
Translation: Your ass is my play-toy. You might think you have final say
over what happens to your ass, but you don't. At least, not as long as "I'm
only playing."
I tap one end of the candy bar, making it teeter-totter on my knee.
Statement number two: "Just relax."
Translation: Come on, Hannah, all I did was touch you with no indication
that you wanted me to touch you. If it'll make you feel better, go ahead, you
can touch me wherever you'd like.
Now let's talk about his actions, shall we?
Action number one: Grabbing my ass.
Interpretation: Let me back up and say that this guy had never grabbed my
ass before. So why now? My pants weren't anything special. They weren't
overly tight. Sure, they were slung a little low and he probably got a hip shot,
but he didn't grab my hips. He grabbed my ass.
I'm starting to understand. I'm starting to see what Hannah means. And
that opens up a black hole in the pit of my stomach.
Best Lips. That was another category on the list.
Alex, am I saying your list gave him permission to grab my ass? No. I'm
saying it gave him an excuse. And an excuse was all this guy needed.
It wasn't till that list came out that I even noticed Angela Romero's lips.
But after that, I became fascinated by them. When I watched her give
speeches during class, I had no idea what words came out of her mouth. I just
watched those lips move up and down. Mesmerized when she said things like
"slippery slope," which, behind her lips, exposed the underside of her tongue.
Action number two: He grabbed my wrist then put his hand on my
shoulder.
You know, I'm not even going to interpret this. I'm just going to tell you
why it pissed me off. I've had my butt grabbed before—no big deal—but this
time it was grabbed because someone else wrote my name on a list. And when
this guy saw me upset, did he apologize? No. Instead, he got aggressive.
Then, in the most condescending way, he told me to relax. Then he put his
hand on my shoulder, as if by touching me he'd somehow comfort me.
Here's a tip. If you touch a girl, even as a joke, and she pushes you off,
leave . . . her . . . alone. Don't touch her. Anywhere! Just stop. Your touch does
nothing but sicken her.
The rest of Angela was nowhere near as mesmerizing as her lips. Not bad,
just not mesmerizing.
Then, last summer at a friend's house, we played spin the bottle after a
bunch of us admitted we were spin-the-bottle virgins. And I refused to let the
game end till my spin landed on Angela. Or till her spin landed on me. When
that happened, I pressed my lips, agonizingly slowly and precisely, against
hers.
There are some sick and twisted people out there, Alex—and maybe I'm
one of them—but the point is, when you hold people up for ridicule, you have
to take responsibility when other people act on it.
Later on, Angela and I made out on her back porch. I just couldn't get
enough of those lips.
All because of a list.
Actually, that's not right. You didn't hold me up for ridicule, did you? My
name was in the Hot column. You wrote Jessica's name in the Not column.
You held Jessica up for ridicule. And that's where our snowball picks up
speed.
Jessica, my dear . . . you're next.
I pop open the Walkman and pull out the first tape.
In the smallest pocket of my backpack, I find the next tape. The one with a
blue number three written in the corner. I drop that into the deck and snap the
door shut.