In honor of Hannah, I should order a hot chocolate. At Monet's, they serve
them with tiny marshmallows floating on top. The only coffee shop I know of
that does that.
But when the girl asks, I say coffee, because I'm cheap. The hot chocolate
costs a whole dollar more.
She slides an empty mug across the counter and points to the pour-ityourself bar. I pour in just enough half-and-half to coat the bottom of the
mug. The rest I fill with Hairy Chest Blend because it sounds highly
caffeinated and maybe I can stay up late to finish the tapes.
I think I need to finish them, and finish them tonight.
But should I? In one night? Or should I find my story, listen to it, then just
enough of the next tape to see who I'm supposed to pass them off to?
"What're you listening to?" It's the girl from behind the counter. She's
beside me now, tilting the stainless steel containers of half-and-half, low fat,
and soy. She's checking to see if they're full. A couple of black lines, a tattoo,
stretch up from her collar and disappear into her short, cropped hair.
I glance down at the yellow headphones hanging around my neck. "Just
some tapes."
"Cassette tapes?" She picks up the soy and holds it against her stomach.
"Interesting. Anyone I've heard of?"
I shake my head no and drop three cubes of sugar into my coffee.
She cradles the soy with her other arm then puts out her hand. "We went to
school together, two years ago. You're Clay, right?"
I put down the mug then slide my hand into hers. Her palm is warm and
soft.
"We had one class together," she says, "but we didn't talk much."
She looks a little familiar. Maybe her hair's different.
"You wouldn't recognize me," she says. "I've changed a lot since high
school." She rolls her heavily made-up eyes. "Thank God."
I place a wooden stirrer into my coffee and mix it. "Which class did we
have?"
"Wood Shop."
I still don't remember her.
"The only thing I got out of that class were splinters," she says. "Oh, and I
made a piano bench. Still no piano, but at least I've got the bench. Do you
remember what you made?"
I stir my coffee. "A spice rack." The creamer mixes in and the coffee turns
a light brown with some dark coffee grounds rising to the surface.
"I always thought you were the nicest guy," she says. "In school, everyone
thought so. Kind of quiet, but that's okay. Back then, people thought I talked
too much."
A customer clears his throat at the counter. We both glance at him, but he
doesn't look away from the drink list.
She turns back to me and we shake hands again. "Well, maybe I'll see you
around, when there's more time to talk." Then she walks back behind the
counter.
That's me. Nice Guy Clay.
Would she still say that if she heard these tapes?
I head to the back of Monet's, toward the closed door that leads to the
patio. Along the way, tables full of people stretch their legs or tilt back their
chairs to form an obstacle course that begs me to spill my drink.
A drop of warm coffee spills onto my finger. I watch it slide across my
knuckles and drip to the floor. I rub the toe of my shoe over the spot till it
disappears. And I recall, earlier today, watching a slip of paper fall outside the
shoe store.
After Hannah's suicide, but before the shoebox of tapes arrived, I found
myself walking by Hannah's mom and dad's shoe store many times. It was
that store that brought her to town in the first place. After thirty years in
business, the owner of the store was looking to sell and retire. And Hannah's
parents were looking to move.
I'm not sure why I walked by there so many times. Maybe I was searching
for a connection to her, some connection outside of school, and it's the only
one I could think of. Looking for answers to questions I didn't know how to
ask. About her life. About everything.
I had no idea the tapes were on their way to explain it all.
The day after her suicide was the first time I found myself at their store,
standing outside the front door. The lights were out. A single sheet of paper
taped to the front window said, WELL BE OPEN SOON in thick black marker.
It was written in a hurry, I figured. They just forgot the apostrophe.
On the glass door, a delivery person had left a self-adhesive note. Among a
list of other options, "Will try again tomorrow" was checked.
A few days later, I went back. Even more notes were stuck to the glass.
On my way home from school earlier today, I went by the store one more
time. As I read the dates and notes on each piece of paper, the oldest note
became unstuck and fluttered to the ground, resting beside my shoe. I picked
it up and searched the door for the most recent note. Then I lifted a corner of
that note and stuck the older one beneath it.
They'll be back soon, I thought. They must have taken her home for the
burial. Back to her old town. Unlike old age or cancer, no one anticipates a
suicide. They simply left without a chance to get things in order.
I open the patio door at Monet's, careful not to spill any more of my
coffee.
Around the garden, to keep the atmosphere relaxed, the lights are kept low.
Every table, including Hannah's in the far back corner, is occupied. Three
guys in baseball caps sit there, hunched over textbooks and notebooks, none
of them talking.
I go back inside and sit at a small table near a window. It overlooks the
garden, but Hannah's table is hidden by a brick column choked with ivy.
I take a deep breath.
As the stories go by, one by one, I find myself relieved when my name
isn't mentioned. Followed by a fear of what she hasn't yet said, of what she's
going to say, when my turn comes.
Because my turn is coming. I know that. And I want it to be over with.
What did I do to you, Hannah?
While I wait for her first words, I stare out the window. It's darker outside
than in here. When I pull my gaze back and focus my eyes, I can see my own
reflection in the glass.
And I look away.
I glance down at the Walkman on the table. There's still no sound, but the
Play button is pressed. Maybe the tape didn't lock in place.
So I hit Stop.
Then Play again.
Nothing.
I roll my thumb over the volume dial. The static in the headphones gets
louder so I turn it back down. And I wait.
Shh! . . . if you're talking in the library.
Her voice, it's a whisper.
Shh! . . . in a movie theater or church.
I listen closer.
Sometimes there's no one around to tell you to be quiet . . . to be very, very
quiet. Sometimes you need to be quiet when you're all alone. Like me, right
now.
Shh!
At the crowded tables that fill the rest of the room, people talk. But the
only words I understand are Hannah's. The other words become a muffled
background noise occasionally tipped by a sharp laugh.
For example, you'd better be quiet—extremely quiet—if you're going to be
a Peeping Tom. Because what if they heard?
I let out a breath of air. It's not me. Still not me.
What if she . . . what if I . . . found out?
Guess what, Tyler Down? I found out.
I lean back in my chair and close my eyes.
I feel sorry for you, Tyler. I do. Everyone else on these tapes, so far, must
feel a little relieved. They came off as liars or jerks or insecure people lashing
out at others. But your story, Tyler . . . it's kind of creepy.
I take my first sip of coffee.
A Peeping Tom? Tyler? I never knew.
And I feel a little creepy telling it, too. Why? Because I'm trying to get
closer to you, Tyler. I'm trying to understand the excitement of staring
through someone's bedroom window. Watching someone who doesn't know
they're being watched. Trying to catch them in the act of . . .
What were you trying to catch me in the act of, Tyler? And were you
disappointed? Or pleasantly surprised?
Okay, a show of hands, please. Who knows where I am?
I set down my coffee, lean forward, and try to imagine her recording this.
Where is she?
Who knows where I'm standing right now?
Then I get it and shake my head, feeling so embarrassed for him.
If you said, "Outside Tyler's window," you're right. And that's A-4 on your
maps.
Tyler's not home right now . . . but his parents are. And I really hope they
don't come outside. Fortunately, there's a tall, thick bush just below his
window, similar to my own window, so I'm feeling pretty safe.
How are you feeling, Tyler?
I can't imagine what it was like for him to mail out these tapes. To know
he was sending his secret into the world.
There's a meeting of the yearbook staff tonight, which I know involves a lot
of pizza and gossip. So I know you won't be home until after it gets all nice
and dark. Which, as an amateur Peeping Tom, I appreciate very much.
So thank you, Tyler. Thanks for making this so easy.
When Tyler heard this, was he sitting here at Monet's, trying to look calm
while sweating up a storm? Or was he lying in bed staring bug-eyed out his
window?
Let's take a peek inside before you get home, shall we? The hallway light's
on so I can see in pretty well. And yes, I see exactly what I expected—there's a
bunch of camera equipment lying around.
You've got quite a collection here, Tyler. A lens for every occasion.
Including nightvision. Tyler won a statewide contest with that lens.
Firstplace in the humor category. An old man walking his dog at night. The
dog stopped to pee on a tree and Tyler snapped the picture. Nightvision made
it look like a green laser beam blasting out of the dog's crotch.
I know, I know. I can hear you now. "Those are for the yearbook, Hannah.
I'm the student-life photographer." And I'm sure that's why your parents were
fine spending that kind of cash. But is that the only way you use this stuff?
Candid shots of the student body?
Ah, yes. Candid shots of the student body.
Before coming out here, I took the initiative to look up "candid" in the
dictionary. It's one of those words with many definitions, but there's one that's
most appropriate. And here it is, memorized for your pleasure: Relating to
photography of subjects acting naturally or spontaneously without being
posed.
So tell me, Tyler, those nights you stood outside my window, was I
spontaneous enough for you? Did you catch me in all my natural,
unposed . . .
Wait. Did you hear that?
I sit up and lean my elbows on the table.
A car coming up the road.
I cup my hands over both ears.
Is it you, Tyler? It sure is getting close. And there are the headlights.
I can hear it, just under Hannah's voice. The engine.
My heart definitely thinks it's you. My God, it's pounding.
The car's turning up the driveway.
Behind her voice, tires roll across pavement. The engine idles.
It's you, Tyler. It's you. You haven't stopped the engine so I'm going to keep
talking. And yes, this is exciting. I can definitely see the thrill.
It must have been terrifying for him to hear this. And it must be hell
knowing he's not the only one.
Okay, listeners, ready? Car door . . . and . . .
Shh!
A long pause. Her breathing is soft. Controlled.
A door slams. Keys. Footsteps. Another door unlocks.
Okay, Tyler. Here's the play-by-play. You're inside the house with the door
shut. You're either checking in with Mom and Dad, saying everything went
great and this is going to be the best yearbook ever, or they didn't buy enough
pizza and you're heading straight for the kitchen.
As we wait, I'm going to go back and tell everyone how this all began. And
if I'm wrong with the timeline, Tyler, find the other people on these tapes and
let them know that you started peeping way before I caught you.
You'll do that, right? All of you? You'll fill in the gaps? Because every
story I'm telling leaves so many unanswered questions.
Unanswered? I would've answered any question, Hannah. But you never
asked.
For example, how long were you stalking me, Tyler? How did you know my
parents were out of town that week?
Instead of asking questions, that night at the party, you started yelling at
me.
Okay, confession time. The rule around my house when the parents are
away is that I'm not allowed to date. Their feeling, though they won't bring
themselves to say it, is that I might enjoy the date too much and ask the boy to
come inside.
In previous stories, I told you that the rumors you've all heard about me
weren't true. And they're not. But I never claimed to be a Goody Two-Shoes. I
did go out when my parents weren't home, but only because I could stay out
as long as I wanted. And as you know, Tyler, on the night this all began, the
boy I went out with walked me all the way to my front door. He stood there
while I pulled out my keys to unlock the door . . . then he left.
I'm afraid to look, but I wonder if people in Monet's are staring at me. Can
they tell, based on my reactions, that it's not music I'm listening to?
Or maybe no one's noticed. Why would they? Why should they care what
I'm listening to?
Tyler's bedroom light is still off, so either he's having a detailed
conversation with his parents or he's still hungry. Fine, have it your way,
Tyler. I'll just keep talking about you.
Were you hoping I'd invite the guy in? Or would that have made you
jealous?
I stir my coffee with the wooden stick.
Either way, after I went inside—alone!—I washed my face and brushed my
teeth. And the moment I stepped into my room . . . Click.
We all know the sound a camera makes when it snaps a picture. Even some
of the digitals do it for nostalgia's sake. And I always keep my window open,
about an inch or two, to let in fresh air. Which is how I knew someone was
standing outside.
But I denied it. It was way too creepy to admit to myself on the very first
night of my parents' vacation. I was only freaking myself out, I said. Just
getting used to being alone.
Still, I wasn't dumb enough to change in front of the window. So I sat down
on my bed. Click.
Such an idiot, Tyler. In middle school, some people thought you were
mentally challenged. But you weren't. You were just an idiot.
Or maybe it wasn't a click, I told myself. Maybe it was a creak. My bed has
a wooden frame that creaks a little. That was it. It had to be a creak.
I pulled the blankets over my body and undressed beneath them. Then I put
on my pajamas, doing everything as slowly as possible, afraid whoever was
outside might snap another picture. After all, I wasn't totally sure what a
Peeping Tom got off on.
But wait—another picture would prove he was there, right? Then I could
call the police and . . .
But the truth is, I didn't know what to hope for. My parents weren't home. I
was alone. I figured ignoring him was my best option. And even though he
was outside, I was too afraid of what might happen if he saw me reaching for
the phone.
Stupid? Yes. But did it make sense? Yes . . . at the time.
You should've called the cops, Hannah. It might have stopped this
snowball from picking up speed. The one you keep talking about.
The one that ran over all of us.
So why was it so easy for Tyler to see into my room to begin with? Is that
what you're asking? Do I always sleep with my shades wide open?
Good question, victim-blamers. But it wasn't that easy. The window blinds
were kept at an angle exactly as I liked them. On clear nights, with my head
on the pillow, I could fall asleep looking at the stars. And on stormy nights I
could watch lightning light up the clouds.
I've done that, fallen asleep looking outside. But from the second floor, I
don't need to worry about people seeing in.
When my dad found out I kept the blinds open—even a crack—he walked
out to the sidewalk to make sure no one could see me from the street. And they
couldn't. So he walked from the sidewalk, straight across the yard, up to my
window. And what did he find? That unless they were pretty tall and standing
right outside my window on their tiptoes, I was invisible.
So how long did you stand like that, Tyler? It must have been pretty
uncomfortable. And if you were willing to go through all that trouble just to
get a peek at me, I hope you got at least something out of it.
He did. But not what he wanted. Instead, he got this.
Had I known it was Tyler at the time, had I snuck under the blinds and
looked up to see his face, I would've run outside and embarrassed the hell out
of him.
In fact, that brings up the most interesting part of . . .
Wait! Here you come. We'll save that story for later.
I push my mug of coffee, not even half-finished, to the far end of the table.
Let me describe Tyler's window for the rest of you. The shades are all the
way down, yet I can see in. They're made of bamboo, or fake bamboo, and
between each stick are varying amounts of space. If I stand on my tiptoes, like
Tyler, I can reach a fairly wide-open gap and see in.
Okay, he's turning on the light and . . . he shuts the door. He's . . . he's
sitting on the bed. He's yanking off his shoes and . . . now his socks.
I groan. Please don't do anything stupid, Tyler. It's your room, you can do
what you want, but don't embarrass yourself anymore.
Maybe I should warn him. Give him a chance to hide. To undress
underneath the covers. Maybe I should tap on the window. Or pound or kick
on the wall. Maybe I should give him the same paranoia he gave me.
She's getting louder. Does she want to get caught?
After all, that's why I'm here, right? Revenge?
No. Revenge would have been fun. Revenge, in a twisted way, would have
given me some sense of satisfaction. But this, standing outside Tyler's window,
satisfies nothing. My mind is made up.
So why? Why am I here?
Well, what have I said? I just said I'm not here for me. And if you pass the
tapes on, no one but those of you on the list will ever hear what I'm saying. So
why am I here?
Tell us. Please, Hannah. Tell me why I'm listening to this. Why me?
I'm not here to watch you, Tyler. Calm down. I don't care what you're
doing. In fact, I'm not even watching you right now. My back's against the
wall and I'm staring at the street.
It's one of those streets with trees on either side, their branches meeting
high above like fingertips touching. Sounds poetic, doesn't it? I even wrote a
poem once comparing streets like this to my favorite childhood rhyme: Here is
the church, here is the steeple, open it up . . . yadda, yadda, yadda.
One of you even read that poem I wrote. We'll talk about that later.
Again, it's not me. I didn't even know Hannah wrote poetry.
But I'm talking about Tyler now. And I'm still on Tyler's street. His dark
and empty street. He just doesn't know I'm here . . . yet. So let's wrap this up
before he goes to bed.
At school the next day, after Tyler's visit to my window, I told a girl who sat
in front of me what happened. This girl's known for being a good listener, and
sympathetic, and I wanted someone to be afraid for me. I wanted someone to
validate my fears.
Well, she was definitely not the girl for that job. This girl's got a twisted
side that very few of you know about.
"A Peeping Tom?" she said. "You mean, a real one?"
"I think so," I told her.
"I always wondered what that'd be like," she said. "Having a Peeping
Tom is kind of . . . I don't know . . . sexy."
Definitely twisted. But who is she?
And why do I care?
She smiled and raised an eyebrow. "Do you think he'll come back?"
Honestly, the thought of him coming back never occurred to me. But now it
was freaking me out. "What if he does?" I asked.
"Then you'll have to tell me about it," she said. And then she turned back
around, ending our conversation.
Now, this girl and I had never hung out. We took a lot of the same
electives, we were nice to each other in class, and sometimes we talked about
hanging out, but we never did.
Here, I thought, was a golden opportunity.
I tapped her on the shoulder and told her that my parents were out of town.
How would she like to come over and catch a Peeping Tom?
After school I went home with her to grab her stuff. Then she came over to
my house. Since it was a weeknight and she was probably going to be out late,
she told her parents we were working on a school project.
God. Does everyone use that excuse?
We finished our homework at the dining room table, waiting for it to get
dark outside. Her car was parked out front as bait.
Two girls. Irresistible, right?
I squirm a little, shifting in my seat.
We moved into my bedroom and sat cross-legged on the bed, facing each
other, talking about everything imaginable. To catch our Peeping Tom, we
knew we needed to keep the talking quiet. We needed to hear that first . . .
Click.
Her mouth dropped open. Her eyes, I've never seen them that happy.
She whispered for me to keep talking. "Pretend you didn't hear. Just play
along."
I nodded.
Then she covered her mouth and ad-libbed. "Oh my God! You let him
touch you where?"
We "gossiped" for a couple minutes, trying to hold back any inappropriate
laughter—the kind that would've given us away. But the clicking stopped and
we were running out of things to gossip about.
"You know what I could use?" she asked. "A nice, deep, back massage."
"You're evil," I whispered.
She winked at me, then got up on her knees and worked her hands forward
like a cat stretching until she was all the way down on my bed. Click.
I sincerely hope you burned or erased those pictures, Tyler. Because if they
get out, even if it's not your fault, I'd hate to think what might happen to you.
I straddled her back. Click.
Pushed aside her hair. Click.
And began rubbing her shoulders. Click. Click.
She turned away from the window and whispered, "You know what it
means if he stops taking pictures, right?"
I told her I didn't.
"It means he's doing something else." Click.
"Oh well," she said.
I kept rubbing her shoulders. In fact, I thought I was doing a pretty good
job because she stopped talking and her lips curled into a beautiful smile. But
then she whispered a new idea. A way to catch this pervert in the act.
I told her no. One of us should just leave the room, say we need to use the
bathroom, and call the cops. We could end it right there.
But that didn't happen.
"No way," she said. "I'm not leaving until I find out if I know him. What if
he goes to our school?"
"What if he does?" I asked.
She told me to follow her lead, then she rolled out from under my legs.
According to her plan, when she said "three," I was to charge the window.
But I thought the Peeping Tom might have left—might have gotten scared—
because there hadn't been a click since I climbed off of her.
"It's time for some body lotion," she said. Click.
That sound sent my anger through the roof. Okay. I can play this game, I
thought. "Look in my top drawer."
She pointed to the drawer nearest the window and I nodded.
Beneath my arms, my shirt is slightly damp. I shift uncomfortably in my
seat again. But, God, I can't stop listening.
She pulled open the drawer, looked inside, and covered her mouth.
What? There was nothing in my drawer worthy of a reaction like that.
There was nothing in my whole room worthy of that.
"I didn't know you were into this," she said, nice and loud. "We should use
it . . . together."
"Um, okay," I said.
She reached into the drawer, pushed some things around, then covered her
mouth again. "Hannah?" she said. "How many of these do you have? You
are definitely a naughty girl." Click. Click.
Very clever, I thought. "Why don't you count them?"
So she did. "Let's see, now. Here's one . . . and two . . . "
I slid one foot off the bed.
" . . . three!"
I jumped at the window and yanked the cord. The blinds flew up. I looked
for your face but you were moving so fast.
The other girl, she wasn't looking at your face, Tyler.
"Oh my God!" she screamed. "He's cramming his dick in his pants."
Tyler, wherever you are, I am so sorry. You deserve this, but I'm sorry.
So who were you? I saw your height and your hair, but I couldn't see your
face clearly enough.
Still, you gave yourself up, Tyler. The next day at school I asked so many
people the exact same question, Where were you last night? Some said they
were at home or at a friend's house. Or at the movies. None of your business.
But you, Tyler, you had the most defensive—and interesting—response of all.
"What, me? Nowhere."
And for some reason, telling me you were nowhere made your eyes twitch
and your forehead break into a sweat.
You are such an idiot, Tyler.
Hey, at least you're original. And at least you stopped coming around my
house. But your presence, Tyler, that never left.
After your visits, I twisted my blinds shut every night. I locked out the stars
and I never saw lightning again. Each night, I simply turned out the lights
and went to bed.
Why didn't you leave me alone, Tyler? My house. My bedroom. They were
supposed to be safe for me. Safe from everything outside. But you were the
one who took that away.
Well . . . not all of it.
Her voice trembles.
But you took away what was left.
She pauses. And within that silence I realize how intensely I've been
staring at nothing. Staring in the direction of my mug on the far end of the
table. But not at it.
I want to, but I'm too intimidated to look at the people around me. They
have to be watching me now. Trying to understand the pained look on my
face. Trying to figure out who this poor kid is, listening to outdated
audiotapes.
So how important is your security, Tyler? What about your privacy?
Maybe it's not as important to you as it was for me, but that's not for you to
decide.
I look through the window, past my reflection, to the barely lit patio
garden. I can't tell if anyone's still there, beyond the brick-and-ivy column,
sitting at her table.
A table that, at one time, was Hannah's other safe place.
So who was this mystery girl featured in your story, Tyler? Who smiled so
beautifully when I rubbed her back? Who helped me expose you? Should I
tell?
That depends. What did she ever do to me?
For the answer . . . insert tape three.
But I'm ready for it to be me, Hannah. I'm ready to get this over with.
Oh, and Tyler, I'm standing outside your window again. I walked away to
finish your story, but your bedroom light has been out for some time . . . so
I'm back now.
There's a long pause. A rustling of leaves.
Knock-knock, Tyler.
I hear it. She taps on the window. Twice.
Don't worry. You'll find out soon enough.
I slip off the headphones, wrap the yellow cord tightly around the Walkman,
and tuck it in my jacket pocket.
Across the room, Monet's bookshelf is loaded with old books. Discards,
mostly. Paperback westerns, New Age, sci-fi.
Carefully weaving through the crowded tables, I walk over to it.
A massive thesaurus sits beside a dictionary that's missing its hardcover
spine. Down the exposed paper spine someone wrote DICTIONARY in heavy
black ink. Stacked on the same shelf, each in a different color, are five books.
They're approximately the same size as yearbooks, but purchased for their
blank pages. Scribble books, they call them. Each year, a new one is added
and people scrawl whatever they want inside. They mark special occasions,
write horrible poetry, sketch things that are beautiful or grotesque, or just rant.
Each book has a scrap of duct tape on the spine with a year written on it. I
pull out the one from our freshman year. With all the time Hannah spent at
Monet's, maybe she wrote something in here. Like a poem. Or maybe she had
other talents I didn't know about. Maybe she knew how to draw. I'm just
looking for something apart from the ugliness of these tapes. I need that right
now. I need to see her in a different way.
Since most people date their entries, I flip toward the back. To September.
And there it is.
To keep the page, I shut the book on my index finger and take it back to
my table. I take a slow sip of lukewarm coffee, reopen the book, and read the
words scribbled in red ink near the top: Everyone needs an olly-olly-oxenfree.
It's signed with three sets of initials: J.D. A.S. H.B.
Jessica Davis. Alex Standall. Hannah Baker.
Below the initials, pressed into the crease between the pages, someone
stuck an upside-down photograph. I pull it out, flip it over, then spin it
rightside up.
It's Hannah.
God, I love her smile. And her hair, it's still long. One of her arms is
wrapped around the waist of another student. Courtney Crimsen. And behind
them is a crowd of students. Everyone's either holding a bottle, a can, or a red
plastic cup. It's dark at the party and Courtney doesn't look happy. But she
doesn't look mad, either.
She looks nervous, I think.
Why?