How many of you remember the Oh My Dollar Valentines?
How many of us would rather forget?
Those were fun, weren't they? You fill out a survey, a computer analyzes
your answers, then it cross-references with the other surveys. For just a buck,
you get the name and number of your one true soul mate. For five bucks, you
get your top five. And hey! All proceeds go to a worthy cause.
Cheer Camp.
Cheer Camp.
Each morning over the loudspeaker came the cheery announcements.
"Don't forget, there's only four more days to turn in your surveys. Only four
more lonely days until your true love is revealed."
And every morning, a new peppy cheerleader continued the countdown.
"Only three more days. . . . Only two more days. . . . Just one more day. . . .
Today's the day!"
For every foot of sidewalk I put between Tyler's house, Marcus, and me,
the muscles in my shoulders relax a little more.
Then the whole squad of cheerleaders sang, "Oh my dollar, Oh my dollar,
Oh my dol-lar Valentine!"
This, of course, was followed by whoops and hollers and cheers. I always
imagined them doing kicks and splits and tossing their pom-poms around the
attendance office.
I walked by the attendance office once, on an errand for a teacher, and
that's exactly what they were doing.
And yes, I did fill out my survey. I've been a sucker for surveys my whole
life. If you ever caught me reading one of those teen magazines, I swear, it
wasn't for the makeup tips. It was for the surveys.
Because you never wore makeup, Hannah. You didn't need it.
Fine, some of the hair and makeup tips were helpful.
You wore makeup?
But I only picked the magazines up for the surveys. The tips were a bonus.
Do you remember those career surveys we had to fill out freshman year,
the ones that were supposed to help us choose electives? According to my
survey, I'd make a wonderful lumberjack. And if that career didn't work out, I
could use my fallback career as an astronaut.
An astronaut or a lumberjack? Seriously? Thanks for the help.
I don't remember my fallback career, but I got the lumberjack, too. I tried
figuring out why the test saw that as my best career path. True, I marked
down that I liked the outdoors, but who doesn't? It doesn't mean I like cutting
down trees.
The Valentine survey was a two-parter. First, you described yourself. Hair
color. Eye color. Height. Body type. Favorite type of music and movie. Then
you put a check beside your top three things to do on weekends. Which is
funny, because whoever designed the list forgot to mention drinking and sex—
which would've been the most accurate response for most of our student body.
In all, there were about twenty questions. And I know, based on who
appeared on my list, that not everyone answered honestly.
In the middle of the sidewalk, beneath a streetlamp, is a dark green metal
bench. At one time, maybe this was a bus stop. But now, it's just a bench to
relax on. For old people, or anyone, too tired to walk.
For me.
For part two of the survey, it was your turn to describe what you were
looking for in a soul mate. Their height. Their body type. If they're athletic or
not. Shy or outgoing.
I sit on the cold metal and lean forward, dropping my head into my hands.
Only a handful of blocks from home, and I don't know where to go.
As I filled mine out, I found myself describing a certain someone at our
school.
I should've answered my survey seriously.
You'd think that if my answers all described one person, that person
would've at least appeared in my top five. But that person must have been
immune to the cheerleaders and their cheers because he didn't end up on my
list anywhere.
And no, I'm not telling you his name . . . yet.
For fun, I filled mine out as Holden Caulfield from The Catcher in the Rye,
that semester's required reading and the first person to come to mind.
Holden. What a horrible first date that depressed loner would make.
The moment the surveys were distributed, in third-period history, I bubbled
in my answers.
There sure were some weird names on my list. Exactly the sort of people
I'd expect to fall for a Holden Caulfield.
It was your typical day in Coach Patrick's history class. Decipher a bunch
of notes scribbled on the board probably five minutes before class started,
then copy them down in your notebook. If you finish before the end of class,
read pages eight through one ninety-four in your textbook . . . and don't fall
asleep.
And no talking.
How was I to know every single one of those girls would call me? I
assumed everyone at school saw the survey as a joke. Just a fund-raiser for
Cheer Camp.
After class, I walked straight to the student body office. At the end of the
counter, closest to the door, was the drop-off box—a large shoebox with a slit
cut in the top and decorated with cutout pink and red hearts. The red hearts
had OH MY DOLLAR VALENTINE! written on them. The pink ones had
green dollar signs.
I folded my survey in half, slipped it into the box, then turned around to
leave. But Ms. Benson, smiley as usual, was standing right there.
"Hannah Baker?" she said. "I didn't know you and Courtney Crimsen
were friends."
The look on my face must have expressed exactly what I was thinking,
because right away, she backpedaled. "At least, that's what I figured. That's
what it looked like. I mean, you are friends, aren't you?"
That lady is beyond nosy.
My first thought was of Tyler standing outside my window . . . and I was
furious! Was he actually showing off those Peeping Tom photos? To Ms.
Benson?
No. Ms. Benson told me she had delivered some checks to the yearbook
room that morning. Taped to the walls were sample shots that might appear in
the yearbook. One particular photo was of Courtney and me.
You guessed it. The one from the party, with my arm around her waist,
looking like I was having the time of my life.
Quite an actress, Hannah.
I told her, "No, we're just acquaintances."
"Well, it's a really fun picture," Ms. Benson said. And this, these next
words, I remember exactly: "The wonderful thing about a yearbook photo is
that everyone shares the moment with you . . . forever."
It sounded like something she'd said a million times before. And before, I
probably would have agreed. But not with that photo. Anyone looking at that
photo would definitely not be sharing our moment. They could not come close
to imagining my thoughts in that picture. Or Courtney's. Or Tyler's.
Everything about it was false.
Right then, in that office, with the realization that no one knew the truth
about my life, my thoughts about the world were shaken.
Like driving along a bumpy road and losing control of the steering wheel,
tossing you—just a tad—off the road. The wheels kick up some dirt, but you're
able to pull it back. Yet no matter how tightly you grip the wheel, no matter
how hard you try to drive straight, something keeps jerking you to the side.
You have so little control over anything anymore. And at some point, the
struggle becomes too much—too tiring—and you consider letting go.
Allowing tragedy . . . or whatever . . . to happen.
Pressing my fingertips hard against my hairline, my thumbs against my
temples, I squeeze.
In that picture, I'm sure Courtney was wearing a beautiful smile. Fake, but
beautiful.
She wasn't. But you couldn't know that.
See, Courtney thought she could jerk me around wherever she wanted. But
I didn't let that happen. I jerked myself back on the road just long enough to
push her off . . . if only for a moment.
But now? The survey. For Valentine's Day. Was this just another chance to
get thrown off the road? Was this survey, for the guys who found my name on
their list, going to be the excuse they needed to ask me out?
And would they be extra excited about doing that because of the rumors
they'd heard?
I looked at the slit in the top of the shoebox, too thin to squeeze my fingers
through. But I could lift off the top and take out my survey. It'd be so easy.
Ms. Benson would ask why and I could pretend I was embarrassed about
filling out a love survey. She'd understand.
Or . . . I could wait and see.
If I had been smart, if I had been honest with my survey, I would have
described Hannah. And maybe we would have talked. Seriously talked. Not
just joking around like last summer at the movie theater.
But I didn't do that. I wasn't thinking that way.
Would most students, as I expected, get their list and just have a good
laugh, thinking nothing of it? Or would they use it?
If Hannah's name and number had shown up on my list, would I have
called her?
I slouch down into the cold bench, leaning my head back. Far back, like
the tip of my spine might burst if I keep going.
Very little, I told myself, could go wrong. The survey was a joke. No one's
going to use it. Calm down, Hannah. You are not setting yourself up.
But if I was right—if I called it correctly—if I willingly gave someone an
excuse to test those rumors about me . . . well . . . I don't know. Maybe I'd
shrug it off. Maybe I'd get pissed.
Or maybe I would let go and give up.
This time, for the first time, I saw the possibilities in giving up. I even
found hope in it.
Ever since Kat's going-away party, I couldn't stop thinking about Hannah.
How she looked. How she acted. How it never matched up with what I heard.
But I was too afraid to find out for sure. Too afraid she might laugh if I asked
her out.
Just too afraid.
So what were my options? I could leave the office a pessimist and take my
survey with me. Or I could leave it as an optimist and hope for the best. In the
end, I walked out of that office with my survey still in the box, unsure of what
I was. An optimist? A pessimist?
Neither. A fool.
I close my eyes, concentrating on the cool air floating around me.
When I went into the movie theater last summer for a job application, I
pretended to be surprised that Hannah worked there. But she was the whole
reason I applied.
"Today's the day!" the cheerleader said . . . cheerfully, of course. "Pick up
your Oh My Dollar Valentines at the student body office today."
On my first day at work, they placed me in the concession stand with
Hannah. She showed me how to pump "butter" topping into the popcorn.
She said that if someone I had a crush on came in, I shouldn't put butter in
the bottom half of the tub. That way, halfway through the movie, they'd come
back out asking for more. And then there wouldn't be so many people around
and we could talk.
But I never did that. Because it was Hannah I was interested in. And the
thought that she did that for other guys made me jealous.
I hadn't decided yet if I wanted to find out who the survey matched me up
with. With my luck, it'd be a fellow lumberjack. But when I walked by the
office and found no one standing in line, I thought . . . what the hell.
I went up to the counter and started saying my name, but the cheerleader
at the computer cut me off.
"Thanks for supporting the cheerleaders, Hannah." She tilted her head to
one side and smiled. "That sounded dumb, right? But I'm supposed to say it
to everyone."
It was probably the same cheerleader who gave me my survey results.
She typed my name into the computer, hit Enter, then asked how many
names I wanted. One, or five? I placed a five-dollar bill on the counter. She
hit the number Five key and a printer on my side of the counter spit out my
list.
She told me they put the printer on our side so the cheerleaders wouldn't
be tempted to peek at our names. So people wouldn't feel embarrassed by who
they got.
I told her that was a good idea and started looking over my list.
"So," the cheerleader said, "who'd you get?"
Definitely the cheerleader who helped me.
She was joking, of course.
No she wasn't.
Half-joking. I placed my list on the counter for her to see.
"Not bad," she said. "Ooh, I like this one."
I agreed that it wasn't a bad list. But not wonderful, either.
She lifted her shoulders and called my list a shrugger. Then she let me in
on a little secret. It wasn't the most scientific of surveys.
Except for people seeking a depressed loner like Holden Caulfield. For
that, the survey deserved a Nobel Prize.
We both agreed that two names on the list matched me fairly well. Another
name, one that I was pleased with, brought an entirely different reaction out
of her.
"No," she said. Her expression, her posture, lost all its cheeriness. "Trust
me . . . no."
Is he on one of your tapes, Hannah? Is that who this tape is about? Because
I don't think this tape is about the cheerleader.
"But he's cute," I said.
"On the outside," she told me.
She pulled out a stack of fives from the register, put mine on top, then went
through the stack turning each bill the same way.
I didn't push the subject, but I should have. And in a couple more tapes
you'll know why.
Which reminds me, I haven't told you who our main man on this tape is.
Fortunately, this is the perfect time to introduce him because that's exactly
when he showed up.
Again, not me.
Something started buzzing. A phone? I looked at the cheerleader, but she
shook her head. So I swung my backpack onto the counter, fished out my
phone, and answered it.
"Hannah Baker," the caller said. "Good to see you."
I looked at the cheerleader and shrugged. "Who is this?" I asked.
"Guess how I got your number," he said.
I told him that I hated guessing games, so he told me. "I paid for it."
"You paid for my phone number?"
The cheerleader scooped her hand over her mouth and pointed at the
printout—the Oh My Dollar Valentines!
No way, I thought. Someone was actually calling because my name was on
their list? Kind of exciting, yes. But kind of weird at the same time.
The cheerleader touched the names we both thought were good matches,
but I shook my head no. I knew those voices well enough to know it wasn't
either of them. It also wasn't the one she warned me about.
I read the other two names on my list out loud.
"It looks like you made my list," the caller said, "but I didn't make yours."
Actually, you did make her list. A different list. One I'm sure you don't
like being on.
I asked him where on his list my name popped up.
Again, he told me to guess, then quickly added that he was joking. "Ready
for this?" he asked. "You're my number one, Hannah."
I mouthed his answer—number one!—and the cheerleader hopped up and
down.
"This is so cool," she whispered.
The caller then asked what I was doing for Valentine's Day.
"Depends," I told him. "Who are you?"
But he didn't answer. He didn't need to. Because at that moment, I saw
him . . . standing right outside the office window. Marcus Cooley.
Hello, Marcus.
I grit my teeth. Marcus. I should've hit him with the rock when I had the
chance.
Marcus, as you know, is one of the biggest goof-offs at school. Not a
slacker goof-off, but a good goof-off.
Guess again.
He's actually funny. An endless number of painfully dull classes have been
rescued by a perfectly timed Cooley pun. So naturally, I didn't take his words
at face value.
Even though he only stood a few feet away, separated by a window, I kept
talking to him through the phone. "You're lying," I said. "I am not on your
list."
His normally goofy smirk, at that moment, looked kind of sexy. "What—
you don't think I'm ever serious?" he asked. Then he pressed his list against
the window.
Even though I stood too far away to actually read it, I assumed he'd only
hold it up to prove that my name did in fact hold his top spot. Still, I thought
he must've been kidding about getting together for Valentine's Day. So I
thought I'd make him squirm a bit.
"Fine," I said. "When?"
The cheerleader covered her face with both hands, but through her fingers
I watched her skin blush.
I don't know, without her as an audience egging me on, I doubt I would
have agreed to go out with him that fast. But I was playing it up. Giving her
something to brag about at cheer practice.
Now it was Marcus's turn to blush. "Oh . . . um . . . Okay . . . well . . . How
about Rosie's? You know, for ice cream."
E-5. I saw that star on the map while riding the bus. I knew roughly where
it was, just not which store specifically. But I should've guessed. The best ice
cream and the greasiest burgers and fries around. Rosie's Diner.
My words came out sarcastic. "Ice cream?" But I didn't mean them that
way. An ice cream date just sounded so . . . cute. So I agreed to meet him there
after school. And with that, we hung up.
The cheerleader slapped her hands on the counter. "You have absolutely
got to let me brag about this."
I made her promise not to tell anyone until the next day, just in case.
"Fine," she said. But she made me promise to spill every last detail
afterward.
Some of you may know the cheerleader I've been talking about, but I'm not
saying her name. She was very sweet and excited for me. She did nothing
wrong.
Honestly. No sarcasm there. Don't strain yourselves reading into my
words.
Before, I thought I knew who the cheerleader was. But now, remembering
the day we all found out about Hannah, I'm sure of it. Jenny Kurtz. We had
Biology together. By then, I'd already heard. But that's when she found out,
scalpel in hand, an earthworm sliced down the middle and pinned open before
her. She put down the scalpel and fell into a long, stunned silence. Then she
got up and, without stopping by the teacher's desk for a pass, walked out of
the room.
I kept looking for her the rest of that day, puzzled by her reaction. Like
most people, I had no clue of her random connection to Hannah Baker.
Did I tell the cheerleader about what happened at Rosie's? No. Instead, I
avoided her for as long as I could.
And you're about to find out why.
Of course, I couldn't avoid her forever. Which is why, in a little while,
she'll make another appearance on these tapes . . . but with a name.
The cold air isn't the only reason I'm shivering anymore. With every side
of every tape, an old memory gets turned upside down. A reputation twists
into someone I don't recognize.
I felt like crying when I watched Jenny walk out of Biology. Every time I
saw a reaction like that, with her, with Mr. Porter, it threw me back to the
moment I found out about Hannah myself. When I did cry.
When instead, I should have been angry at them.
So if you want the full Hannah experience, go to Rosie's for yourself.
God. I hate not knowing what to believe anymore. I hate not knowing
what's real.
E-5 on your map. Sit down on one of the stools at the counter. In a minute,
I'll tell you what to do after seating yourself. But first, a little background on
me and Rosie's.
I had never gone there before that day. I know, it seems crazy. Everyone's
been to Rosie's. It's the cool, quirky place to hang out. But as far as I knew, no
one ever went there alone. And every time someone invited me, for some
reason or another, I was busy. Family visiting from out of town. Too much
homework. Always something.
To me, Rosie's had an aura about it. A mystery. In the stories I heard, it
seemed like things were always happening there. Alex Standall, his first week
in town, had his first fight outside Rosie's front door. He told me and Jessica
about it during our Monet's Garden Café period.
When I heard about that fight, it came as advice not to mess with the new
kid. Alex knew how to throw, as well as take, a punch.
A girl, whose name I will not repeat, had her first under-the-bra
experience at Rosie's while making out between the pinball machines.
Courtney Crimsen. Everyone knew about that. And it's not like Courtney
tried to hide it.
With all the stories, it seemed that Rosie turned a blind eye to anything
going on as long as cones were being filled and burgers were being flipped.
So I wanted to go, but I was not about to go alone and look like a dork.
Marcus Cooley gave me the excuse I needed. And it just so happened that I
was free.
Free, but not stupid.
I was a little wary of Marcus. A little suspicious. But not of him so much as
the people he hung out with.
People like Alex Standall.
After peeling away from our olly-olly-oxen-free group at Monet's, Alex
started hanging out with Marcus. And after the little stunt Alex pulled with the
"Who's Hot / Who's Not" list, I didn't trust him.
So why would I trust someone he hangs out with?
You shouldn't.
Why? Because that's exactly what I wanted for me. I wanted people to trust
me, despite anything they'd heard. And more than that, I wanted them to know
me. Not the stuff they thought they knew about me. No, the real me. I wanted
them to get past the rumors. To see beyond the relationships I once had, or
maybe still had but that they didn't agree with. And if I wanted people to treat
me that way, then I had to do the same for them, right?
So I walked into Rosie's and sat at the counter. And when you go there, if
you go there, don't order right away.
The phone in my pocket starts vibrating.
Just sit and wait.
And wait a little more.
It's Mom.
I answer the phone, but even the simplest words catch in my throat and I say
nothing.
"Honey?" Her voice is soft. "Is everything all right?"
I close my eyes to concentrate, to speak calmly. "I'm fine." But does she
hear it?
"Clay, honey, it's getting late." She pauses. "Where are you?"
"I forgot to call. I'm sorry."
"It's okay." She hears it, but she won't ask. "Do you want me to pick you
up?"
I can't go home. Not yet. I almost tell her I need to stay till I'm done
helping Tony with his school project. But I'm almost done with this tape and I
only have one more with me.
"Mom? Can you do me a favor?"
No response.
"I left some tapes on the workbench."
"For your project?"
Wait! But what if she listens to them? What if, to see what they are, she
slides a tape into the stereo? What if it's Hannah talking about me?
"It's okay. Never mind," I say. "I'll get them."
"I can bring them to you."
I don't answer. The words aren't caught in my throat, I just don't know
which ones to use.
"I'm heading out anyway," she says. "We're out of bread and I'm making
sandwiches for tomorrow."
I exhale a tiny laugh and I smile. Whenever I'm out late she makes a
sandwich for my school lunch. I always protest and tell her not to, saying I'll
make my own when I get home. But she likes it. She says it reminds her of
when I was younger and needed her.
"Just tell me where you are," she says.
Leaning forward on the metal bench, I say the first thing that comes to
mind. "I'm at Rosie's."
"The diner? Are you getting work done there?" She waits for an answer,
but I don't have one. "Doesn't it get loud?"
The street is empty. No cars. No noise. No commotion in the background.
She knows I'm not telling the truth.
"When are you going to leave?" I ask.
"As soon as I get the tapes."
"Great." I start walking. "I'll see you soon."
Listen to the conversations around you. Are people wondering why you're
sitting there alone? Now glance over your shoulder. Did a conversation stop?
Did their eyes turn away?
I'm sorry if this sounds pathetic, but you know it's true. You've never gone
there by yourself, have you?
I haven't.
It's a totally different experience. And deep down you know the reason
you've never gone alone is the reason I just explained. But if you do go, and
you don't order anything, everyone's going to think the same thing about you
that they thought about me. That you're waiting for someone.
So sit there. And every few minutes, glance at the clock on the wall. The
longer you wait—and this is true—the slower the hands will move.
Not today. When I get there, my heart will be racing as I watch the hands
spin closer and closer to Mom walking through the door.
I start to run.
When fifteen minutes are up, you have my permission to order a shake.
Because fifteen minutes is ten minutes longer than it should take even the
slowest person to walk there from school.
Somebody . . . isn't coming.
Now, if you need a recommendation, you can't go wrong with the bananaand-peanut-butter shake.
Then keep waiting, however long it takes to finish your shake. If thirty
minutes go by, start digging in with your spoon so you can get the hell out of
there. That's what I did.
You're an ass, Marcus. You stood her up when you never even had to ask
her out to begin with. It was a fund-raiser for Cheer Camp. If you didn't want
to take it seriously, you didn't have to.
Thirty minutes is a long time to wait for a Valentine's date. Especially
inside Rosie's Diner by yourself. It also gives you plenty of time to wonder
what happened. Did he forget? Because he seemed sincere. I mean, even the
cheerleader thought he meant it, right?
I keep running.
Calm down, Hannah. That's what I kept telling myself. You're not setting
yourself up for a fall. Calm down. Does that sound familiar to anyone else?
Isn't that how I convinced myself not to pull my survey out of the box?
Okay, stop. Those were the thoughts running through my head after
waiting thirty minutes for Marcus to show up. Which probably didn't put me
in a good frame of mind for when he finally did show up.
My running slows. Not because I'm out of breath or my legs are ready to
collapse. I'm not physically tired. But I'm exhausted.
If Marcus didn't stand her up, then what?
He sat down on the stool next to me and apologized. I told him that I'd
almost given up and left. He looked at my empty milkshake glass and
apologized again. But in his mind, he wasn't late. He wasn't sure I would even
be there.
And I'm not going to hold that against him. Apparently, he thought we
were joking about the date. Or he assumed we were joking about the date. But
halfway home, he stopped, thought about it, and headed to Rosie's just in
case.
And that's why you're on this tape, Marcus. You turned around just in case.
Just in case I, Hannah Baker—Miss Reputation—was waiting for you.
And sadly, I was. At the time, I just thought it might be fun.
At the time, I was stupid.
There's Rosie's. Across the street. At the far end of the parking lot.
See, when Marcus came into Rosie's, he wasn't alone. No, Marcus came
into Rosie's with a plan. Part of that plan was to move us away from the
counter to a booth near the back. Near the pinball machines. With me on the
inside.
Me, sandwiched between him . . . and a wall.
The parking lot is nearly empty. Only a few cars directly in front of
Rosie's, but none of them are Mom's. So I stop.
If you want, if you're sitting at Rosie's right now, stay at the counter. It's
more comfortable there. Believe me.
I stand on the curb, breathing deep, exhaling hard. A red hand flashes at
the intersection across the street.
I don't know how much of his plan was thought out. Maybe he arrived with
just an endgame. A goal. And like I said, Marcus is funny. So there we were,
sitting in a booth with our backs to the rest of the diner, laughing. At one point
Marcus had me laughing so hard that my stomach hurt. I leaned over,
touching my forehead to his shoulder, begging him to stop.
The hand keeps flashing, urging me to make up my mind. Telling me to
hurry. I still have time to run across the street, jump the curb, and race
through the parking lot to Rosie's.
But I don't.
And that's when his hand touched my knee. That's when I knew.
The hand stops flashing. A solid, bright red hand.
And I turn around. I can't go in there. Not yet.
I stopped laughing. I nearly stopped breathing. But I kept my forehead
against your shoulder, Marcus. There was your hand, on my knee. From out
of nowhere. The same way I was grabbed in the liquor store.
"What are you doing?" I whispered.
"Do you want me to move it?" you asked.
I didn't answer.
I press my hand against my stomach. It's too much. Too much to handle.
I'll go to Rosie's. In a minute. And hopefully, I'll get there before Mom.
But first, the theater where Hannah and I worked for one summer. A place
where she was safe: the Crestmont.
And I didn't move away from you, either.
It was like you and your shoulder weren't connected anymore. Your
shoulder was just a prop to rest my head against while I figured things out.
And I couldn't look away as your fingertips caressed my knee . . . and started
moving up.
"Why are you doing that?" I asked.
It's only a block away, and maybe it's not a red star on her map, but it
should've been.
It's a red star to me.
Your shoulder rotated and I lifted my head, but now your arm was behind
my back and pulling me close. And your other hand was touching my leg. My
upper thigh.
I looked over the back of the booth to the other booths, to the counter,
trying to catch someone's eye. And a few people glanced over, but they all
turned away.
Below the table, my fingers were fighting to pry your fingers off. To loosen
your grip. To push you away. And I didn't want to yell—it wasn't to that level
yet—but my eyes were begging for help.
I shove my hands in my pockets, balled into fists. I want to slam them into
a wall or punch them through a store window. I've never hit anything or
anyone before, and already, just tonight, I've wanted to hit Marcus with that
rock.
But everyone turned away. No one asked if there was a problem.
Why? Were they being polite?
Was that it, Zach? Were you just being polite?
Zach? Again? With Justin on the first tape, falling on Hannah's lawn. Then
interrupting me and Hannah at Kat's going-away party.
I hate this. I don't want to find out how everyone fits together anymore.
"Stop it," I said. And I know you heard me because, with me looking over
the backrest, my mouth was just inches away from your ear. "Stop it."
The Crestmont. I round the corner and, less than half a block away, there it
is. One of the few landmarks in town. The last art deco theater in the state.
"Don't worry," you said. And maybe you knew your time was short
because your hand immediately slid up from my thigh. All the way up.
So I rammed both of my hands into your side, throwing you to the floor.
Now, when someone falls out of a booth, it's kind of funny. It just is. So
you'd think people would've started laughing. Unless, of course, they knew it
wasn't an accident. So they knew something was going on in that booth, they
just didn't feel like helping.
Thanks.
The wraparound marquee stretching over the sidewalk. The ornate sign
reaching to the sky like an electric peacock feather. Each letter flickers on one
at a time, C-R-E-S-T-M-O-N-T, like filling in a crossword puzzle with neon
letters.
Anyway, you left. You didn't storm out. Just called me a tease, loud enough
for everyone to hear, and walked out.
So now, let's back up. To me, sitting at the counter, getting ready to leave.
To me, thinking Marcus wasn't showing up because he simply didn't care. And
I'll tell you what I was thinking then. Because now, it applies even more.
I walk toward the Crestmont. The other stores I pass are all closed for the
night. A solid wall of darkened windows. But then a triangular wedge cuts
away from the sidewalk, its walls and marble floor the same colors as the
neon sign, pointing in to the lobby. And in the middle of the wedge, the box
office. Like a tollbooth, with windows on three sides and a door in the rear.
That's where I worked on most nights.
For the longest time, from almost day one at this school, it seemed that I
was the only one who cared about me.
Put all of your heart into getting that first kiss . . . only to have it thrown
back in your face.
Have the only two people you truly trust turn against you.
Have one of them use you to get back at the other, and then be accused of
betrayal.
Are you getting it now? Am I going too fast?
Well, keep up!
Let someone take away any sense of privacy or security you might still
possess. Then have someone use that insecurity to satisfy their own twisted
curiosity.
She pauses. Slows down a bit.
Then come to realize that you're making mountains out of molehills.
Realize how petty you've become. Sure, it may feel like you can't get a grip in
this town. It may seem that every time someone offers you a hand up, they just
let go and you slip further down. But you must stop being so pessimistic,
Hannah, and learn to trust those around you.
So I do. One more time.
The last movie of the night is playing, so the box office is empty. I stand
on the swirling marbled floor, surrounded by posters of coming attractions.
This was my chance, at this theater, to reach Hannah.
It was my chance and I let it slip away.
And then . . . well . . . certain thoughts begin creeping around. Will I ever
get control of my life? Will I always be shoved back and pushed around by
those I trust?
I hate what you did, Hannah.
Will my life ever go where I want it to?
You didn't have to do it and I hate the fact that you did.
The next day, Marcus, I decided something. I decided to find out how
people at school might react if one of the students never came back.
As the song goes, "You are lost and gone forever, oh my darling,
Valentine."
I lean back against a poster locked behind a plastic frame and I close my
eyes.
I'm listening to someone give up. Someone I knew. Someone I liked.
I'm listening. But still, I'm too late.
My heart is pounding and I can't stand still. I walk across the marble floor to
the box office. A small sign hangs by a chain and a tiny suction cup. CLOSED—
SEE YOU TOMORROW! From out here, it doesn't look so cramped. But in there, it
felt like a fishbowl.
My only interaction came when people slid money over to my side of the
glass and I slid back their tickets. Or when a coworker let themselves in
through the rear door.
Other than that, if I wasn't selling tickets, I was reading. Or staring out of
the fishbowl, into the lobby, watching Hannah. And some nights were worse
than others. Some nights I watched to make sure she buttered the popcorn all
the way through. Which seems silly now, and obsessive, but that's what I did.
Like the night Bryce Walker came. He arrived with his girlfriend-of-themoment and wanted me to charge her the under-twelve rate.
"She won't be watching the movie anyway," he said. "You know what I
mean, Clay?" Then he laughed.
I didn't know her. She might've been a student from another school. One
thing was clear, she didn't seem to think it was funny. She placed her purse on
the counter. "I'll pay for my own ticket, then."
Bryce moved her purse aside and paid the full amount. "Just relax," he told
her. "It was a joke."
About halfway through the movie, while I sold tickets for the next show,
that girl came tearing out of the theater holding her wrist. Maybe crying. And
Bryce was nowhere to be seen.
I kept watching the lobby, waiting for him to show. But he never did. He
stayed behind to finish watching the movie he had paid for.
But when the movie was over, he leaned against the concession counter,
talking Hannah's ear off as everyone else left. And he stayed there while the
new people came in. Hannah filled drink orders, handed out candy, gave back
change, and laughed at Bryce. Laughed at whatever he said.
The entire time, I wanted to flip the Closed sign over. I wanted to march
into the lobby and ask him to leave. The movie was over and he didn't need to
be here anymore.
But that was Hannah's job. She should have asked him to leave. No, she
should have wanted him to leave.
After selling my last ticket and turning over the sign, I exited through the
box office door, locked it behind me, and went into the lobby. To help Hannah
clean up. To ask about Bryce.
"Why do you think that girl ran out of here like that?" I asked.
Hannah stopped wiping the counter and looked me straight in the eye. "I
know who he is, Clay. I know what he's like. Believe me."
"I know," I said. I looked down and touched a carpet stain with the toe of
my shoe. "I was just wondering, then, why'd you keep talking to him?"
She didn't answer. Not right away.
But I couldn't raise my eyes to face her. I didn't want to see a look of
disappointment or frustration in her eyes. I didn't want to see those kinds of
emotions directed at me.
Eventually, she said the words that ran through my mind the rest of that
night: "You don't need to watch out for me, Clay."
But I did, Hannah. And I wanted to. I could have helped you. But when I
tried, you pushed me away.
I can almost hear Hannah's voice speaking my next thought for me. "Then
why didn't you try harder?"