On my way back, the red hand flashes, but I run through the crosswalk
anyway. The parking lot holds even fewer cars than before. But still, no
Mom's.
A few doors down from Rosie's Diner, I stop running. I lean my back
against a pet store window, trying to catch my breath. Then I lean forward,
hands on my knees, hoping to slow everything down before she arrives.
Impossible. Because even though my legs stopped running, my mind keeps
going. I let myself slide down against the cold glass, knees bent, trying so
hard to hold back tears.
But time's running out. She'll be here soon.
Drawing in a full breath, I push myself up, walk over to Rosie's, and pull
open the door.
Warm air rushes out, smelling like a mixture of hamburger grease and
sugar. Inside, three of the five booths along the wall are taken. One with a boy
and a girl drinking milkshakes and munching popcorn from the Crestmont.
The other two are filled with students studying. Textbooks cover the
tabletops, leaving just enough room for drinks and a couple of baskets of
fries. Thankfully, the booth farthest back is occupied. It's not a question I
need to consider, whether to sit there or not.
Taped to one of the pinball machines is a hand-scribbled Out of Order sign.
A senior I sort of recognize stands in front of the other machine, banging
away.
As Hannah suggested, I sit at the empty counter.
Behind the counter, a man in a white apron sorts silverware into two plastic
tubs. He gives me a nod. "Whenever you're ready."
I slide a menu out from between two silver napkin holders. The front of the
menu tells a lengthy story about Rosie's, with black-and-white photos
spanning the last four decades. I flip it over, but nothing on the menu looks
good to me. Not now.
Fifteen minutes. That's how long Hannah said to wait. Fifteen minutes and
then I should order.
Something was wrong when Mom called. Something was wrong with me,
and I know she heard it in my voice. But on her way over, will she listen to
the tapes to find out why?
I am such an idiot. I should have told her I would go get them. But I didn't
do that, so now I have to wait and find out.
The boy who was eating popcorn asks for a key to the bathroom. The man
behind the counter points to the wall. Two keys hang from brass hooks. One
key has a blue plastic dog attached to it. The other, a pink elephant. He grabs
the blue dog and heads down the hall.
After storing the plastic tubs beneath the counter, the man unscrews the
tops to a dozen salt and pepper shakers, paying no attention to me. And that's
fine.
"Did you order yet?"
I swivel around. Mom sits on the stool next to me and pulls out a menu.
Beside her, on the counter, is Hannah's shoebox.
"Are you staying?" I ask.
If she stays, we can talk. I don't mind. It would be nice to free my thoughts
for a while. To take a break.
She looks me in the eyes and smiles. Then she places a hand over her
stomach and forces her smile into a frown. "That's a bad idea, I think."
"You're not fat, Mom."
She slides the box of tapes over to me. "Where's your friend? Weren't you
working with someone?"
Right. A school project. "He had to, you know, he's in the bathroom."
Her eyes look past me, over my shoulder, for just a second. And I might be
wrong, but I think she checked to see if both keys were hanging on the wall.
Thank God they weren't.
"Did you bring enough money?" she asks.
"For?"
"For something to eat." She replaces her menu then taps a fingernail
against my menu. "The chocolate malteds are to die for."
"You've eaten here?" I'm a little surprised. I've never seen adults in
Rosie's before.
Mom laughs. She places a hand on top of my head and uses her thumb to
smooth out the wrinkles on my forehead. "Don't look so amazed, Clay. This
place has been around forever." She pulls out a ten-dollar bill and lays it on
top of the shoebox. "Have what you want, but have a malted shake for me."
When she stands, the bathroom door squeaks open. I turn my head and
watch the guy rehang the blue dog key. He apologizes to his girlfriend for
taking so long and kisses her on the forehead before sitting down.
"Clay?" Mom says.
Before turning back around, I shut my eyes for just a moment, and breathe.
"Yes?"
She forces a smile. "Don't be out long." But it's a hurt smile.
Four tapes remain. Seven stories. And still, where is my name?
I look into her eyes. "It might be a while." Then I look down. At the menu.
"It's a school project."
She says nothing, but from the corner of my eye I can see her standing
there. She lifts a hand. I close my eyes and feel her fingers touch the top of
my head then slide down to the back of my neck.
"Be careful," she says.
I nod.
And she leaves.
I take the top off the shoebox and unroll the bubble-wrap. The tapes
haven't been touched.
Everyone's favorite class . . . okay, everyone's favorite required class . . . is
Peer Communications. It's kind of the nonelective elective. Everyone would
take it even if it wasn't required because it's such an easy A.
And most of the time, it's fun. I'd take it just for that.
There's very little homework, and don't forget the bonus points for class
participation. I mean, they encourage you to yell out in class. What's not to
like?
Reaching down, I grab my backpack and lift it onto the stool where Mom
sat only moments ago.
After feeling more and more like an outcast, Peer Communications was my
safe haven at school. Whenever I walked into that room, I felt like throwing
open my arms and shouting, "Olly-olly-oxen-free!"
I roll the three tapes I've already heard into the bubble-wrap and place
them back in the shoebox. Finished. Done.
For one period each day, you were not allowed to touch me or snicker
behind my back no matter what the latest rumor. Mrs. Bradley did not
appreciate people who snickered.
I unzip the largest pocket of my backpack and stow Hannah's shoebox
inside it.
That was rule number one, day number one. If anyone snickered at what
anyone else said, they owed Mrs. Bradley a Snickers bar. And if it was an
extremely rude snicker, you owed her a King Size.
On the counter, sitting beside the Walkman and a chocolate malted shake
in honor of Mom, are the next three tapes.
And everyone paid up without argument. That's the kind of respect people
had for Mrs. Bradley. No one accused her of picking on them, because she
never did. If she said you snickered, you did. And you knew it. The next day,
there would be a Snickers bar waiting on her desk.
And if there wasn't? I don't know.
There always was.
I gather the next two tapes, blue nail polish labeling them nine and ten,
eleven and twelve, and hide them in my inside jacket pocket.
Mrs. Bradley said Peer Communications was her favorite class to teach—
or moderate, as she called it. Each day, we had a brief reading assignment
full of statistics and real- world examples. Then, we discussed.
The last tape, the seventh tape, has a thirteen on one side but nothing on
the reverse. I slip this tape into the back pocket of my jeans.
Bullies. Drugs. Self-image. Relationships. Everything was fair game in
Peer Communications. Which, of course, made a lot of other teachers upset.
It was a waste of time, they said. They wanted to teach us cold hard facts.
They understood cold hard facts.
Headlights flash across Rosie's front window and I squint while they pass.
They wanted to teach us the meaning of x in relation to pi, as opposed to
helping us better understand ourselves and each other. They wanted us to
know when the Magna Carta was signed—never mind what it was—as
opposed to discussing birth control.
We have Sex Ed., but that's a joke.
Which meant that each year, during budget meetings, Peer
Communications was on the chopping block. And each year, Mrs. Bradley
and the other teachers brought a bunch of students to the school board with
examples of how we benefited from the class.
Okay, I could go on like this forever, defending Mrs. Bradley. But
something happened in that class, didn't it? Otherwise, why would you be
listening to me talk about it?
Next year, after my little incident, I hope Peer Communications continues.
I know, I know. You thought I was going to say something else, didn't you?
You thought I was going to say that if the class played a part in my decision, it
should be cut. But it shouldn't.
No one at school knows what I'm about to tell you. And it wasn't really the
class itself that played a part. Even if I never took Peer Communications, the
outcome may very well have been the same.
Or not.
I guess that's the point of it all. No one knows for certain how much impact
they have on the lives of other people. Oftentimes, we have no clue. Yet we
push it just the same.
Mom was right. The shake is amazing. A perfect blend of ice cream and
chocolate malt.
And I'm a jerk for sitting here, enjoying it.
At the back of Mrs. Bradley's room stood a wire bookrack. The kind you
spin. The kind that holds paperback novels in the supermarket. But this rack
never held any books. Instead, at the beginning of the year, each student
received a paper lunch bag to decorate with crayons and stickers and stamps.
Then we opened our bags and hung them to the rack with a couple of pieces
of tape.
Mrs. Bradley knew people had a difficult time saying nice things to each
other, so she devised a way for us to anonymously say what we felt.
Did you admire the way so-and-so talked openly about his family? Drop a
note in his bag and tell him.
Do you understand so-and-so's concern about not passing history? Drop
her a note. Tell her you'll think about her as you study for the upcoming test.
Did you like his performance in the school play?
Do you like her new haircut?
She got a haircut. In the photo at Monet's, Hannah's hair was long. That's
how I always picture it. Even now. But that's not how it was at the end.
If you can, tell them to their face. But if you can't, drop them a note and
they'll feel it just the same. And as far as I know, no one ever left a mean or
sarcastic note in anyone's bag. We had too much respect for Mrs. Bradley to
do that.
So, Zach Dempsey, what's your excuse?
What? What happened?
Oh God. I look up to find Tony standing beside me, his finger on the Pause
button.
"Is this my Walkman?"
I don't say anything, because I can't read his expression. It's not anger,
even though I did steal his Walkman.
Confusion? Maybe. But if it is, it's more than that. It's the same look he
gave when I helped him with his car. When he was watching me instead of
shining the flashlight for his dad.
Worry. Concern.
"Tony, hey."
I pull the headphones from my ears and slip them around my neck. The
Walkman. Right, he asked about the Walkman. "It is. It was in your car. I saw
it when I was helping you. Earlier today. I think I asked if I could borrow it."
I'm such an idiot.
He rests a hand on top of the counter and sits on the stool next to me. "I'm
sorry, Clay," he says. He looks into my eyes. Can he tell I'm a horrible liar? "I
get so frustrated around my dad sometimes. I'm sure you asked and I just
forgot."
His gaze falls to the yellow headphones around my neck, then follows the
long cord to the tape deck on the counter. I pray that he doesn't ask what I'm
listening to.
Between Tony and my mom, I'm doing a lot of lying today. And if he does
ask, I'll need to do it again.
"Just return it when you're done," he says. He stands and places a hand on
my shoulder. "Keep it as long as you need."
"Thanks."
"No need to rush," he says. He grabs a menu from between the napkin
holders, walks to an empty booth behind me, and sits down.
Don't worry, Zach. You never left anything mean in my bag. I know that.
But what you did do, was worse.
From what I know, Zach's a good guy. Too shy for people to even want to
gossip about.
And like me, he's always had a thing for Hannah Baker.
But first, let's go back a few weeks. Let's go back . . . to Rosie's.
My stomach pulls in tight, like working through a final sit-up. I close my
eyes and concentrate on bringing myself back to normal. But I haven't felt
normal in hours. Even the lids of my eyes feel warm. Like my whole body is
fighting a sickness.
I just sat there, in the booth where Marcus left me, staring into an empty
milkshake glass. His side of the bench was probably still warm because he'd
left only a minute ago. When up walked Zach.
And down he sat.
I open my eyes to the row of empty stools on this side of the counter. On
one of these stools, maybe this one, Hannah sat when she first arrived. By
herself. But then Marcus arrived and took her to a booth.
My gaze follows the counter down to the pinball machines at the far end of
the diner, then over to their booth. Empty.
I pretended not to notice him. Not because I had anything against him, but
because my heart and my trust were in the process of collapsing. And that
collapse created a vacuum in my chest. Like every nerve in my body was
withering in, pulling away from my fingers and toes. Pulling back and
disappearing.
My eyes burn. I reach forward and slide a hand down the frosted
milkshake glass. Ice-cold droplets cling to my skin and I run my wet fingers
across my eyelids.
I sat. And I thought. And the more I thought, connecting the events in my
life, the more my heart collapsed.
Zach was sweet. He went on letting me ignore him until it became almost
comical. I knew he was there, of course. He was practically staring at me.
And eventually, melodramatically, he cleared his throat.
I lifted my hand onto the table and touched the base of my glass. That was
the only sign he was going to get that I was listening.
I pull my glass closer and turn the spoon inside it in slow circles, softening
whatever remains at the bottom.
He asked if I was all right, and I forced myself to nod. But my eyes kept
staring at the glass—through the glass—at the spoon. And I kept thinking,
over and over, Is this what it feels like to go insane?
"I'm sorry," he said. "For whatever happened just now."
I felt my head continue to nod as if it was attached to heavy springs, but I
couldn't bring myself to tell him that I appreciated his words.
He offered to buy me another milkshake, but I gave no response. Was I
unable to talk? Or did I just not want to talk? I don't know. Part of me thought
he was hitting on me—ready to use the fact that I was now alone to ask me
out. And it's not that I completely believed that, but why should I trust him?
The waitress dropped off my bill and took the empty glass away. Soon,
getting nothing out of me, Zach left a few bucks on the table and returned to
his friends.
I keep stirring my malted. There's hardly any left, but I don't want the
glass taken away. It gives me a reason to sit here. To stay here.
My eyes began tearing up, but I could not break my stare from the small
wet circle where the glass had been. If I even tried to utter a single word, I
would have lost it.
Or had I already lost it?
I keep stirring.
I can tell you this, at that table, the worst thoughts in the world first came
into my head. It's there that I first started to consider . . . to consider . . . a
word that I still cannot say.
I know you tried coming to my rescue, Zach. But we all know that's not
why you're on this tape. So I've got one question before we continue. When
you try rescuing someone and discover they can't be reached, why would you
ever throw that back in their face?
For the past several days or weeks or however long it took you to get these
tapes, Zach, you probably thought no one would find out.
I lower my face into my hands. How many secrets can there be at one
school?
You probably got sick to your stomach when you heard what I did. But the
more time that went by, the better you felt. Because the more time that went
by, the more likely your secret died with me. No one knew. No one would ever
find out.
But now we will. And my stomach gets a little sicker.
Let me ask you, Zach, did you think I turned you down at Rosie's? I mean,
you never got around to asking me out, so I couldn't officially turn you down,
right? So what was it? Embarrassment?
Let me guess. You told your friends to watch while you put the moves on
me . . . and then I hardly responded.
Or was it a dare? Did they dare you to ask me out?
People did that. Recently someone dared me to ask Hannah out. He
worked with both of us at the Crestmont. He knew I liked her and that I never
found the nerve to ask her out. He also knew that for the past few months,
Hannah hardly spoke to anyone, making it a double challenge.
When I broke out of my daze, and before I left, I listened in on you and
your friends. They were teasing you for not getting that date you assured them
was in the bag.
I will give you credit where it's due, Zach. You could have gone back to
your friends and said, "Hannah's a freak. Look at her. She's staring into
Neverland."
Instead, you took the teasing.
But you must have a slow boil, getting more and more angry—taking it
more and more personally—the longer you thought about my
nonresponsiveness. And you chose to get back at me in the most childish of
ways.
You stole my paper bag notes of encouragement.
How pathetic.
So what tipped me off? It's simple, really. Everyone else was getting notes.
Everyone! And for the most insignificant of things. Anytime someone even got
a haircut they got a bunch of notes. And there were people in that class I
considered friends who would have put something in my bag after I chopped
off most of my hair.
When she first walked by me in the halls, with her hair cut so much
shorter, I couldn't keep my mouth from falling open. And she looked away.
Out of habit, she tried brushing the hair out of her face and behind her ears.
But it was too short and kept falling forward.
Come to think of it, I cut my hair the very day Marcus Cooley and I met at
Rosie's.
Wow! That's weird. All those warning signs they tell us to watch out for,
they're true. I went straight from Rosie's to get my hair cut. I needed a
change, just like they said, so I changed my appearance. The only thing I still
had control over.
Amazing.
She pauses. Silence. Just static, barely audible, in the headphones.
I'm sure the school had psychologists come in loaded with handouts,
telling you what to look for in students who might be considering . . .
Another pause.
No. Like I said before, I can't say it.
Suicide. Such a disgusting word.
The next day, when I found my bag empty, I knew something was up. At
least, I thought something was up. The first few months of class I received
maybe four or five notes. But suddenly, after the telltale haircut . . . nothing.
So after my haircut, I waited a week.
Then two weeks.
Then three weeks.
Nothing.
I push my glass across the counter and look at the man down by the
register. "Can you take this?"
It was time to find out what was going on. So I wrote myself a note.
He shoots me a hard look while counting back change. The girl on this side
of the register also looks at me. She touches her ears. The headphones. I'm
speaking too loud.
"Sorry," I whisper. Or maybe it doesn't come out at all.
"Hannah," the note said. "Like the new haircut. Sorry I didn't tell you
sooner." And for good measure, I added a purple smiley face.
To avoid the major embarrassment of getting caught leaving myself a note,
I also wrote a note for the bag next to mine. And after class, I walked to the
bookrack and made a show of dropping a note in that other bag. Then I
casually ran my hand around the inside of my bag, pretending to check for
notes. And I say "pretending" because I knew it would be empty.
And the next day? Nothing in my bag. The note was gone.
Maybe it didn't seem like a big deal to you, Zach. But now, I hope you
understand. My world was collapsing. I needed those notes. I needed any
hope those notes might have offered.
And you? You took that hope away. You decided I didn't deserve to have it.
The longer I listen to these tapes, the more I feel I know her. Not the
Hannah from the past few years, but the one from the past few months. That's
the Hannah I'm beginning to understand.
Hannah at the end.
The last time I found myself this close to a person, a person slowly dying,
was the night of the party. The night I watched two cars collide in a dark
intersection.
Then, like now, I didn't know they were dying.
Then, like now, there were a lot of people around. But what could they
have done? Those people standing around the car, trying to calm the driver,
waiting for an ambulance to arrive, could they have done anything at all?
Or the people who passed Hannah in the halls, or sat beside her in class,
what could they have done?
Maybe then, like now, it was already too late.
So Zach, how many notes did you take? How many notes were there that I
never got to read? And did you read them? I hope so. At least someone should
know what people really think of me.
I glance over my shoulder. Tony's still there, chewing a french fry and
pumping ketchup on a hamburger.
I admit, during class discussions I didn't open up much. But when I did,
did anyone thank me by dropping a note in my bag? That would have been
nice to know. In fact, it might have encouraged me to open up even more.
This isn't fair. If Zach had any idea what Hannah was going through, I'm
sure he wouldn't have stolen her notes.
The day my self-written note went missing, I stood outside the classroom
door and started talking to someone I'd never spoken with before. I looked
over her shoulder every few seconds, watching the other students check their
bags for notes.
That sure looked like a lot of fun, Zach.
And that's when I caught you. With a single finger, you touched the lip of
my bag and tilted it down just enough to peek inside.
Nothing.
So you headed toward the door without checking your own bag, which I
found very interesting.
The man behind the counter picks up my glass and, with a chocolatestained rag, wipes the counter.
Of course, that didn't prove anything. Maybe you just liked seeing who was
getting notes and who wasn't . . . with a particular interest in me.
So the next day, I came into Mrs. Bradley's room during lunch. I took my
paper bag off the rack and reattached it with the tiniest sliver of tape. Inside, I
placed a little note folded in half.
Again, when class was over, I waited outside and watched. But I didn't talk
to anyone this time. I just watched.
The perfect setup.
You touched the lip of my bag, saw the note, and reached in. The bag fell to
the floor and your face turned bright red. But you bent down and scooped it
up anyway. And my reaction? Disbelief. I mean, I saw it. I expected it, even.
But I still couldn't believe it.
While my original plan called for me to confront you right then and there, I
jumped to the side—out of the doorway.
In a hurry, you rounded the corner . . . and there we were. Face-to-face.
My eyes stung as I stared at you. Then I broke that stare and lowered my
head. And you took off down the hall.
She didn't want him to explain. There was no explanation. She saw it with
her own eyes.
When you were halfway down the hall, still walking fast, I saw you look
down as if reading something. My note? Yes.
You turned for just a moment to see if I was watching. And for that
moment, I was scared. Would you confront me and tell me you were sorry?
Yell at me?
The answer? None of the above. You just turned and kept walking, getting
closer and closer to the doors leading outside, closer to your escape.
And as I stood there in the hallway—alone—trying to understand what had
just happened and why, I realized the truth: I wasn't worth an explanation—
not even a reaction. Not in your eyes, Zach.
She pauses.
For the rest of you listening, the note was addressed to Zach by name.
Maybe he sees it now as a prologue to these tapes. Because in there, I
admitted that I was at a point in my life where I really could have used any
encouragement anyone might have left me. Encouragement . . . that he stole.
I bite on my thumb, calming the urge to look over my shoulder at Tony.
Does he wonder what I'm listening to? Does he care?
But I couldn't take it anymore. You see, Zach's not the only one with a slow
boil.
I shouted after him, "Why?"
In the hallway, there were still a few people changing classes. All of them
jumped. But only one of them stopped. And he stood there, facing me,
cramming my note in his back pocket.
I screamed that word over and over again. Tears, finally spilling over, ran
down my face. "Why? Why, Zach?"
I heard about that. Hannah flipping out for no apparent reason,
embarrassing herself in front of so many people.
But they were wrong. There was a reason.
So now, let's get personal. In the spirit of opening up—of full disclosure—
let me offer you this: My parents love me. I know they do. But things have not
been easy recently. Not for about a year. Not since you-know-what opened
outside of town.
I remember that. Hannah's parents were on the news every night, warning
that if the huge shopping center went up, it would put the downtown stores
out of business. They said no one would shop there anymore.
When that happened, my parents became distant. There was suddenly a lot
for them to think about. A lot of pressure to make ends meet. I mean, they
talked to me, but not like before.
When I cut my hair, my mom didn't even notice.
And as far as I knew—thank you, Zach—no one at school noticed, either.
I noticed.
In the back of our class, Mrs. Bradley also had a paper bag. It hung with
the rest of ours on the spinning bookrack. We could use it—and she
encouraged it—for notes about her teaching. Critical or otherwise. She also
wanted us to recommend topics for future discussions.
So I did just that. I wrote a note to Mrs. Bradley that read: "Suicide. It's
something I've been thinking about. Not too seriously, but I have been
thinking about it."
That's the note. Word for word. And I know it's word for word because I
wrote it dozens of times before delivering it. I'd write it, throw it away, write
it, crumple it up, throw it away.
But why was I writing it to begin with? I asked myself that question every
time I printed the words onto a new sheet of paper. Why was I writing this
note? It was a lie. I hadn't been thinking about it. Not really. Not in detail.
The thought would come into my head and I'd push it away.
But I pushed it away a lot.
And it was a subject we never discussed in class. But I was sure more
people than just me had thought about it, right? So why not discuss it as a
group?
Or deep down, maybe there was more. Maybe I wanted someone to figure
out who wrote the note and secretly come to my rescue.
Maybe. I don't know. But I was careful never to give myself away.
The haircut. Averting your eyes in the halls. You were careful, but still,
there were signs. Little signs. But they were there.
And then, just like that, you snapped back.
Except I did give myself away to you, Zach. You knew I wrote that note in
Mrs. Bradley's bag. You had to. She took it out of her bag and read it the day
after I caught you. The day after I had that meltdown in the hall.
A few days before she took the pills, Hannah was herself again. She said
hello to everyone in the halls. She looked us in the eyes. It seemed so drastic
because it had been months since she had acted like that. Like the real
Hannah.
But you did nothing, Zach. Even after Mrs. Bradley brought it up, you did
nothing to reach out.
It seemed so drastic, because it was.
So what did I want from the class? Mainly, I wanted to hear what everyone
had to say. Their thoughts. Their feelings.
And boy, did they tell me.
One person said it was going to be hard to help without knowing why the
person wanted to kill himself.
And yes, I refrained from saying, "Or herself. It could be a girl."
Then others started chiming in.
"If they're lonely, we could invite them to sit with us at lunch."
"If it's grades, we can tutor them."
"If it's their home life, maybe we can . . . I don't know . . . get them
counseling or something."
But everything they said—everything!—came tinged with annoyance.
Then one of the girls, her name doesn't matter here, said what everyone
else was thinking. "It's like whoever wrote this note just wants attention. If
they were serious, they would have told us who they were."
God. There was no way for Hannah to open up in that class.
I couldn't believe it.
In the past, Mrs. Bradley had notes dropped in her bag suggesting group
discussions on abortion, family violence, cheating—on boyfriends, girlfriends,
on tests. No one insisted on knowing who wrote those topics. But for some
reason, they refused to have a discussion on suicide without specifics.
For ten minutes or so, Mrs. Bradley rattled off statistics—local statistics—
that surprised us all. Because we're juveniles, she said, as long as the suicide
didn't occur in a public place with witnesses, they probably wouldn't report it
in the news. And no parent wants people to know that their child, the child
they raised, took his, or her, own life. So people are oftentimes led to believe it
was an accident. The downside being that no one knows what's really going
on with the people in their community.
That said, a thorough discussion did not begin in our class.
Were they just being nosy, or did they really think that knowing specifics
was the best way to help? I'm not sure. A little of both, maybe.
In first period, Mr. Porter's class, I watched her a lot. If the topic of suicide
came up, maybe our eyes would have met and I would have seen it.
And truthfully, I don't know what they could have said to sway me either
way. Because maybe I was being selfish. Maybe I was just looking for
attention. Maybe I just wanted to hear people discuss me and my problems.
Based on what she told me at the party, she would have wanted me to see
it. She would have looked directly at me, praying for me to see it.
Or maybe I wanted someone to point a finger at me and say, "Hannah. Are
you thinking about killing yourself? Please don't do that, Hannah. Please?"
But deep down, the truth was that the only person saying that was me.
Deep down, those were my words.
At the end of class, Mrs. Bradley passed out a flyer called The Warning
Signs of a Suicidal Individual. Guess what was right up there in the top five?
"A sudden change in appearance."
I tugged on the ends of my newly cropped hair.
Huh. Who knew I was so predictable?
Rubbing my chin against my shoulder, I see Tony out of the corner of my eye,
still sitting in his booth. His hamburger's all gone, as are most of his fries. He
sits there completely unaware of what I'm going through.
I open the Walkman, pop out tape number four, and flip it over.