Would you want the ability to hear other people's thoughts?
Of course you would. Everyone answers yes to that question, until they
think it all the way through.
For example, what if other people could hear your thoughts? What if they
could hear your thoughts . . . right now?
They'd hear confusion. Frustration. Even some anger. They'd hear the
words of a dead girl running through my head. A girl who, for some reason,
blames me for her suicide.
Sometimes we have thoughts that even we don't understand. Thoughts that
aren't even true—that aren't really how we feel—but they're running through
our heads anyway because they're interesting to think about.
I adjust the napkin holder in front of me till Tony's booth is reflected in the
polished silver. He leans back and wipes his hands on a napkin.
If you could hear other people's thoughts, you'd overhear things that are
true as well as things that are completely random. And you wouldn't know one
from the other. It'd drive you insane. What's true? What's not? A million
ideas, but what do they mean?
I have no idea what Tony's thinking. And he has no idea about me. He has
no idea that the voice in my head, the voice coming through his Walkman,
belongs to Hannah Baker.
That's what I love about poetry. The more abstract, the better. The stuff
where you're not sure what the poet's talking about. You may have an idea,
but you can't be sure. Not a hundred percent. Each word, specifically chosen,
could have a million different meanings. Is it a stand-in—a symbol—for
another idea? Does it fit into a larger, more hidden, metaphor?
This is the eighth person, Hannah. If it's about poetry, then it's not about
me. And there are only five names to go.
I hated poetry until someone showed me how to appreciate it. He told me
to see poetry as a puzzle. It's up to the reader to decipher the code, or the
words, based on everything they know about life and emotions.
Did the poet use red to symbolize blood? Anger? Lust? Or is the
wheelbarrow simply red because red sounded better than black?
I remember that one. From English. There was a big discussion on the
meaning of red. I have no idea what we decided in the end.
The same person who taught me to appreciate poetry also taught me the
value in writing it. And honestly, there is no better way to explore your
emotions than with poetry.
Or audiotapes.
If you're angry, you don't have to write a poem dealing with the cause of
your anger. But it needs to be an angry poem. So go ahead . . . write one. I
know you're at least a little bit angry with me.
And when you're done with your poem, decipher it as if you'd just found it
printed in a textbook and knew absolutely nothing about its author. The
results can be amazing . . . and scary. But it's always cheaper than a
therapist.
I did that for a while. Poetry, not a therapist.
Maybe a therapist would have helped, Hannah.
I bought a spiral notebook to keep all of my poems in one place. A couple
days a week, after school, I'd go to Monet's and write a poem or two.
My first few attempts were a bit sad. Not much depth or subtlety. Pretty
straightforward. But still, some came out fairly well. At least, I think they did.
Then, without even trying, I memorized the very first poem in that
notebook. And no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to shake it from my head
even today. So here it is, for your appreciation . . . or amusement.
If my love were an ocean,
there would be no more land.
If my love were a desert,
you would see only sand.
If my love were a star—
late at night, only light.
And if my love could grow wings,
I'd be soaring in flight.
Go ahead. Laugh. But you know you'd buy it if you saw it on a greeting
card.
There's a sudden ache deep inside my chest.
Just knowing I'd be going to Monet's to write poetry made the days more
bearable. Something funny, shocking, or hurtful might happen and I'd think,
This is going to make for one fascinating poem.
Over my shoulder, I see Tony walking out the front door. Which seems
weird.
Why didn't he stop to say good-bye?
To me, I suppose, these tapes are a form of poetic therapy.
Through the front window, I watch Tony get in his car.
As I tell you these stories, I'm discovering certain things. Things about
myself, yes, but also about you. All of you.
He flips on the headlights.
And the closer we get to the end, the more connections I'm discovering.
Deep connections. Some that I've told you about, linking one story to the next.
While others, I haven't told you about at all.
The Mustang shudders as Tony revs the engine. Then slowly, his car backs
up.
Maybe you've even discovered some connections that I haven't. Maybe
you're one step ahead of the poet.
No, Hannah. I'm barely keeping up.
And when I say my final words . . . well, probably not my final words, but
the last words on these tapes . . . it's going to be one tight, well-connected,
emotional ball of words.
In other words, a poem.
Watching Tony's car through the window is like watching a movie, the
Mustang backing slowly offscreen. But the headlights don't gradually fade
away, which they should if he kept backing up or turned away. Instead, they
just stop.
As if turned off.
Looking back, I stopped writing in my notebook when I stopped wanting to
know myself anymore.
Is he out there, sitting in his car, waiting? Why?
If you hear a song that makes you cry and you don't want to cry anymore,
you don't listen to that song anymore.
But you can't get away from yourself. You can't decide not to see yourself
anymore. You can't decide to turn off the noise in your head.
With Tony's headlights turned off, the windows of the diner are just a stretch
of black glass. Every so often, at the far end of the parking lot, a car drives
down the road and a sliver of light glides from one end of the glass to the
other.
But the only steady source of illumination, though distant, appears in the
upper right-hand corner. A blurry pink-and-blue light. The tip of the
Crestmont's neon sign peeking over the rooftops of every business around it.
God. What I wouldn't give to relive that summer.
When we were alone, it was so easy to talk to Hannah. It was so easy to
laugh with her. But whenever people came around, I got shy. I backed off. I
didn't know how to act anymore.
In that tiny fishbowl box office, my only connection to my coworkers in
the lobby was a red phone. No buttons to punch, just a receiver. But whenever
I picked it up and Hannah answered on the other end, I got nervous. As if I
wasn't calling from thirty feet away, but calling her at home.
"I need change," I would say.
"Again?" she'd respond. But always with a smile in her voice. And every
time, I felt my face grow warm with embarrassment. Because the truth was, I
asked for change a lot more when she was working than when she wasn't.
A couple of minutes later, there'd be a knock on the door and I'd straighten
my shirt and let her in. With a tiny cash box in hand, she'd squeeze by me,
agonizingly close, to change some of my bills. And sometimes, on slow
nights, she would sit in my chair and tell me to close the door.
Whenever she said that, I struggled to keep my imagination in check.
Because even though windows kept us exposed on three sides, like attractions
in a carnival show, and even though she only said it because we weren't
supposed to leave the door open, anything could happen within that cramped
space.
Or so I wished.
Those moments, however brief and rare, made me feel so special. Hannah
Baker chose to spend her free moments with me. And because we were at
work, no one would think anything of it. No one could read into it.
But why? Why, whenever anyone saw us, did I pretend it meant nothing?
We were working, that's what I wanted them to believe. Not hanging out. Just
working.
Why?
Because Hannah had a reputation. A reputation that scared me.
That truth first came to light a few weeks ago, at a party, with Hannah
directly in front of me. An amazing moment when everything seemed to be
falling in place.
Looking down into her eyes, I couldn't help telling her I was sorry. Sorry
for waiting so long to let her know how I felt.
For a brief moment, I was able to admit it. To her. To myself. But I could
never admit it again. Till now.
But now, it's too late.
And that's why, right at this moment, I feel so much hate. Toward myself. I
deserve to be on this list. Because if I hadn't been so afraid of everyone else, I
might have told Hannah that someone cared. And Hannah might still be alive.
I pull my gaze back from the neon sign.
Sometimes I would stop by Monet's for a hot chocolate on my way home. I'd
start my homework. Or sometimes I'd read. But I wasn't writing poetry
anymore.
I needed a break . . . from myself.
I slide my hand from under my chin to the back of my neck. The bottom
strands of my hair are drenched in sweat.
But I loved poetry. I missed it. And one day, after several weeks, I decided
to go back to it. I decided to use poetry to make myself happy.
Happy poems. Bright and happy sunshiny poems. Happy, happy, happy.
Like the two women pictured on the flyer at Monet's.
They taught a free course called Poetry: To Love Life. They promised to
teach not only how to love poetry, but through poetry, how to better love
ourselves.
Sign me up!
D-7 on your map. The community room at the public library.
It's too dark to go there now.
The poetry class began at the same time the last bell rang at school, so I'd
race over there to try and make it without being too late. But even when I was
late, everyone seemed happy to have me there—to provide the "feminine teen
perspective" they called it.
Looking around, I see that I'm the only one left in Rosie's. They don't
close for another thirty minutes. And even though I'm not eating or drinking
anymore, the man behind the counter hasn't asked me to leave. So I'll stay.
Imagine ten or twelve orange chairs arranged in a circle, with the happy
women from the flyer sitting at opposite ends. Only problem was, from day
one, they weren't happy. Someone, whoever made that flyer, must have
digitally turned their frowns upside down.
They wrote about death. About the evilness of men. About the destruction
of—and I quote—"the greenish, bluish orb with wisps of white."
Seriously, that's how they described it. They went on to call Earth a
knocked-up gaseous alien needing an abortion.
Another reason I hate poetry. Who says "orb" instead of "ball" or
"sphere?"
"Expose yourself," they said. "Let us see your deepest and your darkest."
My deepest and my darkest? What are you, my gynecologist?
Hannah.
So many times I wanted to raise my hand and say, "Um, so, when do we
get to the happy stuff? The stuff about loving life? You know, Poetry: To Love
Life? That's what the flyer said. That's why I'm here."
In the end, I only made it through three of those poetry groups. But
something did come of it. Something good?
No.
Hmm . . . I wonder.
See, someone else was in that group. Another high schooler with a
perspective adored by the older poets. Who was it? The editor of our school's
very own Lost-N-Found Gazette.
Ryan Shaver.
You know who I'm talking about. And I'm sure you, Mr. Editor, can't wait
for me to say your name out loud.
So here you go, Ryan Shaver. The truth shall set you free.
The motto of the Lost-N-Found.
You've known this for a while, Ryan. I'm sure of it. At the first mention of
poetry, you knew this one was about you. You had to. Though I'm sure you
must have thought, This can't be why I'm on the tapes. It wasn't a big deal.
The poem from school. God, it was hers.
Remember, this is one tight, well-connected, emotional ball I'm
constructing here.
I close my eyes tight, covering my eyes with my hand.
I crush my teeth together, jaw muscles burning, to keep from screaming.
Or crying. I don't want her to read it. I don't want to hear that poem in her
voice.
Would you like to hear the last poem I wrote before quitting poetry? Before
quitting poetry for good?
No?
Fine. But you've already read it. It's very popular at our school.
I allow my eyelids, my jaw, to relax.
The poem. We discussed it in English. We read it aloud many times.
And Hannah was there for it all.
Some of you may recall it now. Not word for word, but you know what I'm
talking about. The Lost-N-Found Gazette. Ryan's semiannual collection of
items found lying around campus.
Like a love letter tossed under a desk, never discovered by its intended
love. If Ryan found it, he'd scratch out the give-away names and scan it for
use in an upcoming gazette.
Photographs that fell out of binders . . . he scanned them, too.
History notes covered in doodles by an extremely bored student . . . he
scanned them.
Some people may wonder how Ryan found so many interesting items to
scan. Did he really find them at all? Or did he steal them? I asked him that
very question after one of our poetry meetings. And he swore that everything
he printed was found purely by chance.
Sometimes, he admitted, people did slip items they found into his locker.
Those, he said, he couldn't vouch for one hundred percent. That's why he
scratched out names and phone numbers. And photographs, as a rule,
couldn't be too embarrassing.
He'd gather five or six pages of good, quirky material and print up fifty
copies. Then he'd staple them together and drop them off at random places
throughout school. Restrooms. Locker rooms. On the track.
"Never in the same spot," he told me. He thought it was fitting for people
to stumble across his magazine of stumbled across items.
But guess what? My poem? He stole it.
I pull a napkin out of the holder and wipe the abrasive paper across my
eyes.
Each week, after our poetry group, Ryan and I would sit on the library
steps and talk. That first week, we simply laughed about the poems the other
people had written and read. We laughed about how depressing they all were.
"Wasn't this supposed to make us happy?" he asked. Apparently, he signed
up for the same reason as me.
I look up. The man behind the counter tugs on the strings of a heavy trash
bag. It's closing time.
"Can I get a glass of water?" I ask.
After the second week of class, we sat on those library steps and read some
of our own poems to each other. Poems we'd written at different points in our
lives.
He looks at my eyes, at the skin rubbed raw by the napkin.
But only happy poems. Poems about loving life. Poems we would never
read to that depression-loving group of miserable poets inside.
And, as poets never do, we explained ourselves. Line for line.
The third week, we took the biggest chance of all and handed each other
our entire notebooks of poetry.
He pushes a glass of ice water in front of me. Except for that glass and the
napkin dispensers, the entire length of the counter is empty.
Wow! That took a lot of courage. For me, definitely. I'm sure for you, too,
Ryan. And for the next two hours, with the sun going down, we sat on those
concrete steps, turning pages.
His handwriting was horrible, so it took me a bit longer to read through
his poems. But they were amazing. Much deeper than any of mine.
His stuff sounded like real poetry. Professional poetry. And someday, I'm
sure of it, kids will be forced to analyze his poems out of a textbook.
I touch the cold glass, wrapping my fingers around it.
Of course, I had no idea what his poems meant. Not exactly. But I felt the
emotions precisely. They were absolutely beautiful. And I felt almost ashamed
at what he must have been thinking as he went through my notebook. Because
reading through his, I realized how little time I'd spent on mine. I should have
taken the time to choose better words. More emotional words.
But one of my poems grabbed him. And he wanted to know more about
it . . . like when I wrote it.
But I didn't tell him.
I don't drink the water. I watch a single drop slide down the glass and
bump against my finger.
I wrote it the same day a group of students got angry that someone had the
nerve to ask for help regarding suicide. Remember why they got upset?
Because whoever wrote the note didn't sign her name.
How insensitive.
It was anonymous. Just like the poem that appeared in the Lost-N-Found.
So Ryan wanted to know why I wrote the poem.
With that one, I told him, the poem had to speak for itself. But I was
interested in knowing what he thought it meant.
On the surface, he said, the poem was about acceptance—acceptance from
my mother. But more than that, I wanted her approval. And I wanted certain
people—in this case a boy—to stop overlooking me.
A boy?
At the base of the glass, the water creates a delicate suction, then lets go. I
take a sip and let a small cube of ice slip into my mouth.
I asked if he thought it meant anything deeper.
I hold the ice on my tongue. It's freezing, but I want it to melt there.
Part of me was joking. I thought he'd figured out my poem exactly. But I
wanted to know what a teacher assigning the poem might want his or her
students to discover. Because teachers always overdo it.
But you found it, Ryan. You found the hidden meaning. You found what
even I couldn't find in my own poem.
The poem wasn't about my mom, you said. Or a boy. It was about me. I
was writing a letter to myself . . . hidden in a poem.
I flinched when you told me that. I got defensive—even angry. But you
were right. And I felt scared, and sad, by my own words.
You told me I wrote that poem because I was afraid of dealing with myself.
And I used my mom as an excuse, accusing her of not appreciating or
accepting me, when I should have been saying those words into a mirror.
"And the boy?" I asked. "What does he represent?"
It's me. Oh God. It's me. I know that now.
I cover my ears. Not to block any outside noise. The diner is almost
completely silent. But I want to feel her words, all of them, as they're said.
While I waited for your answer, I searched my backpack for a tissue. At
any moment, I knew I might cry.
You told me that no boy was overlooking me more than I was overlooking
myself. At least, that's what you thought it meant. And that's why you asked
about the poem. You felt it went deeper than even you could figure out.
Well, Ryan, you were right. It went much, much deeper than that. And if
you knew that—if that's what you thought—then why did you steal my
notebook? Why did you print my poem, the poem that you yourself called
"scary" in the Lost-N-Found? Why did you let other people read it?
And dissect it. And make fun of it.
It was never a lost poem, Ryan. And you never found it, so it did not belong
in your collection.
But in your collection is exactly where other people found it. That's where
teachers stumbled across it right before their lectures on poetry. That's where
classrooms full of students cut up my poem, searching for its meaning.
In our class, no one got it right. Not even close. But at the time, we all
thought we did. Even Mr. Porter.
Do you know what Mr. Porter said before handing out my poem? He said
that reading a poem by an unknown member of our school was the same as
reading a classic poem by a dead poet. That's right—a dead poet. Because we
couldn't ask either one about its true meaning.
Then Mr. Porter waited, hoping someone would fess up to writing it. But
that, as you know, never happened.
So now you know. And for those of you who need a refresher, here it is.
"Soul Alone" by Hannah Baker.
I meet your eyes
you don't even see me
You hardly respond
when I whisper
hello
Could be my soul mate
two kindred spirits
Maybe we're not
I guess we'll never
know
My own mother
you carried me in you
Now you see nothing
but what I wear
People ask you
how I am doing
You smile and nod
don't let it end
there
Put me
underneath God's sky and
know me
don't just see me with your eyes
Take away
this mask of flesh and bone and
see me
for my soul
alone
And now you know why.
So, did your teachers dissect me properly? Were they right? Did you have
any clue at all it was me?
Yes, some of you did. Ryan must have told someone—proud that his
collection made it into the curriculum. But when people confronted me, I
refused to confirm it or deny it. Which pissed some of them off.
Some even wrote parodies of my poem, reading them to me in the hopes of
getting under my skin.
I saw that. I watched two girls in Mr. Porter's class recite a version before
the bell rang.
It was all so stupid and childish . . . and cruel.
They were relentless, bringing new poems every day for an entire week.
Hannah did her best to ignore them, pretending to read while waiting for Mr.
Porter to arrive. For the start of class to come to her rescue.
This doesn't seem like a big deal, does it?
No, maybe not to you. But school hadn't been a safe haven of mine for a
long time. And after your photo escapades, Tyler, my home was no longer
secure.
Now, suddenly, even my own thoughts were being offered up for ridicule.
Once, in Mr. Porter's class, when those girls were teasing her, Hannah
looked up. Her eyes caught mine for just a moment. A flash. But she knew I
was watching her. And even though no one else saw it, I turned away.
She was on her own.
Very nice, Ryan. Thank you. You're a true poet.
I pull the headphones out of my ears and hang them around my neck.
"I don't know what's going on with you," the man says from across the
counter, "but I'm not taking your money." He blows into a straw and pinches
both ends shut.
I shake my head and reach back for my wallet. "No, I'll pay."
He winds the straw tighter and tighter. "I'm serious. It was only a
milkshake. And like I said, I don't know what's going on, and I don't know
how I can help, but something's clearly gone wrong in your life, so I want you
to keep your money." His eyes search mine, and I know he means it.
I don't know what to say. Even if the words would come, my throat is so
tight it won't let them escape.
So I nod, grab my backpack, and change the tape as I head for the door.