It feels like we've driven this same road multiple times since leaving Rosie's.
Like he's stalling for time.
"Were you at the party?" I ask.
Tony looks out his side window and changes lanes. "No. Clay, I need to
know that you're going to be all right."
Impossible to answer. Because no, I didn't push her away. I didn't add to
her pain or do anything to hurt her. Instead, I left her alone in that room. The
only person who might've been able to reach out and save her from herself.
To pull her back from wherever she was heading.
I did what she asked and I left. When I should have stayed.
"No one blames me," I whisper. I need to hear it said aloud. I need to hear
the words in my ears and not just in my head. "No one blames me."
"No one," Tony says, his eyes still on the road.
"What about you?" I ask.
We approach a four-way stop and slow down.
For a moment, from the corner of his eye, he looks at me. Then he returns
his gaze to the road. "No, I don't blame you."
"But why you?" I ask. "Why did she give you the other set of tapes?"
"Let me drive you to the party house," he says. "I'll tell you there."
"You can't tell me now?"
His smile is weak. "I'm trying to keep us on the road."
Soon after Clay left, the couple from the couch walked into the bedroom.
Actually, stumbled into the bedroom is more accurate. Remember them? I
thought she was acting drunk, bumping into me so we'd get up and leave.
Unfortunately, it wasn't an act. She was smashed.
I passed them in the hall. One of Jessica's arms lay flopped over Justin's
shoulders. The other one groped for the wall to steady herself.
Of course, I didn't actually see them come in. I was still on the floor, my
back against the far side of the bed, and it was dark.
When I walked out of the room, I felt so frustrated. So confused. I leaned
against the piano in the living room, almost needing it to hold myself up.
What should I do? Stay? Leave? But where would I go?
Her sofa buddy kept her from stumbling too hard into the nightstand. And
when she rolled off the bed . . . twice . . . he lifted her back on. Nice guy that
he was, he kept the laughter to a minimum.
I thought he would tuck her in and shut the door behind him as he left. And
that would be the perfect time for my getaway. End of story.
Hannah wasn't my first kiss, but the first kiss that mattered; the first kiss
with someone who mattered. And after talking with her for so long that night,
I assumed it was just the beginning. Something was happening between us.
Something right. I felt it.
But that's not the end of the story. Because that wouldn't make for a very
interesting tape, now would it? And by now, I'm sure you knew it wasn't the
end.
Still, with no destination in mind, I left the party.
Instead of leaving, he started kissing her.
I know, some of you would have easily stayed for such an amazing
voyeuristic opportunity. A close encounter of the sexual kind. Even if you
never saw it, at least you'd hear it.
But two things kept me down on that floor. With my forehead pressed
against my knees, I realized how much I must've drank that night. And with
my balance not what it should've been, to run across the floor felt a little
hazardous.
So that's one excuse.
Excuse number two is that things seemed to be winding down up there. Not
only was she drunk and clumsy, she seemed to be completely unresponsive.
From what I could tell, it didn't go much beyond kissing. And it seemed to be
one-sided kissing at that.
Again, nice guy that he was, he didn't take advantage of the situation. He
wanted to. He tried for the longest time to get a reaction out of her. "Are you
still awake? Do you want me to take you to the bathroom? Are you gonna
puke?"
This girl wasn't totally passed out. She grunted and groaned a bit.
It dawned on him—finally—that she wasn't in a romantic mood and
probably wouldn't be for a while. So he tucked her in and said he'd check on
her in a bit. Then he left.
At this point you might be wondering, Who are these people? Hannah, you
forgot to tell us their names. But I didn't forget. If there's one thing I've still
got, it's my memory.
Which is too bad. Maybe if I forgot things once in a while, we'd all be a
little bit happier.
The mist was heavy when I left the party. And as I walked through the
neighborhood, it started to drizzle. Then rain. But when I first started walking
it was just a thick mist that left everything sort of hazy.
No, you'll have to wait for a name on this one. Though if you've been
paying close attention, I gave you the answer a long time ago.
Before I say his name out loud, this guy needs to stew a bit . . . to
remember everything that happened in that room.
And he remembers. I know he does.
I would love to see his face right now. His eyes shut tight. Jaw clenched.
Fists pulling out his hair.
And to him I say, Deny it! Go on, deny that I was ever in that room. Deny
that I know what you did. Or not what you did, but what you didn't do. What
you allowed to happen. Rationalize why this isn't the tape you're making a
return appearance on. It must be a later tape. It has to be a later tape.
Oh, really? And you'd like that? A later tape would make things better?
Don't bet on it.
God. What else could've gone wrong that night?
I know she wasn't your girlfriend, that you hardly ever talked to her and
barely even knew her, but is that your best excuse for what happened next? Or
is that your only excuse?
Either way, there is no excuse.
I stood up, stabilizing myself with one hand on the bed.
Your shoes—the shadow of your shoes—were still visible in the light
coming under the door. Because when you left that room, you took up post
right outside. And I let go of the bed and started walking toward that sliver of
light, not sure what I'd say to you when I opened the door.
But halfway there, two more shoes came into view . . . and I stopped.
When I left the party, I just walked. Several blocks. Not wanting to go
home. Not wanting to go back.
The door opened, but you pulled it back and said, "No. Let her rest."
In that tiny burst of light, I saw a closet—its accordion doors halfway
open. Meanwhile, your friend was convincing you to let him in that room.
I waited, heart pounding, trapped in the middle of the floor.
The bedroom door opened again. But again, you pulled it shut. And you
tried to make a joke of it. "Trust me," you said, "she won't move. She'll just
lay there."
And what was his response? What was it? What was his reasoning for you
to step aside and let him in that room? Do you remember? Because I do.
It was the night shift.
He told you he was working the night shift and had to leave in a few
minutes.
A few minutes, that's all he needed with her. So just relax and step aside.
And that's all it took for you to let him open the door.
God.
Pathetic.
I couldn't believe it. And your friend couldn't believe it, either, because
when he grabbed the doorknob again, he didn't rush right in. He waited for
you to protest.
In that brief moment—the moment you said nothing—I fell on my knees,
sick, covering my mouth with both hands. I stumbled toward the closet, tears
blurring the light from the hall. And when I collapsed into the closet, a pile of
jackets on the floor caught me.
When the bedroom door opened, I pulled the closet doors shut. And I shut
my eyes tight. Blood pounded in my ears. I rocked back and forth, back and
forth, beating my forehead into the pile of jackets. But with the bass pumping
throughout the house, no one heard me.
"Just relax." Those words, he's said it before. It's what he always says to
the people he's taking advantage of. Girlfriends. Guys. Whoever.
It's Bryce. It has to be. Bryce Walker was in that room.
And with the bass thumping, no one heard him walking across the room.
Walking across the room. Getting on the bed. The bedsprings screaming
under his weight. No one heard a thing.
And I could have stopped it. If I could have talked. If I could have seen. If I
could have thought about anything, I would have opened those doors and
stopped it.
But I didn't. And it doesn't matter what my excuse was. That my mind was
in a meltdown is no excuse. I have no excuse. I could have stopped it—end of
story. But to stop it, I felt like I'd have to stop the entire world from spinning.
Like things had been out of control for so long that whatever I did hardly
mattered anymore.
And I couldn't stand all the emotions anymore. I wanted the world to
stop . . . to end.
For Hannah, the world did end. But for Jessica, it didn't. It went on. And
then, Hannah hit her with these tapes.
I don't know how many songs went by with my face buried in those jackets.
The beats kept sliding from one song into another. After a while, my throat felt
so scratched. So raw and burning. Had I been screaming?
With my knees on the floor, I felt vibrations whenever anyone walked down
the hall. And when footsteps fell within the room—several songs after he
entered the room—I pressed my back against the closet wall . . . waiting.
Waiting for the closet doors to be torn open. To be yanked out of my hiding
place.
And then? What would he do to me then?
Tony's car pulls over. The front tire scrapes the curb. I don't know how we
got here, but the house is right outside my window now. The same front door
where I entered the party. The same front porch where I left. And to the left of
the porch, a window. Behind that window, a bedroom and a closet with
accordion doors where Hannah, on the night I kissed her, disappeared.
But light from the hallway seeped into the room, into the closet, and his
footsteps walked away. It was over.
After all, he couldn't be late for work, could he?
So what happened next? Well, I ran out of the room and straight down the
hall. And that's where I saw you. Sitting in a room all by yourself. The person
this whole tape revolves around . . . Justin Foley.
My stomach lurches and I fling open the car door.
Sitting on the edge of a bed, with the lights turned off, there you were.
Sitting there, staring at nothing. While I stood in the hallway, frozen,
staring at you.
We'd come a long way, Justin. From the first time I watched you slip on
Kat's lawn. To my first kiss at the bottom of the slide. To now.
First, you started a chain of events that ruined my life. Now, you were
working on hers.
Outside that very same house, I throw up.
I keep my body hunched over, my head hanging over the gutter.
Eventually, you turned my way. The color in your face . . . gone. Your
expression . . . blank. And your eyes looked so exhausted.
Or was it pain I saw there?
"Stay there as long as you want," Tony says.
Don't worry, I think. I won't puke in your car.
Justin, baby, I'm not blaming you entirely. We're in this one together. We
both could have stopped it. Either one of us. We could have saved her. And
I'm admitting this to you. To all of you. That girl had two chances. And both
of us let her down.
The breeze feels good on my face, cooling the sweat on my forehead and
neck.
So why is this tape about Justin? What about the other guy? Isn't what he
did worse?
Yes. Absolutely yes. But the tapes need to be passed on. And if I sent them
to him, they would stop. Think about it. He raped a girl and would leave town
in a second if he knew . . . well . . . if he knew that we knew.
Still hunched over, I breathe in as fully as possible. Then I hold it.
And release.
Breathe. Then hold.
Release.
I sit upright in the seat, keeping the door open just in case. "Why you?" I
ask. "Why do you have these tapes? What did you do?"
A car drives by and we both watch it turn left two blocks away. It's another
minute before Tony answers.
"Nothing," he says. "And that's the truth." For the first time since
approaching me at Rosie's, Tony addresses me eye to eye. And in his eyes,
catching the light from a lamppost half a block away, I see tears. "Finish this
tape, Clay, and I'll explain everything."
I don't answer.
"Finish it. You're almost done," he says.
So what do you think of him now, Justin? Do you hate him? Your friend that
raped her, is he still your friend?
Yes, but why?
It must be denial. It has to be. Sure, he's always had a temper. Sure, he
goes through girls like used underwear. But he's always been a good friend to
you. And the more you hang out with him, the more he seems like the same old
guy from before, right? And if he acts like the same guy, then he couldn't
possibly have done anything wrong. Which means that you didn't do anything
wrong, either.
Great! That's great news, Justin. Because if he didn't do anything wrong,
and you didn't do anything wrong, then I didn't do anything wrong. And you
have no idea how much I wish I didn't ruin that girl's life.
But I did.
At the very least, I helped. And so did you.
No, you're right, you didn't rape her. And I didn't rape her. He did. But
you . . . and I . . . we let it happen.
It's our fault.
"Full story," I say. "What happened?"
I pull the sixth tape from my pocket and swap it with the one inside the
Walkman.