Tony takes his keys out of the ignition. Something to hold on to while he
talks. "I've been trying to figure out how to say this the whole time we've
been driving. The whole time we've been sitting here. Even when you were
puking your guts out."
"You noticed I didn't puke in your car."
"I did." He smiles, looking down at his keys. "Thanks. I appreciate that."
I close the car door. My stomach is settling.
"She came over to my house," Tony says. "Hannah. And that was my
chance."
"For what?"
"Clay, the signs were all there," he says.
"I had my chance, too," I tell him. I take off the headphones and hang them
on my knee. "At the party. She was freaking out when we kissed and I didn't
know why. That was my chance."
Inside the car, it's dark. And quiet. With the windows rolled up the outside
world seems deep asleep.
"We're all to blame," he says. "At least a little."
"So she came over to your house," I say.
"With her bike. The one she always rode to school."
"The blue one," I say. "Let me guess. You were working on your car."
He laughs. "Who would've thought, right? But she never came over to my
house before, so I was a little surprised. You know, we were friendly at
school, so I didn't think too much of it. What was weird, though, was why she
came over."
"Why?"
He looks out the side window, and his chest fills with air. "She came over
to give me her bike."
The words sit there, undisturbed, for an uncomfortably long time.
"She wanted me to have it," he says. "She was done with it. When I asked
for a reason, she just shrugged. She didn't have one. But it was a sign. And I
missed it."
I summarize a bullet point from the handout at school. "Giving away
possessions."
Tony nods. "She said I was the only one she could think of who might
need it. I drive the oldest car at school, she said, and she thought if it ever
broke down I might need a backup."
"But this baby never breaks down," I say.
"This thing always breaks down," he says. "I'm just always around to fix
it. So I told her that I couldn't take her bike. Not without giving her
something in return."
"What did you give her?"
"I'll never forget this," he says, and he turns to look at me. "Her eyes,
Clay, they never looked away. She just kept looking, straight into my eyes,
and started crying. She just stared at me and tears began streaming down her
face."
He wipes away tears from his own eyes and then wipes a hand across his
upper lip. "I should have done something."
The signs were all there, all over, for anyone willing to notice.
"What did she ask for?"
"She asked me how I made my tapes, the ones I play in my car." He leans
his head back and takes a deep breath. "So I told her about my dad's old tape
recorder." He pauses. "Then she asked if I had anything to record voices."
"God."
"Like a handheld recorder or something. Something you didn't have to
plug in but could walk around with. And I didn't ask why. I told her to wait
right there and I'd get one."
"And you gave it to her?"
He turns to me, his face hard. "I didn't know what she was going to do
with it, Clay."
"Wait, I'm not accusing you, Tony. But she didn't say anything about why
she wanted it?"
"If I had asked, do you think she would have told me?"
No. By the time she went to Tony's house, her mind was made up. If she
wanted someone to stop her, to rescue her from herself, I was there. At the
party. And she knew it.
I shake my head. "She wouldn't have told you."
"A few days later," he says, "when I get home from school, there's a
package sitting on my porch. I take it up to my room and start listening to the
tapes. But it doesn't make any sense."
"Did she leave you a note or anything?"
"No. Just the tapes. But it didn't make any sense because Hannah and I
have third period together and she was at school that day."
"What?"
"So when I got home and started listening to the tapes, I went through
them so fast. Fast-forwarding to find out if I was on them. But I wasn't. And
that's when I knew that she'd given me the second set of tapes. So I looked
her up and called her house, but no one answered. So I called her parents'
store. I asked if Hannah was there, and they asked if everything was all right
because I'm sure I sounded crazy."
"What did you say?"
"I told them that something was wrong and they needed to find her. But I
couldn't make myself tell them why." He takes in a thin, jagged breath of air.
"And the next day at school, she wasn't there."
I want to tell him I'm sorry, that I can't imagine what that must've been
like. But then I think of tomorrow, at school, and realize I'll find out soon
enough. Seeing the other people on the tapes for the first time.
"I went home early that day," he says, "pretending I was sick. And I've got
to admit, it took me a few days to pull myself together. But when I returned,
Justin Foley looked like hell. Then Alex. And I thought, okay, most of these
people deserve it, so I'm going to do what she asked and make sure you all
hear what she has to say."
"But how are you keeping track?" I ask. "How did you know I had the
tapes?"
"You were easy," he says. "You stole my Walkman, Clay."
We both laugh. And it feels good. A release. Like laughing at a funeral.
Maybe inappropriate, but definitely needed.
"But everyone else, they were a little trickier," he says. "I'd run to my car
after the last bell and drive as close to the front lawn of the school as possible.
When I saw whoever was next, a couple days after I knew the last person had
heard the tapes, I'd call out his name and wave him over. Or her. I'd wave her
over."
"And then you'd just ask if they had the tapes?"
"No. They would've denied it, right? So I'd hold up a tape when they got
close and tell them to get in because I had a song I wanted them to hear.
Every time, based on their reaction, I knew."
"And then you'd play one of her tapes?"
"No. If they didn't run away, I'd have to do something, so I'd play them a
song," he says. "Any song. They would sit there, where you are, wondering
why in the hell I was playing them this song. But if I was right, their eyes
would glaze over, like they were a million miles away."
"So why you?" I ask. "Why'd she give the tapes to you?"
"I don't know," he says. "The only thing I can think of is because I gave
her the recorder. She thought I had a stake in it and would play along."
"You're not on them, but you're still a part."
He faces the windshield and grips the steering wheel. "I've got to go."
"I didn't mean anything by that," I say. "Honest."
"I know. But it's late. My dad's going to start wondering if I broke down
somewhere."
"What, you don't want him messing under your hood again?" I grab the
door handle and then, remembering, let go and pull out my phone. "I need
you to do something. Can you say hello to my mom?"
"Sure."
I scroll through the list of names, hit Send, and she picks up right away.
"Clay?"
"Hey, Mom."
"Clay, where are you?" She sounds hurt.
"I told you I might be out late."
"I know. You did. I was just hoping to hear from you by now."
"I'm sorry. But I'm going to need a little longer. I may need to stay at
Tony's tonight."
Right on cue, "Hello, Mrs. Jensen."
She asks if I've been drinking.
"Mom, no. I swear."
"Okay, well, this is for his history project, right?"
I flinch. She wants to believe my excuses so bad. Every time I lie, she
wants to believe me so much.
"I trust you, Clay."
I tell her I'll be home before school to get my stuff, then we hang up.
"Where are you going to stay?" Tony asks.
"I don't know. I'll probably go home. But I don't want her to worry if I
don't."
He turns the key, the engine starts, and he flips on the headlights. "Do you
want me to take you somewhere?"
I grab the door handle and nod toward the house. "This is where I'm at in
the tapes," I say. "But thanks."
His eyes stare straight ahead.
"Honestly. Thank you," I say. And when I say it, I mean it for more than
just the ride. For everything. For how he reacted when I broke down and
cried. For trying to make me laugh on the most horrible night of my life.
It feels good knowing someone understands what I'm listening to, what
I'm going through. Somehow, it makes it not as scary to keep listening.
I get out of the car and shut the door. His car pulls away.
I press Play.
Back to the party, everyone. But don't get too comfy, we'll be leaving in just a
minute.
Half a block away, Tony's Mustang stops at an intersection, takes a left,
and drives away.
If time was a string connecting all of your stories, that party would be the
point where everything knots up. And that knot keeps growing and growing,
getting more and more tangled, dragging the rest of your stories into it.
When Justin and I finally broke that awful, painful stare, I wandered down
the hall and back into the party. Staggered in, really. But not from the alcohol.
From everything else.
I sit on the curb, a few feet from where I vomited out of Tony's car. If
whoever lives here, because I have no idea whose party it was, wants to come
out and ask me to leave, I welcome it. Please do.
I grabbed for the piano in the living room. Then the piano bench. And I
sat.
I wanted to leave, but where would I go? I couldn't go home. Not yet.
And wherever I went, how would I get there? I was too weak to walk. At
least, I thought I was too weak. But in truth, I was too weak to try. The only
thing I knew for certain was that I wanted to get out of there and not think
about anything or anyone anymore.
Then a hand touched my shoulder. A gentle squeeze.
It was Jenny Kurtz.
The cheerleader from the Student Body office.
Jenny, this one's for you.
I drop my head down to my knees.
Jenny asked if I needed a ride home, and I almost laughed. Was it so
obvious? Did I look that terrible?
So I looped my arm in hers and she helped me up. Which felt good, letting
someone help me. We walked out the front door, through a crowd either
passed out on the porch or smoking in the yard.
Somewhere, at that moment, I was walking from block to block trying to
figure out why I'd left that party. Trying to figure out, trying to understand,
what had just happened between me and Hannah.
The sidewalk was damp. My feet, numb and heavy, shuffled across the
pavement. I listened to the sound of every pebble and leaf that I stepped on. I
wanted to hear them all. To block out the music and the voices behind me.
While blocks away, I could still hear that music. Distant. Muffled. Like I
couldn't get far enough away.
And I can still remember every song that played.
Jenny, you didn't say a thing. You didn't ask me any questions. And I was
so grateful. Maybe you've had things happen, or seen things happen at
parties that you just couldn't discuss. Not right away, at least. Which is sort of
fitting, because I haven't discussed any of this until now.
Well . . . no . . . I tried. I tried once, but he didn't want to hear it.
Is that the twelfth story? The thirteenth? Or something else entirely? Is it
one of the names written on her paper that she won't tell us about?
So, Jenny, you led me to your car. And even though my thoughts were
somewhere else—my eyes focused on nothing—I felt your touch. You held my
arm with such tenderness as you lowered me into the passenger seat. You
buckled me in, got in your seat, then we left.
What happened next, I'm not entirely sure. I wasn't paying attention
because, in your car, I felt secure. The air inside was warm and comforting.
The wiper blades, on a slow speed, gently pulled me out of my thoughts and
into the car. Into reality.
The rain wasn't heavy, but it blurred the windshield just enough to keep
everything dreamlike. And I needed that. It kept my world from becoming too
real, too fast.
And then . . . it hit. There's nothing like an accident to bring the world
crashing back.
An accident? Another one? Two in one night? How come I never heard
about this one?
The front wheel on my side slammed into and jumped the curb. A wooden
post smacked into your front bumper and snapped back like a toothpick.
God. No.
A Stop sign fell backward in front of your headlights. It caught under your
car and you screamed and slammed on the brakes. In the side mirror, I
watched sparks fly onto the road as we slid to a stop.
Okay, now I'm awake.
We sat for a moment, staring through the windshield. No words, not a
glance between us. The wipers smeared the rain from side to side. And my
hands stayed gripped to my seatbelt, thankful we only hit a sign.
The accident with the old man. And the guy from school. Did Hannah
know? Did she know Jenny caused it?
Your door opened and I watched you walk to the front of your car, then
crouch between the headlights for a closer look. You ran a hand over the dent
and let your head droop forward. I couldn't tell if you were pissed. Or were
you crying?
Maybe you were laughing at how horrible the night was turning out.
I know where to go. I don't need the map. I know exactly where the next
star is, so I stand up to start walking.
The dent wasn't bad. I mean, it wasn't good, but you had to feel some
relief. It could have been worse. It could have been much, much worse. For
example . . . you could have hit something else.
She knows.
Something alive.
Whatever your initial thoughts, you stood up with a blank expression. Just
standing there, staring at the dent, shaking your head.
Then you caught my eye. And I'm sure I saw a frown, even if it lasted only
a split second. But that frown turned into a smile. Followed by a shrug.
And what were the first words you said when you got back in the car?
"Well, that sucks." Then you put your key in the ignition and . . . I stopped
you. I couldn't let you drive away.
At the intersection where Tony turned left, I take a right. It's still two
blocks away, but I know it's there. The Stop sign.
You shut your eyes and said, "Hannah, I'm not drunk."
Well, I didn't accuse you of being drunk, Jenny. But I was wondering why
the hell you couldn't keep your car on the road.
"It's raining," you said.
And yes, true, it was. Barely.
I told you to park the car.
You told me to be reasonable. We both lived close by and you'd stick to the
residential streets—as if that made it any better.
I see it. A metal pole holding up a Stop sign, its reflective letters visible
even this far away. But on the night of the accident, it was a different sign.
The letters weren't reflective and the sign had been fastened to a wooden post.
"Hannah, don't worry," you said. Then you laughed. "Nobody obeys Stop
signs anyway. They just roll on through. So now, because there isn't one there,
it's legal. See? People will thank me."
Again, I told you to park the car. We'd get a ride home from someone at the
party. I'd pick you up first thing in the morning and drive you to your car.
But you tried again. "Hannah, listen."
"Park it," I said. "Please."
And then you told me to get out. But I wouldn't. I tried reasoning with you.
You were lucky it was only a sign. Imagine what could happen if I let you
drive us all the way home.
But again, "Get out."
I sat for a long time with my eyes shut, listening to the rain and the wipers.
"Hannah! Get . . . out!"
So finally, I did. I opened the car door and stepped out. But I didn't shut it.
I looked back at you. And you stared through your windshield—through the
wipers—gripping the wheel.
Still a block away, but the only thing I can focus on is the Stop sign
straight ahead.
I asked if I could use your phone. I saw it sitting there right below the
stereo.
"Why?" you asked.
I'm not sure why I told you the truth. I should have lied. "We need to at
least tell someone about the sign," I said.
You kept your eyes straight ahead. "They'll trace it. They can trace phone
calls, Hannah." Then you started up the car and told me to shut the door.
I didn't.
So you reversed the car, and I jumped back to keep the door from knocking
me over.
You didn't care that the metal sign was crushing— grating—the underside
of your car. When you cleared it, the sign lay at my feet, warped and streaked
with silver scratches.
You revved the engine and I took the hint, stepping back onto the curb.
Then you peeled away, causing the door to slam shut, picking up speed the
further you got . . . and you got away.
In fact, you got away with much more than knocking down a sign, Jenny.
And once again, I could have stopped it . . . somehow.
We all could have stopped it. We all could have stopped something. The
rumors. The rape.
You.
There must have been something I could have said. At the very least, I
could have taken your keys. Or at the very, very least, I could have reached in
and stolen your phone to call the police.
Actually, that's the only thing that would've mattered. Because you found
your way home in once piece, Jenny. But that wasn't the problem. The sign
was knocked down, and that was the problem.
B-6 on your map. Two blocks from the party there's a Stop sign. But on that
night, for part of the night, there wasn't. And it was raining. And someone was
trying to deliver his pizzas on time. And someone else, headed in the opposite
direction, was turning.
The old man.
There was no Stop sign on that corner. Not on that night. And one of them,
one of the drivers, died.
No one knew who caused it. Not us. Not the police.
But Jenny knew. And Hannah. And maybe Jenny's parents, because
someone fixed her bumper real fast.
I never knew the guy in that car. He was a senior. And when I saw his
picture in the newspaper, I didn't recognize him. Just one of the many faces at
school I never got to know . . . and never would.
I didn't go to his funeral, either. Yes, maybe I should have, but I didn't. I
couldn't. And now I'm sure it's obvious why.
She didn't know. Not about the man in the other car. She didn't know it
was the man from her house. Her old house. And I'm glad. Earlier, she
watched him pull out of his garage. She watched him drive away without
noticing her.
But some of you were there, at his funeral.
Driving to return a toothbrush. That's what his wife told me as we waited
on her couch for the police to bring him home. He was driving to the other
end of town to return their granddaughter's toothbrush. They'd been keeping
an eye on her while her parents were on vacation, and she'd left it behind by
accident. The girl's parents said there was no need to drive across town just
for that. They had plenty of extras. "But that's what he does," his wife told
me. "That's the kind of person he is."
And then the police came.
For those of you who did go, let me describe what school was like on the
day of his funeral. In a word . . . it was quiet. About a quarter of the school
took the morning off. Mostly seniors, of course. But for those of us who did go
to school, the teachers let us know that if we simply forgot to bring a note
from home, they wouldn't mark us absent if we wanted to attend the funeral.
Mr. Porter said funerals can be a part of the healing process. But I
doubted that very much. Not for me. Because on that corner, there wasn't a
Stop sign that night. Someone had knocked it over. And someone else . . .
yours truly . . . could've stopped it.
Two officers helped her husband inside, his body trembling. His wife got
up and walked over to him. She wrapped him in her arms and they cried.
When I left, closing the door behind me, the last thing I saw was the two of
them standing in the middle of the living room. Holding each other.
On the day of the funeral, so those of you who attended wouldn't miss any
work, the rest of us did nothing. In every class, the teachers gave us free time.
Free to write. Free to read.
Free to think.
And what did I do? For the first time, I thought about my own funeral.
More and more, in very general terms, I'd been thinking about my own
death. Just the fact of dying. But on that day, with all of you at a funeral, I
began thinking of my own.
I reach the Stop sign. With the tips of my fingers, I reach forward and
touch the cold metal pole.
I could picture life—school and everything else— continuing on without
me. But I could not picture my funeral. Not at all. Mostly because I couldn't
imagine who would attend or what they would say.
I had . . . I have . . . no idea what you think of me.
I don't know what people think of you either, Hannah. When we found out,
and since your parents didn't have a funeral in this town, no one said much
about it at all.
I mean, it was there. We felt it. Your empty desk. The fact that you would
not be coming back. But no one knew where to begin. No one knew how to
start that conversation.
It's now been a couple of weeks since the party. So far, Jenny, you've done
a great job of hiding from me. I suppose that's understandable. You'd like to
forget what we did—what happened with your car and the Stop sign. The
repercussions.
But you never will.
Maybe you didn't know what people thought of you because they
themselves didn't know what they thought of you. Maybe you didn't give us
enough to go on, Hannah.
If not for that party, I never would have met the real you. But for some
reason, and I am extremely grateful, you gave me that chance. However brief
it was, you gave me a chance. And I liked the Hannah I met that night. Maybe
I could've even loved her.
But you decided not to let that happen, Hannah. It was you who decided.
I, on the other hand, only have to think about it for one more day.
I turn away from the Stop sign and walk away.
If I had known two cars were going to crash on that corner, I would've run
back to the party and called the cops immediately. But I never imagined that
would happen. Never.
So instead, I walked. But not back to the party. My mind was racing all
over the place. I couldn't think straight. I couldn't walk straight.
I want to look back. To look over my shoulder and see the Stop sign with
huge reflective letters, pleading with Hannah. Stop!
But I keep facing forward, refusing to see it as more than it is. It's a sign. A
stop sign on a street corner. Nothing more.
I turned corner after corner with no idea where I was going.
We walked those streets together, Hannah. Different routes, but at the same
time. On the same night. We walked the streets to get away. Me, from you.
And you, from the party. But not just from the party. From yourself.
And then I heard tires squeal, and I turned, and I watched two cars collide.
Eventually, I made it to a gas station. C-7 on your map. And I used a
payphone to call the police. As it rang, I found myself hugging the receiver,
part of me hoping that no one would answer.
I wanted to wait. I wanted the phone to just keep ringing. I wanted life to
stay right there . . . on pause.
I can't follow her map anymore. I am not going to the gas station.
When someone finally did answer, I sucked in the tears that wet my lips
and told them that on the corner of Tanglewood and South . . .
But she cut me off. She told me to calm down. And that's when I realized
how hard I had been crying. How much I was struggling to catch one good
breath.
I cross the street and move further away from the party house.
Over the past few weeks, I've walked out of my way so many times to
avoid that house. To avoid the reminder, the pain, of my one night with
Hannah Baker. I have no desire to see it twice in one night.
She told me the cops had already been called and were on their way.
I swing my backpack in front of me and pull out the map.
I was shocked. I couldn't believe you actually called the police, Jenny.
I unfold the map to give it one last look.
But I shouldn't have been shocked. Because as it turns out, you didn't call
them.
Then I crumple it up, crushing the map into a ball the size of my fist.
At school the next day, when everyone replayed the events of what
happened the previous night, that's when I found out who had called. And it
wasn't to report a fallen sign.
I stuff the map deep into a bush and walk away.
It was to report an accident. An accident caused by a fallen sign. An
accident I was never aware of . . . until then.
But that night, after hanging up the phone, I wandered the streets some
more. Because I had to stop crying. Before I went home, I needed to calm
down. If my parents caught me sneaking back in with tears in my eyes, they'd
ask way too many questions. Unanswerable questions.
That's what I'm doing now. Staying away. I wasn't crying the night of the
party, but I can barely hold it back now.
And I can't go home.
So I walked without thinking about which roads to take. And it felt good.
The cold. The mist. That's what the rain had turned into by then. A light mist.
And I walked for hours, imagining the mist growing thick and swallowing
me whole. The thought of disappearing like that—so simply—made me so
happy.
But that, as you know, never happened.
I pop open the Walkman to flip the tape. I'm almost at the end.
God. I let out a quivering breath and close my eyes. The end.