I fight every muscle in my body, begging me to collapse. Begging me not to
go to school. To go anywhere else and hide out till tomorrow. But no matter
when I go back, the fact remains, eventually I need to face the other people on
the tapes.
I approach the entrance to the parking lot, a patch of ivy with a wide slab
of etched stone welcoming us back to high school. COURTESY OF THE CLASS OF
'93. I've walked past this stone many times over the past three years, but not
once with the parking lot this full. Not once, because I have never been this
late.
Till today.
For two reasons.
One: I waited outside the post office doors. Waiting for them to open so I
could mail a shoebox full of audiotapes. I used a brown paper bag and a roll
of packing tape to rewrap it, conveniently forgetting to add my return address.
Then I mailed the package to Jenny Kurtz, changing the way she'll see life,
how she'll see the world, forever.
And two: Mr. Porter. If I sit there in first period, with him writing on the
board or standing behind the podium, the only place I can imagine looking is
in the middle of the room, one desk to the left.
The empty desk of Hannah Baker.
People stare at her desk every day. But today, for me, is profoundly
different than yesterday. So I'll take my time at my locker. And in the
restroom. Or wandering through the halls.
I follow a sidewalk that traces the outer edge of the school parking lot. I
follow it across the front lawn, through the glass double doors of the main
building. And it feels strange, almost sad, to walk through the empty halls.
Each step I take sounds so lonely.
Behind the trophy display are five freestanding banks of lockers, with
offices and restrooms on either side. I see a few other students late for school,
gathering their books.
I reach my locker, lean my head forward, and rest it against the cool metal
door. I concentrate on my shoulders and neck, relaxing the muscles. I
concentrate on my breathing to slow it down. Then I turn the combination dial
to five. Then left to four, then right to twenty-three.
How many times did I stand right here, thinking I would never get a
chance with Hannah Baker?
I had no idea how she felt about me. No idea who she really was. Instead, I
believed what other people said about her. And I was afraid what they might
say about me if they knew I liked her.
I spin the dial, clearing the combination.
Five.
Four.
Twenty-three.
How many times after the party did I stand right here, when Hannah was
still alive, thinking my chances with her were over? Thinking I said or did
something wrong. Too afraid to talk to her again. Too afraid to try.
And then, when she died, the chances disappeared forever.
It all began a few weeks ago, when a map slipped through the vents of my
locker.
I wonder what's in Hannah's locker right now. Is it empty? Did the
custodian pack everything into a box, drop it in a storage closet, waiting for
her parents to return? Or does her locker remain untouched, exactly as she left
it?
With my forehead still pressed against the metal, I turn my head just
enough to look into the nearest hallway, toward the always-open door to first
period. Mr. Porter's room.
Right there, outside his door, is where I last saw Hannah Baker alive.
I close my eyes.
Who am I going to see today? Besides me, eight people at this school have
already listened to the tapes. Eight people, today, are waiting to see what the
tapes have done to me. And over the next week or so, as the tapes move on,
I'll be doing the same to the rest of them.
In the distance, muffled by a classroom wall, comes a familiar voice. I
slowly open my eyes. But the voice will never sound friendly again.
"I need someone to take this to the front office for me."
Mr. Porter's voice creeps down the hall straight at me. The muscles in my
shoulders feel tight, heavy, and I pound my fist into the locker.
A chair squeaks, followed by footsteps leaving his room. My knees feel
ready to crumble, waiting for the student to see me and ask why I'm not in
class.
From a bank of lockers further up, someone clicks a locker shut.
Coming out of Mr. Porter's class, Steve Oliver nods his head at me and
smiles. The student from the other locker rounds the corner into the hall,
almost colliding into Steve.
She whispers, "I'm sorry," then moves around him to get by.
Steve looks down at her but doesn't respond, just keeps up his pace,
moving closer to me. "All right, Clay!" he says. Then he laughs. "Someone's
late for class, huh?"
Beyond him, in the hallway, the girl turns. It's Skye.
The back of my neck starts sweating. She looks at me, and I hold her gaze
for a few steps, then she turns to keep walking.
Steve walks up close, but I don't look at him. I motion for him to move to
the side. "Talk to me later," I say.
Last night, on the bus, I left without talking to Skye. I wanted to talk with
her, I tried to, but I let her slide out of the conversation. Over the years, she's
learned how to avoid people. Everyone.
I step away from my locker and watch her continue down the hall.
I want to say something, to call her name, but my throat tightens.
Part of me wants to ignore it. To turn around and keep myself busy, doing
anything, till second period.
But Skye's walking down the same stretch of hall where I watched Hannah
slip away two weeks ago. On that day, Hannah disappeared into a crowd of
students, allowing the tapes to say her good-bye. But I can still hear the
footsteps of Skye Miller, sounding weaker and weaker the further she gets.
And I start walking toward her.
I pass the open door to Mr. Porter's room and, in one hurried glance, pull
in more than I expected. The empty desk near the center of the room. Empty
for two weeks and for the rest of the year. Another desk, my desk, empty for
one day. Dozens of faces turn toward me. They recognize me, but they don't
see everything. And there's Mr. Porter, facing away, but starting to turn.
A flood of emotion rushes into me. Pain and anger. Sadness and pity. But
most surprising of all, hope.
I keep walking.
Skye's footsteps are growing louder now. And the closer I get to her, the
faster I walk, and the lighter I feel. My throat begins to relax.
Two steps behind her, I say her name.
"Skye."