THE NEXT DAY
AFTER MAILING THE TAPES
I fight every muscle in my body, begging me to collapse. Because if I don't
go to school, if I go somewhere else and hide out till tomorrow, I won't be
able to think of anything but tomorrow. No matter when I go back, the fact
remains: I'll eventually need to face the other people on the tapes.
I approach the parking lot entrance, 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. Because not once have I 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 masking tape to rewrap it, conveniently forgetting to write my return
address on the top. Then I mailed the package to Brandon Bicknell, changing
the way he'll see life, how he'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.
A lot of people stare at that 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 parking lot. I follow it
across the front lawn, through the glass double doors of the main building.
And it feels strange, almost sad, walking down empty halls and through
empty rows of lockers.
When I reach my locker, I lean my head forward, resting 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.
Five.
Four.
Twenty-three.
How many times had I stood right here since the party, when Hannah was
still alive, thinking my chances with her were over? Thinking I said or did
something wrong that freaked her out. Too afraid to talk to her and try again.
If she'd let me.
And then, when she died, those chances disappeared forever.
I spin the dial again, clearing the combination, and reset it.
Five.
Four.
Twenty-three.
And how many times had I stood right here before that party, thinking I
would never get that chance with Hannah? With no idea at all how she really
felt about me.
With my forehead still pressed against the metal, I turn my head just
enough to look down the hall toward the always open door to first period. Mr.
Porter.
Maybe I should switch classes. Tell the front office it's a clash of
personalities.
Maybe.
I pull up the latch to unlock the door.
"Clay?"
I spin around and the latch falls.
Courtney Crimsen.
She stands at the end of my row of lockers. Her eyes, her cheeks, are wet
with tears. She takes in a short breath, like the air is thick and jagged. And I
notice I haven't taken a breath since hearing my name.
She wipes the cuff of her sleeves across her cheeks. "Hard to believe, isn't
it?" she says. "Almost can't believe it."
I almost snap. It would feel so easy to start yelling at her. To hear my voice
fill the area and spill down the hall to Mr. Porter's room.
Instead, I force my voice into a hard whisper. "She wasn't lying,
Courtney."
Looking down, through clenched teeth, Courtney says, "You know that's
not what I'm talking about, Clay."
Look at me, I want to tell her. Lift your head so I can see your eyes. I want
to see how different you look. Because you are different, Courtney. We all are.
Neither of us moves for a long time. We barely breathe. Her eyes stare
down at her shoes, but I stare at her. I'm nearly begging her to say something.
To say anything to get a reaction from me. Because that's all I feel I can do.
Just react.
But her voice comes soft. "What's going to happen now?"
She wants an answer. But she's been through this already. I should be
asking that question to her. Does it get any easier? Because there are seven
more confrontations like this to look forward to. Most of them, today. And
over the next couple of weeks, as the tapes move on, even more.
"I don't know," I say. "Live with it, I guess."
At a distance behind me, muffled by a classroom wall, comes a familiar
voice.
Mr. Porter.
I pound the side of my fist into a locker.
"Clay." Courtney's voice shakes. She looks directly at me, and her eyes
begin to well up. "When did you get here, Clay?"
What does it matter? "Why?"
She clutches a hand over her mouth and closes her eyes. In seconds, tears
form at the corners and slide down her cheeks.
Part of me feels defensive. And nervous. And furious. She has no right to
do this to me. "I just got here, Courtney. I came from the post office after
spending an entire night in the park. I did everything she asked me to. Why
does it matter when I got here?"
"But you haven't been to class?"
"I have Mr. Porter and I can't go to his class."
She looks down and takes a short, trembling breath, then walks toward me.
She reaches out her hand and, with her fingertips, gently touches my good
hand. And I don't pull away. I can't because, in her eyes, I see worry. And
fear. Confusion.
"What's going on, Courtney?"
"Clay." She slides her whole hand into mine. "Hannah's alive."
I snap my hand back, slamming my elbow into a locker, and step away.
"Clay, please, listen."
My whole body tenses, and I press my back into the wall of lockers and
close my eyes.
"She tried to do it, Clay, but she didn't. She didn't kill herself. That's what
the teachers are telling everyone right now."
I drive my head back, crashing it into a locker. But not hard enough.
"When her parents came home, she was unconscious. From the pills. But
they took her to a hospital and pumped her stomach and they saved her."
My knees feel ready to crumble, so I let myself slide down the lockers and
then hug my knees against my chest. "Please," I say, not much more than a
whisper, "please don't lie about this to me."
She steps beside me and barely touches my shoulder. "Clay, Hannah is
alive."
I hold my legs tight, but I can't stop shivering.
"They gave all the teachers a statement to read," she says. She sounds so
frail. "I had to leave once they said she was alive. I just started crying and
didn't want to hear what anyone might say."
She slowly kneels down beside me.
"But why didn't we know?" I ask.
"They sent her to a hospital," Courtney says. "A few hours away. It's a
psychiatric hospital."
"Why?" I ask. "She's not crazy. You know that, right?"
"I do," she says. "I know that."
"Then why did everyone think she died?" I can barely finish the words
before my throat tightens and I swallow hard.
"Because of the tapes, we thought she had."
"So you told people?"
"Please don't blame me, Clay. I wasn't the only one. But people started
asking where she was and when she was coming back and I just couldn't take
it anymore. I thought she was dead. What was I supposed to say?"
I press my forehead against my knees and pull my legs in tighter.
She leans back against the locker next to me. "You would've done the
same thing if you got the tapes when we did. But you didn't have to make that
choice, so please don't blame me."
I turn my head to the side and look into her eyes, to see if she's telling the
truth. And she is. And I stay like that, with our eyes locked, not wanting to
turn away. Not sure of the next step, when a tiny smile touches the corner of
her lips.
And I smile back.
Her smile moves to her eyes, and then I feel it catch in my eyes, too.
"Is she out of the hospital?" I ask.
"She is," Courtney says. "She's at home right now."
"Is she coming back?"
Her smile fades, and she closes her eyes. "I'm not sure."
The muffled voice of Mr. Porter filters out from his classroom and into the
hall. "People need to know that there's somewhere they can go. Someone they
can turn to."
My neck tightens and I bite down hard on my teeth. I stand up.
"Where are you going?" Courtney asks.
I offer her my hand.
Again, Mr. Porter's voice creeps down the hall. "Eventually, we're all
going to have to move on and get through this."
My whole body aches with rage, and I close my eyes. I feel Courtney use
my hand to help herself up, but she doesn't let go. Her other hand embraces
my arm as if holding me there. Why? Does she think I'm going to race down
the hall and through Mr. Porter's open door? What does she think I would do
in there?
What do I want to do in there?
"Are you going to your next class?" she asks.
I shake my head no.
"Where are you going?"
Mr. Porter keeps talking. "We need to show compassion and feel empathy
toward people at all times."
"I don't know," I say. "But I can't stand here, listening to him tell people
how to treat her. Or how to feel about her." My words catch in my throat, but
I need to let them out. "I already know how I feel about her."
Courtney's eyes begin to water.
I let go of her hand and slide my arm out of her fingers. "I need to go," I
say.
"Where?" she asks.
"Away from here." And I walk away.
The closer I get to the glass doors that open out to the front lawn, the more
my muscles relax. The calmer I get. The lighter I feel.
"But where?" she calls again.
I push open the doors and step outside, a blanket of warm air wrapping
itself around me.
Hannah Baker's alive and I'm going to see her. I'm going to tell her
everything she needs to hear. And then, I'm going to listen.