And what was it you called me? Not that it matters, but just for the record. Because I was too busy lifting my hand and ducking-but you got me!-and I missed what you said.
That tiny scar you’ve all seen above my eyebrow, that’s the shape of Jessica’s fingernail…which I plucked out myself.
I noticed that scar a few weeks ago. At the party. A tiny flaw on a pretty face. And I told her how cute it was.
Minutes later, she started freaking out.
Or maybe you’ve never seen it. But I see it every morning when I get ready for school. “Good morning, Hannah,” it says. And every night when I get ready for bed. “Sleep tight.”
I push open the heavy wood-and-glass door to Monet’s. Warm air rushes out to grab me and everyone turns, upset at the person letting in the cold. I slink inside and shut the door behind me.
But it’s more than just a scratch. It’s a punch in the stomach and a slap in the face. It’s a knife in my back because you would rather believe some made-up rumor than what you knew to be true.
Jessica, my dear, I’d really love to know if you dragged yourself to my funeral. And if you did, did you notice your scar?
And what about you-the rest of you-did you notice the scars you left behind?
No. Probably not.
That wasn’t possible.
Because most of them can’t be seen with the naked eye.
Because there was no funeral, Hannah.
CASSETTE 2: SIDE B
In honor of Hannah, I should order a hot chocolate. At Monet’s, they serve them with tiny marshmallows floating on top. The only coffee shop I know of that does that.
But when the girl asks, I say coffee, because I’m cheap. The hot chocolate costs a whole dollar more.
She slides an empty mug across the counter and points to the pour-it-yourself bar. I pour in just enough half-and-half to coat the bottom of the mug. The rest I fill with Hairy Chest Blend because it sounds highly caffeinated and maybe I can stay up late to finish the tapes.
I think I need to finish them, and finish them tonight.
But should I? In one night? Or should I find my story, listen to it, then just enough of the next tape to see who I’m supposed to pass them off to?
“What’re you listening to?” It’s the girl from behind the counter. She’s beside me now, tilting the stainless steel containers of half-and-half, low fat, and soy. She’s checking to see if they’re full. A couple of black lines, a tattoo, stretch up from her collar and disappear into her short, cropped hair.
I glance down at the yellow headphones hanging around my neck. “Just some tapes.”
“Cassette tapes?” She picks up the soy and holds it against her stomach. “Interesting. Anyone I’ve heard of?”
I shake my head no and drop three cubes of sugar into my coffee.
She cradles the soy with her other arm then puts out her hand. “We went to school together, two years ago. You’re Clay, right?”
I put down the mug then slide my hand into hers. Her palm is warm and soft.
“We had one class together,” she says, “but we didn’t talk much.”
She looks a little familiar. Maybe her hair’s different.
“You wouldn’t recognize me,” she says. “I’ve changed a lot since high school.” She rolls her heavily made-up eyes. “Thank God.”
I place a wooden stirrer into my coffee and mix it. “Which class did we have?”
“Wood Shop.”
I still don’t remember her.
“The only thing I got out of that class were splinters,” she says. “Oh, and I made a piano bench. Still no piano, but at least I’ve got the bench. Do you remember what you made?”
I stir my coffee. “A spice rack.” The creamer mixes in and the coffee turns a light brown with some dark coffee grounds rising to the surface.
“I always thought you were the nicest guy,” she says. “In school, everyone thought so. Kind of quiet, but that’s okay. Back then, people thought I talked too much.”
A customer clears his throat at the counter. We both glance at him, but he doesn’t look away from the drink list.
She turns back to me and we shake hands again. “Well, maybe I’ll see you around, when there’s more time to talk.” Then she walks back behind the counter.
That’s me. Nice Guy Clay.
Would she still say that if she heard these tapes?
I head to the back of Monet’s, toward the closed door that leads to the patio. Along the way, tables full of people stretch their legs or tilt back their chairs to form an obstacle course that begs me to spill my drink.
A drop of warm coffee spills onto my finger. I watch it slide across my knuckles and drip to the floor. I rub the toe of my shoe over the spot till it disappears. And I recall, earlier today, watching a slip of paper fall outside the shoe store.
After Hannah’s suicide, but before the shoebox of tapes arrived, I found myself walking by Hannah’s mom and dad’s shoe store many times. It was that store that brought her to town in the first place. After thirty years in business, the owner of the store was looking to sell and retire. And Hannah’s parents were looking to move.
I’m not sure why I walked by there so many times. Maybe I was searching for a connection to her, some connection outside of school, and it’s the only one I could think of. Looking for answers to questions I didn’t know how to ask. About her life. About everything.
I had no idea the tapes were on their way to explain it all.
The day after her suicide was the first time I found myself at their store, standing outside the front door. The lights were out. A single sheet of paper taped to the front window said, WELL BE OPEN SOON in thick black marker.
It was written in a hurry, I figured. They just forgot the apostrophe.
On the glass door, a delivery person had left a self-adhesive note. Among a list of other options, “Will try again tomorrow” was checked.
A few days later, I went back. Even more notes were stuck to the glass.
On my way home from school earlier today, I went by the store one more time. As I read the dates and notes on each piece of paper, the oldest note became unstuck and fluttered to the ground, resting beside my shoe. I picked it up and searched the door for the most recent note. Then I lifted a corner of that note and stuck the older one beneath it.
They’ll be back soon, I thought. They must have taken her home for the burial. Back to her old town. Unlike old age or cancer, no one anticipates a suicide. They simply left without a chance to get things in order.
I open the patio door at Monet’s, careful not to spill any more of my coffee.
Around the garden, to keep the atmosphere relaxed, the lights are kept low. Every table, including Hannah’s in the far back corner, is occupied. Three guys in baseball caps sit there, hunched over textbooks and notebooks, none of them talking.
I go back inside and sit at a small table near a window. It overlooks the garden, but Hannah’s table is hidden by a brick column choked with ivy.
I take a deep breath.
As the stories go by, one by one, I find myself relieved when my name isn’t mentioned. Followed by a fear of what she hasn’t yet said, of what she’s going to say, when my turn comes.
Because my turn is coming. I know that. And I want it to be over with.
What did I do to you, Hannah?
While I wait for her first words, I stare out the window. It’s darker outside than in here. When I pull my gaze back and focus my eyes, I can see my own reflection in the glass.
And I look away.
I glance down at the Walkman on the table. There’s still no sound, but the Play button is pressed. Maybe the tape didn’t lock in place.
So I hit Stop.
Then Play again.
Nothing.
I roll my thumb over the volume dial. The static in the headphones gets louder so I turn it back down. And I wait.
Shh!…if you’re talking in the library.