“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.”