Who else, Hannah? Your parents? Me? You were not very clear with me.
A lot of you cared, just not enough. And that…that is what I needed to find out.
But I didn’t know what you were going through, Hannah.
And I did find out.
The footsteps continue. Faster.
And I’m sorry.
The recorder clicks off.
With my face pressing against the bars, I begin to cry. If anyone is walking through the park, I know they can hear me. But I don’t care if they hear me because I can’t believe I just heard the last words I’ll ever hear from Hannah Baker.
“I’m sorry.” Once again, those were the words. And now, anytime someone says I’m sorry, I’m going to think of her.
But some of us won’t be willing to say those words back. Some of us will be too angry at Hannah for killing herself and blaming everyone else.
I would have helped her if she’d only let me. I would have helped her because I want her to be alive.
The tape vibrates in the Walkman as it reaches the end of its spool.
CASSETTE 7: SIDE B
The tape clicks itself over and continues playing.
Without her voice, the slight static hum that constantly played beneath her words sounds louder. Over seven tapes and thirteen stories, her voice was kept at a slight distance by this steady hum in the background.
I let this sound wash over me as I hold onto the bars and close my eyes. The bright moon disappears. The swaying treetops disappear. The breeze against my skin, the fading pain in my fingers, the sound of this tape winding from one spool to the next, reminds me of everything I’ve heard over the past day.
My breathing begins to slow. The tension in my muscles starts to relax.
Then, a click in the headphones. A slow breath of air.
I open my eyes to the bright moonlight.
And Hannah, with warmth.
Thank you.
THE NEXT DAY
AFTER MAILING THE TAPES
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.