To keep the page, I shut the book on my index finger and take it back to my table. I take a slow sip of lukewarm coffee, reopen the book, and read the words scribbled in red ink near the top: Everyone needs an olly- olly-oxen-free.
It’s signed with three sets of initials: J.D. A.S. H.B.
Jessica Davis. Alex Standall. Hannah Baker.
Below the initials, pressed into the crease between the pages, someone stuck an upside-down photograph. I pull it out, flip it over, then spin it rightside up.
It’s Hannah.
God, I love her smile. And her hair, it’s still long. One of her arms is wrapped around the waist of another student. Courtney Crimsen. And behind them is a crowd of students. Everyone’s either holding a bottle, a can, or a red plastic cup. It’s dark at the party and Courtney doesn’t look happy. But she doesn’t look mad, either.
She looks nervous, I think.
Why?
CASSETTE 3: SIDE A
Courtney Crimsen. What a pretty name. And yes, a very pretty girl, as well. Pretty hair. Pretty smile. Perfect skin.
And you’re also very nice. Everyone says so.
I stare at the picture in the scribble book. Hannah’s arm around Courtney’s waist at some random party. Hannah is happy. Courtney is nervous. But I have no idea why.
Yes, Courtney, you’re sweet to everyone you meet in the halls. You’re sweet to everyone as they walk with you to your car after school.
I sip my coffee, which is getting cold.
You’re definitely one of the most popular girls in school. And you…are…just…so…sweet. Right?
Wrong.
I pound back the coffee to empty the mug.
Yes, my dear listeners, Courtney is nice to whomever she comes in contact with or whomever she’s talking to. And yet, ask yourselves-is it all a show?
I carry my mug to the pour-it-yourself bar for a refill.
I think it is. Now, let me tell you why.
First off, to everyone listening, I doubt Tyler will let you see the pictures he took of me giving Courtney a backrub.
The container of half-n-half slips from my grip and clatters to the counter. I catch it before it falls to the floor, then look over my shoulder. The girl behind the register tips her head back and laughs.
Courtney’s the one from Hannah’s room?
Hannah takes an extra-long pause. She knows that info needs to sink in.
If you have seen those pictures, lucky you. I’m sure they’re very sexy. But as you now know, they’re also very posed.
Posed. What an interesting word to sum up Courtney’s tale. Because when you’re posed, you know someone’s watching. You put on your very best smile. You let your sweetest personality shine.
Unlike Courtney’s photo in the scribble book.
And in high school, people are always watching so there’s always a reason to pose.
I press the top of the urn and a stream of dark coffee spills into the mug.
I don’t think you do this intentionally, Courtney. And that’s why I put you on these tapes. To let you know that what you do affects others. More specifically, it affected me.
Courtney does come off as genuinely sweet. Hearing her story here, on these tapes, must have killed her.
A shiver crawls up my back. “Killed her.” A phrase I will now drop from my vocabulary.
Courtney Crimsen. The name sounds almost too perfect. And as I said, you look perfect, too. The only thing left…is to be perfect.
With my coffee, cream, and sugar cubes mixed, I return to my table.
So that’s where I give you credit. You could have taken the bitch route and still had all the friends and boyfriends you could handle. But instead you took the sweet route, so everyone would like you and not a soul would hate you.
Let me be very clear. I do not hate you, Courtney. In fact, I don’t even dislike you. But for a time, I thought you and I were becoming friends.
I don’t remember that. I don’t think I ever saw them hanging out.
It turns out you were just grooming me to be another tally mark under People Who Think Courtney Crimsen Is a Really Neat Girl. Another guaranteed vote for Most Liked in the senior yearbook.
And once you did it to me, and I realized it, I watched you do it to others.
Here, Courtney, is your contribution to the anthology of my life.
Did you like that? The anthology of my life?
I just made it up.
I pull my backpack onto my lap and unzip the largest pocket.
The day after Tyler took the candid shots of our student bodies began like any other. The bell to first period rang and Courtney, as usual, ran in a couple seconds late. Not that it mattered, because Mrs. Dillard wasn’t there yet, either.
Also not unusual.
I remove Hannah’s map and unfold it on the small table.
When you were done chatting to the person in front of you, Courtney, I tapped you on the shoulder. The moment you looked into my eyes, we both began laughing. We spoke a bunch of two-or three-word sentences but I don’t remember who said what, because whatever you said were my thoughts, as well.
“So weird.”
“I know.”
“What the hell?”
“Can you imagine?”
“So funny.”
Then, when Mrs. Dillard finally came in, you turned around to face the front of the room. And when class was over, you left.
I search the map for the red star at Tyler ’s house. Part of me feels strange about keeping such a close track of Hannah’s story. Like I’m obsessed. Too obsessed. While another part of me wants to deny the obsession.
It wasn’t until I stepped into the hall on my way to second period that I thought, Wait a sec. She didn’t say good-bye.
I’m just doing what she asked. That’s not obsession. It’s respect. I’m living out her last requests.
Did you say good-bye on any other day? No, not often. But after the previous night, this time it felt intentional. I guess I thought that after what we’d experienced less than twenty-four hours before, we would now be more than just casual acquaintances.
A-4. A red star on Tyler ’s house.
But that, evidently, is what we’d become once again. We said hello in the halls and sometimes you said good-bye to me after class, but never more than you said it to anyone else.
Until the night of the party.
Until the night you needed me again.
I need a moment to catch up. I can’t listen anymore till I do that.
I slip off the headphones and hang them around my neck. The girl I took Wood Shop with walks around with a plastic tub, gathering mugs and plates from empty tables. I look away toward the dark window when she clears
