How pathetic.
So what tipped me off? It’s simple, really. Everyone else was getting notes. Everyone! And for the most insignificant of things. Anytime someone even got a haircut they got a bunch of notes. And there were people in that class I considered friends who would have put something in my bag after I chopped off most of my hair.
When she first walked by me in the halls, with her hair cut so much shorter, I couldn’t keep my mouth from falling open. And she looked away. Out of habit, she tried brushing the hair out of her face and behind her ears. But it was too short and kept falling forward.
Come to think of it, I cut my hair the very day Marcus Cooley and I met at Rosie’s.
Wow! That’s weird. All those warning signs they tell us to watch out for, they’re true. I went straight from Rosie’s to get my hair cut. I needed a change, just like they said, so I changed my appearance. The only thing I still had control over.
Amazing.
She pauses. Silence. Just static, barely audible, in the headphones.
I’m sure the school had psychologists come in loaded with handouts, telling you what to look for in students who might be considering…
Another pause.
No. Like I said before, I can’t say it.
Suicide. Such a disgusting word.
The next day, when I found my bag empty, I knew something was up. At least, I thought something was up. The first few months of class I received maybe four or five notes. But suddenly, after the telltale haircut… nothing.
So after my haircut, I waited a week.
Then two weeks.
Then three weeks.
Nothing.
I push my glass across the counter and look at the man down by the register. “Can you take this?”
It was time to find out what was going on. So I wrote myself a note.
He shoots me a hard look while counting back change. The girl on this side of the register also looks at me. She touches her ears. The headphones. I’m speaking too loud.
“Sorry,” I whisper. Or maybe it doesn’t come out at all.
“Hannah,” the note said. “Like the new haircut. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” And for good measure, I added a purple smiley face.
To avoid the major embarrassment of getting caught leaving myself a note, I also wrote a note for the bag next to mine. And after class, I walked to the bookrack and made a show of dropping a note in that other bag. Then I casually ran my hand around the inside of my bag, pretending to check for notes. And I say “pretending” because I knew it would be empty.
And the next day? Nothing in my bag. The note was gone.
Maybe it didn’t seem like a big deal to you, Zach. But now, I hope you understand. My world was collapsing. I needed those notes. I needed any hope those notes might have offered.
And you? You took that hope away. You decided I didn’t deserve to have it.
The longer I listen to these tapes, the more I feel I know her. Not the Hannah from the past few years, but the one from the past few months. That’s the Hannah I’m beginning to understand.
Hannah at the end.
The last time I found myself this close to a person, a person slowly dying, was the night of the party. The night I watched two cars collide in a dark intersection.
Then, like now, I didn’t know they were dying.
Then, like now, there were a lot of people around. But what could they have done? Those people standing around the car, trying to calm the driver, waiting for an ambulance to arrive, could they have done anything at all?
Or the people who passed Hannah in the halls, or sat beside her in class, what could they have done?
Maybe then, like now, it was already too late.
So Zach, how many notes did you take? How many notes were there that I never got to read? And did you read them? I hope so. At least someone should know what people really think of me.
I glance over my shoulder. Tony’s still there, chewing a french fry and pumping ketchup on a hamburger.
I admit, during class discussions I didn’t open up much. But when I did, did anyone thank me by dropping a note in my bag? That would have been nice to know. In fact, it might have encouraged me to open up even more.
This isn’t fair. If Zach had any idea what Hannah was going through, I’m sure he wouldn’t have stolen her notes.
The day my self-written note went missing, I stood outside the classroom door and started talking to someone I’d never spoken with before. I looked over her shoulder every few seconds, watching the other students check their bags for notes.
That sure looked like a lot of fun, Zach.
And that’s when I caught you. With a single finger, you touched the lip of my bag and tilted it down just enough to peek inside.
Nothing.
So you headed toward the door without checking your own bag, which I found very interesting.
The man behind the counter picks up my glass and, with a chocolate-stained rag, wipes the counter.
Of course, that didn’t prove anything. Maybe you just liked seeing who was getting notes and who wasn’t… with a particular interest in me.
So the next day, I came into Mrs. Bradley’s room during lunch. I took my paper bag off the rack and reattached it with the tiniest sliver of tape. Inside, I placed a little note folded in half.
Again, when class was over, I waited outside and watched. But I didn’t talk to anyone this time. I just watched.
The perfect setup.
You touched the lip of my bag, saw the note, and reached in. The bag fell to the floor and your face turned bright red. But you bent down and scooped it up anyway. And my reaction? Disbelief. I mean, I saw it. I expected it, even. But I still couldn’t believe it.
While my original plan called for me to confront you right then and there, I jumped to the side-out of the doorway.
In a hurry, you rounded the corner…and there we were. Face-to-face. My eyes stung as I stared at you. Then I broke that stare and lowered my head. And you took off down the hall.
She didn’t want him to explain. There was no explanation. She saw it with her own eyes.
When you were halfway down the hall, still walking fast, I saw you look down as if reading something. My note? Yes.
You turned for just a moment to see if I was watching. And for that moment, I was scared. Would you confront me and tell me you were sorry? Yell at me?
The answer? None of the above. You just turned and kept walking, getting closer and closer to the doors leading outside, closer to your escape.
And as I stood there in the hallway-alone-trying to understand what had just happened and why, I realized the truth: I wasn’t worth an explanation-not even a reaction. Not in your eyes, Zach.
She pauses.
For the rest of you listening, the note was addressed to Zach by name. Maybe he sees it now as a prologue to these tapes. Because in there, I admitted that I was at a point in my life where I really could have used any encouragement anyone might have left me. Encouragement…that he stole.
I bite on my thumb, calming the urge to look over my shoulder at Tony. Does he wonder what I’m listening to? Does he care?
But I couldn’t take it anymore. You see, Zach’s not the only one with a slow boil.
I shouted after him, “Why?”
