During one of my Clay Jensen gossip moments, I found out that you were going to be at the party.
What? Clay Jensen at a party? Unheard of.
I study on the weekends. In most of my classes, we’re tested every Monday. It’s not my fault.
Not only was that my first thought, that’s what the people around me were talking about, too. No one could figure out why they never saw you at parties. Of course, they had all sorts of theories. But guess what? That’s right. None of them were bad.
Give me a break.
As you know, since Tyler’s not tall enough to peep through a second-story window, sneaking out of my bedroom wasn’t hard to do. And that night, I just had to do it. But don’t jump to conclusions. I’ve snuck out of my house, before that night, only twice.
Okay, three times. Maybe four. Tops.
For those of you who don’t know which party I’m talking about, there’s a red star on your map. A big, fat, red star completely filled in. C-6. Five-twelve Cottonwood.
Is that where we’re going?
Aaaah…so now you know. Now some of you know exactly where you fit in. But you’ll have to wait until your name pops up to hear what I’m going to tell. To hear how much I tell.
That night, I decided that walking to the party would be nice. Relaxing. We had a lot of rain that week, and I remember the clouds were still hanging low and thick. The air was warm for that time of night, too. My absolute favorite type of weather.
Mine, too.
Pure magic.
It’s funny. Walking by the houses on my way to the party, it felt like life held so many possibilities. Limitless possibilities. And for the first time in a long time, I felt hope.
So did I. I forced myself out of the house and to that party. I was ready for something new to happen. Something exciting.
Hope? Well, I guess I misread things a bit.
And now? Knowing what happened between Hannah and me, would I still have gone? Even if nothing changed?
It was simply the calm before the storm.
I would. Yes. Even if the outcome stayed the same.
I wore a black skirt with a matching hooded pullover. And on my way there, I took a three-block detour to my old house-the one I lived in when we first moved to town. The first red star from the first side of the first tape. The porch light was on and, in the garage, a car’s engine was running.
But the garage door was shut.
Am I the only one who knows this? Does anyone else know that’s where he lived? The man from the accident. The man who’s car killed a student from our school.
I stopped walking and, for what seemed like several minutes, just watched from the sidewalk. Mesmerized. Another family in my house. I had no idea who they were or what they were like-what their lives were like.
The garage door began to lift and, in the glow of the red taillights, the silhouette of a man pushed the heavy door all the way up. He got in the car, backed it down the driveway, and drove off.
Why he didn’t stop, why he didn’t ask why I was standing there staring at his house, I don’t know. Maybe he thought I was waiting for him to back out of the driveway before continuing on my merry way.
But whatever the reason, it felt surreal. Two people-me and him-one house. Yet he drove away with no idea of his link to me, the girl on the sidewalk. And for some reason, at that moment, the air felt heavy. Filled with loneliness. And that loneliness stayed with me through the rest of the night.
Even the best moments of the night were affected by that one incident-by that nonincident-in front of my old house. His lack of interest in me was a reminder. Even though I had a history in that house, it didn’t matter. You can’t go back to how things were. How you thought they were.
All you really have…is now.
Those of us on the tapes, we can’t go back, either. We can never not find a package on our doorstep. Or in our mailbox. From that moment on, we’re different.
Which explains my overreaction, Clay. And that’s why you’ll get these tapes. To explain. To say I’m sorry.
Does she remember? Does she remember that I apologized to her that night? Is that why she’s apologizing to me?
The party was well underway by the time I got there. Most people, unlike me, didn’t have to wait for their parents to fall asleep.
The usual crowd hung out by the front door of the party, drunk out of their minds, greeting everyone with a raised cup of beer. I would think Hannah would be a hard name to slur, but those guys did it pretty well. Half of them kept repeating my name, trying to get it right, while the other half laughed.
But they were harmless. Fun drunks make a nice addition to any party. Not looking to fight. Not looking to score. Just looking to get drunk and laugh.
I remember those guys. Like the mascots of the party. “Clay! Whatchoo doon here? Bah-ha-ha-ha!”
The music was loud and no one was dancing. It could have been any party…except for one thing.
Clay Jensen.
I’m sure you heard a lot of sarcastic remarks when you first arrived, but by the time I got there, to everyone else you were just a part of the party. But unlike everyone else, you were the whole reason I came.
With everything going on in my life-going on in my head-I wanted to talk with you. Really talk. Just once. A chance we never seemed to get at school. Or at work. A chance to ask, Who are you?
We didn’t get that chance because I was afraid. Afraid I had no chance with you.
That’s what I thought. And I was fine with that. Because what if I got to know you and you turned out to be just like they said? What if you weren’t the person I hoped you were?
That, more than anything, would have hurt the most.
And as I stood in the kitchen, in line to fill my cup for the first time, you walked up behind me.
“Hannah Baker,” you said, and I turned toward you. “Hannah…hey.”
When she first arrived, when she walked through the front door, she caught me off guard. And like a freak, I turned around, ran through the kitchen, and straight out the back.
It was too soon, I told myself. I went to the party telling myself that if Hannah Baker showed up, I was going to talk to her. It was time. I didn’t care who was there, I was going to keep my eyes focused on her and we were going to talk.
But then she walked in and I freaked out.
I couldn’t believe it. Out of the blue, there you were.
No, not out of the blue. First I paced around the backyard, cursing myself for being such a scared little boy. Then I let myself out through the gate, fully intent on walking home.
But on the sidewalk, I beat myself up some more. Then I walked back to the front door. The drunk people greeted me again, and I went straight for you.
It was anything but out of the blue.
“I don’t know why,” you said, “but I think we need to talk.”
It took all the guts in the world to keep that conversation going. Guts and two plastic cups of beer.
And I agreed, with probably the dumbest smile plastered on my face.
No. The most beautiful.
And then I noticed the doorframe behind you, leading into the kitchen. It had a bunch of pen and pencil marks scratched on it, keeping track of how fast the children in the house were growing. And I remembered watching my mom erase those marks on our old kitchen door, getting ready to sell the house to move here.
I saw that. I saw something in your eyes when you looked over my shoulder.
Anyway, you looked at my empty cup, poured half of your drink into mine, and asked if now would be a good time to talk.
Please don’t read into that, people. Yes, it sounds all smooth and get-the-girl-drunk, but it wasn’t. It didn’t seem that way to me.
It wasn’t. No one’s going to buy that, but it’s true.
