Bryce’s words were soft, an obvious attempt at romance. “Hannah Baker,” he said.
Everyone knows who you are, Bryce. Everyone knows what you do. But I, for the record, did nothing to stop you.
You asked if I had fun at the party. Courtney whispered that I wasn’t at the party, but you didn’t seem to care. Instead, your fingertips touched the outside of my thigh.
I open my eyes and pound the fence again.
I clenched my jaw and your fingers moved away.
“It broke up pretty fast,” you said. And just as fast, your fingertips were back.
I hold tight to the fence and keep walking forward. When my fingers pull away from the metal, my skin slices open.
Your whole hand was back. And when I didn’t stop you, you slid your hand across my belly. Your thumb touched the bottom of my bra and your pinky touched the top of my underwear.
I turned my head sideways, away from you. And I know I didn’t smile.
You pulled your fingers together and rubbed slow, full circles around my stomach. “Feels nice,” you said.
I felt a shift in the water and opened my eyes for one brief second.
Courtney was walking away.
Do you need more reasons for everyone to hate you, Courtney?
“Remember when you were a freshman?” you asked.
Your fingers made their way under my bra. But you didn’t grab me. Testing the boundaries, I guess. Sliding your thumb along the underside of my breasts.
“Weren’t you on that list?” you said. “Best ass in the freshman class.”
Bryce, you had to see my jaw clench. You had to see my tears. Does that kind of shit turn you on?
Bryce? Yes. It does.
“It’s true,” you said.
And then, just like that, I let go. My shoulders went limp. My legs fell apart. I knew exactly what I was doing.
Not once had I given in to the reputation you’d all set for me. Not once. Even though sometimes it was hard. Even though, sometimes, I found myself attracted to someone who only wanted to get with me because of what they’d heard. But I always said no to those people. Always!
Until Bryce.
So congratulations, Bryce. You’re the one. I let my reputation catch up with me-I let my reputation become me-with you. How does it feel?
Wait, don’t answer that. Let me say this first: I was not attracted to you, Bryce. Ever. In fact, you disgusted me.
And I’m going to kick your ass. I swear it.
You were touching me…but I was using you. I needed you, so I could let go of me, completely.
For everyone listening, let me be clear. I did not say no or push his hand away. All I did was turn my head, clench my teeth, and fight back tears. And he saw that. He even told me to relax.
“Just relax,” he said. “Everything will be okay.” As if letting him finger me was going to cure all my problems.
But in the end, I never told you to get away…and you didn’t.
You stopped rubbing circles on my stomach. Instead, you rubbed back and forth, gently, along my waist. Your pinky made its way under the top of my panties and rolled back and forth, from hip to hip. Then another finger slipped below, pushing your pinky further down, brushing it through my hair.
And that’s all you needed, Bryce. You started kissing my shoulder, my neck, sliding your fingers in and out. And then you kept going. You didn’t stop there.
I’m sorry. Is this getting too graphic for some of you? Too bad.
When you were done, Bryce, I got out of the hot tub and walked two houses away. The night was over.
I was done.
I tighten my fist and lift it in front of my face. Through my teary eyes, I watch the blood squeeze through my fingers. The skin is cut deep in a few places, torn by the rusted fence.
No matter where Hannah wants me to go next, I know where I’m spending the rest of my night. But first, I need to clean my hand. The cuts sting, but I mostly feel weak from the sight of my own blood.
I head for the nearest gas station. It’s a couple of blocks down and not too far out of my way. I flick my hand a few times, dripping dark spots of blood onto the sidewalk.
When I reach the station, I tuck my hurt hand into my pocket and pull open the glass door of the mini-mart. I find a clear bottle of rubbing alcohol and a small box of Band-Aids, drop a few bucks on the counter, and ask for a key to the restroom.
“Restrooms are around back,” the woman behind the counter says.
I turn the key in the lock and push the restroom door open with my shoulder. Then I rinse my hand beneath cold water and watch the blood circle down the drain. I crack the seal on the bottle of alcohol and, in one motion because I won’t do it if I think, empty the entire bottle over my hand.
My whole body tenses and I curse as loud and as hard as I can. It feels like my skin is peeling away from the muscle.
After what seems like nearly an hour, I can finally bend and flex my fingers again. Using my free hand and my teeth, I apply some Band-Aids to my cut hand.
I return the key and the woman says nothing more than, “Have a good night.”
When I reach the sidewalk, I start jogging again. There’s only one tape left. A blue number thirteen painted in the corner.
CASSETTE 7: SIDE A
Eisenhower Park is empty. I stand silently at the entrance, taking it all in. This is where I’ll spend the night. Where I’ll listen to the last words Hannah Baker wants to say before I let myself fall asleep.
Lampposts stand in the various play areas, but most of the bulbs are either burnt out or busted. The bottom half of the rocket slide is hidden in darkness. But near the top, where the rocket climbs higher than the swings and the trees, moonlight hits the metal bars all the way up to the peak.
I step onto an area of sand surrounding the rocket. I duck beneath its bottom platform, lifted up from the ground by three large metal fins. Above me, a circle the size of a manhole is cut into the lowest level. A metal ladder descends to the sand.
When I stand up, my shoulders poke through the hole. With my good hand, I grip the lip of the circle and climb to the first platform.
I reach into my jacket pocket and press Play.
One…last…try.
She’s whispering. The recorder is close to her mouth and with each break in her words I can hear her breathe.
I’m giving life one more chance. And this time, I’m getting help. I’m asking for help because I cannot do this alone. I’ve tried that.
You didn’t, Hannah. I was there for you and you told me to leave.
Of course, if you’re listening to this, I failed. Or he failed. And if he fails, the deal is sealed.
My throat tightens, and I start climbing up the next ladder.
Only one person stands between you and this collection of audiotapes: Mr. Porter.
No! He cannot know about this.
Hannah and I both have Mr. Porter for first-period English. I see him every day. I do not want him to know about this. Not about me. Not about anyone. To bring an adult into this, someone from school, is beyond what I
