– Not get over it, Hannah. But sometimes there’s nothing left to do but move on.
Do not let her leave that room!
You’re right. I know.
– Hannah, I don’t understand why you’re in such a hurry to leave.
Because I need to get on with things, Mr. Porter. If nothing’s going to change, then I’d better get on with it, right?
– Hannah, what are you talking about?
I’m talking about my life, Mr. Porter.
A door clicks.
– Hannah, wait.
Another click. Now the tearing of Velcro.
Footsteps. Picking up speed.
I’m walking down the hall.
Her voice is clear. It’s louder.
His door is closed behind me. It’s staying closed.
A pause.
He’s not coming.
I press my face hard against the bars. They feel like a vise tightening against my skull the further I push.
He’s letting me go.
The point behind my eyebrow is throbbing so hard, but I don’t touch it. I don’t rub it. I let it pound.
I think I’ve made myself very clear, but no one’s stepping forward to stop me.
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?
