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CASSETTE 2 : SIDE A

I press play

Before Hannah’s voice kicks in, there’s a pause.

Step-by-step. That’s how we’ll get through this. One foot in front of the other.

Across the street, behind the buildings, the sun continues its fall. All the streetlamps are on, up and down the block. I grab the Butterfinger from my knee, the soda from beside me, and stand up.

We’ve already finished one tape, both sides, so stick with me. Things get better, or worse, depending on your point of view.

There’s a trash can, an oil drum spray-painted blue, near the front door of Blue Spot Liquor. I drop the unwrapped Butterfinger into it, unable to imagine my stomach holding down anything solid, and walk away.

I know it may sound like it, but I wasn’t completely alone the beginning of my freshman year. Two other freshmen, both featured here on Hannah Baker’s Greatest Hits, were also new to the area. Alex Standall and Jessica Davis. And while we never became close friends, we did rely on each other those first few weeks of school.

I twist the top off my orange soda. It hisses and I take a sip.

With one week left of summer vacation, Ms. Antilly called me at home to see if I’d meet her at school. A little new-student orientation, she said.

In case you don’t remember, Ms. Antilly was the guidance counselor for students with last names beginning A through G. Later that year, she moved to another school district.

I remember she was replaced by Mr. Porter. It was supposed to be a temporary position, but he’s still at it. An English teacher as well as a guidance counselor.

Which is very unfortunate, as it turns out. But that is for a later tape.

An icy sweat breaks across my forehead. Mr. Porter? Does he have something to do with this?

The world around me tilts and spins. I grab onto the trunk of a skinny sidewalk tree.

If she had told me the real purpose of our get-together was to introduce me to another new student, I wouldn’t have gone. I mean, what if we had nothing in common? Or what if I thought we had nothing in common but she, the other student, thought we did? Or what if the opposite happened and I thought we could become friends but she didn’t?

So many things could have gone so horribly wrong.

I press my forehead against the smooth bark and try to calm my breathing.

But the other girl was Jessica Davis, and she didn’t want to be there any more than I did.

We both expected Ms. Antilly to spew a bunch of psychobabble at us. What it means, what it takes, to be a great student. How this school is made up of the best and the brightest in the state. How everyone is given the same opportunities to succeed if they’re willing to try.

But instead, she gave each of us a buddy.

I close my eyes. I don’t want to see it, but it’s so clear. When rumors of Hannah’s unexplained absence began spreading through school, Mr. Porter asked our class why he kept hearing her name mentioned in the halls. He looked nervous. Almost sick. Like he knew the answer but wanted someone to convince him otherwise.

Then a girl whispered, “Someone saw an ambulance leaving her house.”

The moment Ms. Antilly told us why we were there, Jessica and I turned to each other. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something. But what could she say with me sitting right there? She felt blindsided. Confused. Lied to.

I know that’s how she felt because I felt the same way.

And I’ll never forget Ms. Antilly’s reaction. Two short, drawn-out words. “Or . . . not.”

I squeeze my eyes tight, trying hard to remember that day as clearly as possible.

Was it pain on Mr. Porter’s face? Or was it fear? He just stood there, staring at Hannah’s desk. Through her desk. And no one said a word, but we looked around. At each other.

Then he left. Mr. Porter walked out of class and didn’t come back for a week.

Why? Did he know? Did he know because of something he’d done?

And here, to the best of my memory, is what we said.

Me: I’m sorry, Ms. Antilly. I just didn’t think that’s why you called me in here.

Jessica: Me, neither. I wouldn’t have come. I mean, I’m sure Hillary and I have things in common, and I’m sure she’s a great person, but . . .

Me: It’s Hannah.

Jessica: I called you Hillary, didn’t I? Sorry.

Me: It’s okay. I just thought you should know my name if we’re going to be such fabulous friends.

And then the three of us laughed. Jessica and I had very similar laughs, which made us laugh even harder. Ms. Antilly’s laugh wasn’t quite as heartfelt . . . more of a nervous laugh but still a laugh. She claimed to have never tried matching up friends before, and was doubtful she ever would again.

But guess what. After the meeting, Jessica and I did hang out.

Very sneaky, Ms. Antilly. Veeeeeery sneaky.

We left campus and, at first, the conversation felt awkward. But it was nice having someone to talk to other than my parents.

A city bus pulls up to the curb in front of me. Silver with blue stripes.

We walked past my turnoff, but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to stop our conversation, but I also didn’t want to invite her over because we really didn’t know each other yet. So we continued walking until we reached downtown. I found out later that she did the same thing, walked past the street where she lived in order to keep talking with me.

So where did we go? E-7 on your map. Monet’s Garden Café & Coffeehouse.

The bus door wheezes open.

Neither of us were coffee drinkers, but it seemed like a nice place to chat.

Through the foggy windows I see that almost all the seats are empty.

We both got hot chocolate. She ordered it thinking it would be funny. But me? I always order hot chocolate.

I’ve never ridden a city bus. Never had a reason to. But it’s getting darker and colder every minute.

It doesn’t cost anything to ride the bus at night, so I hop on. I move right by the driver without either of us saying a word to each other. She doesn’t even look at me.

I make my way down the center aisle, buttoning my jacket against the cold, giving each button more attention than required. Any excuse to avert my eyes from the other passengers. I know how I must look to them. Confused. Guilty. In the process of being crushed.

I choose a bench that, as long as no one else boards, is situated between three or four empty seats all around. The blue vinyl cushion is ripped down the middle, with the yellow stuffing inside about to burst out. I slide over to the window.

The glass is cold, but resting my head against it helps relax me.

I honestly don’t remember much of what we said that afternoon. Do you, Jessica? Because when I close my eyes, everything happens in a kind of montage. Laughing. Trying hard not to spill our drinks. Waving our hands while we talk.

I close my eyes. The glass cools one side of my overheated face. I don’t care where this bus is going. I’ll ride it for hours if I’m allowed to. I’ll just sit here and listen to the tapes. And maybe, without trying, I’ll fall asleep.

Then, at one point, you lean across the table. “I think that guy’s checking you out,” you whispered.

I knew exactly who you were talking about because I’d been watching him, as well. But he wasn’t checking me out.

“He’s checking you out,” I said.

In a contest of who’s-got-the-biggest-balls, all of you listening should know that Jessica wins.

“Excuse me,” she said to Alex, in case you haven’t figured out the name of the mystery man, “but which one of us are you checking out?” And a few months later, after Hannah and Justin Foley break up, after the rumors begin, Alex writes a list. Who’s hot. Who’s not. But there, at Monet’s, no one knew where that meeting would lead.

I want to push Stop on the Walkman and rewind their whole conversation. To rewind into the past and warn them. Or prevent them from even meeting.

But I can’t. You can’t rewrite the past.

Alex blushed. I’m talking an all-the-blood-in-his-body-rushing-up-to-his-face kind of blushed. And when he opened his mouth to deny it, Jessica cut him off.

“Don’t lie. Which one of us were you checking out?”

Through the frosty glass, downtown’s streetlamps and neon lights slide by. Most of the shops are closed for the night. But the restaurants and bars remain open.

At that moment I would have paid dearly for Jessica’s friendship. She was the most outgoing, honest, tell-it-like-it-is girl I’d ever met.

Silently, I thanked Ms. Antilly for introducing us.

Alex stuttered and Jessica leaned over, letting her fingers fall gracefully onto his table.

“Look, we saw you watching us,” she said. “We’re both new to this town and we’d like to know who you were staring at. It’s important.” Alex stammered. “I just . . . I heard . . . it’s just, I’m new here, too.”

I think Jessica and I both said something along the lines of, “Oh.” And then it was our turn to blush. Poor Alex just wanted to be a part of our conversation. So we let him. And I think we talked for at least another hour, probably more. Just three people, happy that the first day of school wouldn’t be spent wandering the halls alone. Or eating lunch alone. Getting lost alone.

Not that it matters, but where is this bus going? Does it leave our town for another one? Or does it loop endlessly through these streets?

Maybe I should’ve checked before getting on.

That afternoon at Monet’s was a relief for all three of us. How many nights had I fallen asleep terrified, thinking of that first day of school? Too many. And after Monet’s? None. Now, I was excited.

And just so you know, I never thought of Jessica or Alex as friends. Not even at the beginning when I would’ve loved two automatic friendships.

And I know they felt the same way, because we talked about it. We talked about our past friends and why those people had become our friends. We talked about what we were searching for in new friends at our new school.

But those first few weeks, until we each peeled away, Monet’s Garden was our safe haven. If one of us had a hard time fitting in or meeting people, we’d go to Monet’s. Back in the garden, at the far table to the right.

I’m not sure who started it, but whoever had the most exhausting day would lay a hand in the center of the table and say, “Olly-olly-oxen-free.” The other two would lay their hands on top and lean in. Then we’d listen, sipping drinks with our free hands. Jessica and I always drank hot chocolate. Over time, Alex made his way through the entire menu.

I’ve only been to Monet’s a few times, but I think it’s on the street the bus is going down now.

Yes, we were cheesy. And I’m sorry if this episode’s making you sick. If it helps, it’s almost too sweet for me. But Monet’s truly filled whatever void needed filling at the time. For all of us.

But don’t worry . . . it didn’t last.

I slide across the bench to the aisle, then stand up in the moving bus.

The first to drop out was Alex. We were friendly when we saw each other in the halls, but it never went beyond that.

At least, with me it didn’t.

Bracing my hands against the backrests, I make my way to the front of the shifting bus.

Now down to the two of us, Jessica and me, the whole thing changed pretty fast. The talks became chitchat and not much more.

“When’s the next stop?” I ask. I feel the words leave my throat, but they’re barely whispers above Hannah’s voice and the engine.

The driver looks at me in the rearview mirror.

Then Jessica stopped going, and though I went to Monet’s a few more times hoping one of them might wander in, eventually I stopped going, too.

Until . . .

“Only other people here are asleep,” the driver says. I watch her lips carefully to make sure I understand. “I can stop wherever you’d like.” See, the cool thing about Jessica’s story is that so much of it happens in one spot, making life much easier for those of you following the stars.

The bus passes Monet’s. “Here’s good,” I say.

Yes, I met Jessica for the first time in Ms. Antilly’s office. But we got to know each other at Monet’s.

I hold myself steady as the bus decelerates and pulls to the curb.

And we got to know Alex at Monet’s. And then . . . and then this happened.

The door wheezes open.

At school one day, Jessica walked up to me in the halls. “We need to talk,” she said. She didn’t say where or why, but I knew she meant Monet’s . . . and I thought I knew why.

I descend the stairs and step from the gutter up onto the curb. I readjust the headphones and start walking back half a block.

When I got there, Jessica was sitting slumped in a chair, arms dangling by her sides like she’d been waiting a long time. And maybe she had. Maybe she hoped I would skip my last class to join her.

So I sat down and slid my hand into the middle of the table. “Olly-olly-oxen-free?”

She lifted one of her hands and slapped a paper on the table. Then she pushed it across and spun it around for me to read. But I didn’t need it spun around, because the first time I read that paper it was upside down on Jimmy’s desk: WHO’S HOT / WHO’S NOT.

I knew which side of the list I was on—according to Alex. And my so-called opposite was sitting across from me. At our safe haven, no less. Mine . . . hers . . . and Alex’s.

“Who cares?” I told her. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

I swallow hard. When I read that list, I passed it down the aisle without a thought. At the time, it seemed kind of funny.

“Hannah,” she said, “I don’t care that he picked you over me.”

I knew exactly where that conversation was headed and I was not going to let her take us there.

And now? How do I see it now?

I should’ve grabbed every copy I could find and thrown them all away.

“He did not choose me over you, Jessica,” I said. “He chose me to get back at you and you know that. He knew my name would hurt you more than anyone else’s.” She closed her eyes and said my name in almost a whisper. “Hannah.”

Do you remember that, Jessica? Because I do.

When someone says your name like that, when they won’t even look you in the eyes, there is nothing more you can do or say. Their mind is made up.

“Hannah,” you said. “I know the rumors.”

“You can’t know rumors,” I said. And maybe I was being a little sensitive, but I had hoped—silly me—that there would be no more rumors when my family moved here. That I had left the rumors and gossip behind me . . . for good. “You can hear rumors,” I said, “but you can’t know them.” Again, you said my name. “Hannah.”

Yes, I knew the rumors. And I swore to you that I hadn’t seen Alex one time outside of school. But you wouldn’t believe me.

And why should you believe me? Why would anyone not believe a rumor that fits so nicely with an old rumor? Huh, Justin? Why?

Jessica could have heard so many rumors about Alex and Hannah. But none of them were true.

For Jessica, it was easier to think of me as Bad Hannah than as the Hannah she got to know at Monet’s. It was easier to accept. Easier to understand.

For her, the rumors needed to be true.

I remember a bunch of guys joking with Alex in the locker room. “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, Baker’s man.” Then someone asked him, “Pat that muffin, Baker’s man?” and everyone knew what was being said.

When the row cleared out, only Alex and I remained. A tiny wrench of jealousy twisted up my insides. Ever since Kat’s going-away party, I couldn’t get Hannah out of my mind. But I couldn’t bring myself to ask if what they had said was true. Because if it was, I didn’t want to hear it.

Tightening his shoelaces, and without looking at me, Alex denied the rumor. “Just so you know.”

“Fine,” I said. “Fine, Jessica. Thank you for helping me the first few weeks of school. It meant a lot. And I’m sorry Alex screwed that up with this stupid little list of his, but he did.” I told her I knew all about their relationship. On that first day at Monet’s, he had been checking one of us out. And it wasn’t me. And yes, that made me jealous. And if it helped her get over it, I accepted any blame she wanted to put on me for the two of them breaking up. But it was not true!

I reach Monet’s.

Two guys stand outside, leaning against the wall. One smokes a cigarette and the other is burrowed deep into his jacket.

But all Jessica heard was me accepting blame.

She rose up beside her chair, glaring down at me, and swung.

So tell me, Jessica, which did you mean to do? Punch me, or scratch me? Because it felt like a little bit of both. Like you couldn’t really decide.

And what was it you called me? Not that it matters, but just for the record. Because I was too busy lifting my hand and ducking—but you got me!—and I missed what you said.

That tiny scar you’ve all seen above my eyebrow, that’s the shape of Jessica’s fingernail . . . which I plucked out myself.

I noticed that scar a few weeks ago. At the party. A tiny flaw on a pretty face. And I told her how cute it was.

Minutes later, she started freaking out.

Or maybe you’ve never seen it. But I see it every morning when I get ready for school. “Good morning, Hannah,” it says. And every night when I get ready for bed. “Sleep tight.” I push open the heavy wood-and-glass door to Monet’s. Warm air rushes out to grab me and everyone turns, upset at the person letting in the cold. I slink inside and shut the door behind me.

But it’s more than just a scratch. It’s a punch in the stomach and a slap in the face. It’s a knife in my back because you would rather believe some made-up rumor than what you knew to be true.

Jessica, my dear, I’d really love to know if you dragged yourself to my funeral. And if you did, did you notice your scar?

And what about you, the rest of you, did you notice the scars you left behind?

No. Probably not.

That wasn’t possible.

Because most of them can’t be seen with the naked eye.

Because there was no funeral, Hannah.

I press stop.