13 Reasons Why Cassette 2 Side B

She slides an empty mug across the counter and points to the pour-it-yourself bar. I pour in just enough half-and-half to coat the bottom of the mug. The rest I fill with Hairy Chest Blend because it sounds highly caffeinated and maybe I can stay up late to finish the tapes.

I think I need to finish them, and finish them tonight. But should I? In one night? Or should I find my story, listen to it, then just enough of the next tape to see who I’m supposed to pass them off to?

“What’re you listening to?” It’s the girl from behind the counter. She’s beside me now, tilting the stainless steel containers of half-and-half, low fat, and soy. She’s checking to see if they’re full. A couple of black lines, a tattoo, stretch up from her collar and disappear into her short, cropped hair.

I glance down at the yellow headphones hanging around my neck. “Just some tapes.”

“Cassette tapes?” She picks up the soy and holds it against her stomach. “Interesting. Anyone I’ve heard of?”

I shake my head no and drop three cubes of sugar into my coffee.

She cradles the soy with her other arm then puts out her hand. “We went to school together, two years ago. You’re Josh, right?”

I put down the mug then slide my hand into hers. Her palm is warm and soft.

“We had one class together,” she says, “but we didn’t talk much.” She looks a little familiar. Maybe her hair’s different. “You wouldn’t recognize me,” she says. “I’ve changed a lot since high school.” She rolls her heavily made-up eyes. “Thank God.”

I place a wooden stirrer into my coffee and mix it. “Which class did we have?”

“Wood Shop.”

I still don’t remember her.

“The only thing I got out of that class were splinters,” she says. “Oh, and I made a piano bench. Still no piano, but at least I’ve got the bench. Do you remember what you made?”

I stir my coffee. “A spice rack.” The creamer mixes in and the coffee turns a light brown with some dark coffee grounds rising to the surface.

“I always thought you were the nicest guy,” she says. “In school, everyone thought so. Kind of quiet, but that’s okay. Back then, people thought I talked too much.”

A customer clears his throat at the counter. We both glance at him, but he doesn’t look away from the drink list.

She turns back to me and we shake hands again. “Well, maybe I’ll see you around, when there’s more time to talk.” Then she walks back behind the counter.

That’s me. Nice Guy Josh.

Would she still say that if she heard these tapes?

I head to the back of Monet’s, toward the closed door that leads to the patio. Along the way, tables full of people stretch their legs or tilt back their chairs to form an obstacle course that begs me to spill my drink.

A drop of warm coffee spills onto my finger. I watch it slide across my knuckles and drip to the floor. I rub the toe of my shoe over the spot till it disappears. And I recall, earlier today, watching a slip of paper fall outside the shoe store.

After Hayley’s suicide, but before the shoebox of tapes arrived, I found myself walking by Hayley’s mom and dad’s shoe store many times. It was that store that brought her to town in the first place. After thirty years in business, the owner of the store was looking to sell and retire. And Hayley’s parents were looking to move.

I’m not sure why I walked by there so many times. Maybe I was searching for a connection to her, some connection outside of school, and it’s the only one I could think of. Looking for answers to questions I didn’t know how to ask. About her life. About everything.

I had no idea the tapes were on their way to explain it all.

The day after her suicide was the first time I found myself at their store, standing outside the front door. The lights were out. A single sheet of paper taped to the front window said, WELL BE OPEN SOON in thick black marker. It was written in a hurry, I figured. They just forgot the apostrophe. On the glass door, a delivery person had left a self-adhesive note. Among a list of other options, “Will try again tomorrow” was checked.

A few days later, I went back. Even more notes were stuck to the glass.

On my way home from school earlier today, I went by the store one more time. As I read the dates and notes on each piece of paper, the oldest note became unstuck and fluttered to the ground, resting beside my shoe. I picked it up and searched the door for the most recent note. Then I lifted a corner of that note and stuck the older one beneath it.

They’ll be back soon, I thought. They must have taken her home for the burial. Back to her old town.

Unlike old age or cancer, no one anticipates a suicide. They simply left without a chance to get things in order.

I open the patio door at Monet’s, careful not to spill any more of my coffee.

Around the garden, to keep the atmosphere relaxed, the lights are kept low. Every table, including Hayley’s in the far back corner, is occupied. Three guys in baseball caps sit there, hunched over textbooks and notebooks, none of them talking.

I go back inside and sit at a small table near a window. It overlooks the garden, but Hayley’s table is hidden by a brick column choked with ivy.

I take a deep breath, letting my hot breath fog my silver lip ring.

As the stories go by, one by one, I find myself relieved when my name isn’t mentioned. Followed by a fear of what she hasn’t yet said, of what she’s going to say, when my turn comes.

Because my turn is coming. I know that. And I want it to be over with.

What did I do to you, Hayley?

I press Play.

While I wait for her first words, I stare out the window. It’s darker outside than in here. When I pull my gaze back and focus my eyes, I can see my own reflection in the glass.

And I look away.

I glance down at the Walkman on the table. There’s still no sound, but the Play button is pressed. Maybe the tape didn’t lock in place.

So I hit Stop. Then Play again.

Nothing.

I roll my thumb over the volume dial. The static in the headphones gets louder so I turn it back down. And I wait.

Shh!… if you’re talking in the library.

Her voice, it’s a whisper.

Shh!… in a movie theater or church.

I listen closer.

Sometimes there’s no one around to tell you to be quiet… to be very, very quiet. Sometimes you need to be quiet when you’re all alone. Like me, right now.

Shh!

At the crowded tables that fill the rest of the room, people talk. But the only words I understand are Hayley’s. The other words become a muffled background noise occasionally tipped by a sharp laugh.

For example, you’d better be quiet–extremely quiet–if you’re going to be a Peeping Tom. Because what if they heard?

I let out a breath of air. It’s not me. Still not me.

What if she… what if I… found out? Guess what, Tyler Down? I found out.

I lean back in my chair and close my eyes.

I feel sorry for you, Tyler. I do. Everyone else on these tapes, so far, must feel a little relieved. They came off as liars or jerks or insecure people lashing out at others. But your story, Tyler… it’s kind of creepy.

I take my first sip of coffee. A Peeping Tom? Tyler? I never knew.

And I feel a little creepy telling it, too. Why? Because I’m trying to get closer to you, Tyler. I’m trying to understand the excitement of staring through someone’s bedroom window. Watching someone who doesn’t know they’re being watched. Trying to catch them in the act of… What were you trying to catch me in the act of, Tyler? And were you disappointed? Or pleasantly surprised?

Okay, a show of hands, please. Who knows where I am?

I set down my coffee, lean forward, and try to imagine her recording this. Where is she?

Who knows where I’m standing right now?

Then I get it and shake my head, feeling so embarrassed for him.

If you said, “Outside Tyler’s window,” you’re right. And that’s A-4 on your maps. Tyler’s not home right now…but his parents are. And I really hope they don’t come outside.

Fortunately, there’s a tall, thick bush just below his window, similar to my own window, so I’m feeling pretty safe. How are you feeling, Tyler?

I can’t imagine what it was like for him to mail out these tapes. To know he was sending his secret into the world.

There’s a meeting of the yearbook staff tonight, which I know involves a lot of pizza and gossip. So I know you won’t be home until after it gets all nice and dark. Which, as an amateur Peeping Tom, I appreciate very much. So thank you, Tyler. Thanks for making this so easy.

When Tyler heard this, was he sitting here at Monet’s, trying to look calm while sweating up a storm? Or was he lying in bed staring bug-eyed out his window?

Let’s take a peek inside before you get home, shall we? The hallway light’s on so I can see in pretty well. And yes, I see exactly what I expected–there’s a bunch of camera equipment lying around. You’ve got quite a collection here, Tyler. A lens for every occasion.

Including night vision. Tyler won a statewide contest with that lens. Firstplace in the humor category. An old man walking his dog at night. The dog stopped to pee on a tree and Tyler snapped the picture.

Night vision made it look like a green laser beam blasting out of the dog’s crotch.

I know, I know. I can hear you now. “Those are for the yearbook, Hayley. I’m the student-life photographer.” And I’m sure that’s why your parents were fine spending that kind of cash. But is that the only way you use this stuff? Candid shots of the student body?

Ah, yes. Candid shots of the student body. Before coming out here, I took the initiative to look up “candid” in the dictionary. It’s one of those words with many definitions, but there’s one that’s most appropriate. And here it is, memorized for your pleasure: Relating to photography of subjects acting naturally or spontaneously without being posed.

So tell me, Tyler, those nights you stood outside my window, was I spontaneous enough for you? Did you catch me in all my natural, unposed… Wait. Did you hear that?

I sit up and lean my elbows on the table.

A car coming up the road.

I cup my hands over both ears.

Is it you, Tyler? It sure is getting close. And there are the headlights.

I can hear it, just under Hayley’s voice. The engine.

My heart definitely thinks it’s you. My God, it’s pounding. The car’s turning up the driveway.

Behind her voice, tires roll across pavement. The engine idles.

It’s you, Tyler. It’s you. You haven’t stopped the engine so I’m going to keep talking. And yes, this is exciting. I can definitely see the thrill.