Jay Asher - Thirteen Reasons Why

Thirteen Reasons Why

Thirteen Reasons Why

Clay Jenkins returns home from school to find a mysterious box with his name on it lying on his porch. Inside he discovers 13 cassette tapes recorded by Hannah Bakerhis classmate and crushwho committed suicide two weeks earlier. On tape, Hannah explains that there are thirteen reasons why she decided to end her life. Clay is one of them. If he listens, hell find out how he made the list. Through Hannah and Clays dual narratives, debut author Jay Asher weaves an intricate and heartrending story of confusion and desperation that will deeply affect teen readers.

TH1RTEEN REASONS WHY

TH1RTEEN REASONS WHY

A NOVEL BY

JAY ASHER

Thirteen Reasons Why

RAZORBILL

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Young Readers Group

345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England ISBN: 1-4295-6511-X

Copyright 2007 Jay Asher

All rights reserved

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For Joan Marie

CONTENTS

YESTERDAY

CASSETTE 1: SIDE A

CASSETTE 1: SIDE B

CASSETTE 2: SIDE A

CASSETTE 2: SIDE B

CASSETTE 3: SIDE A

CASSETTE 3: SIDE B

CASSETTE 4: SIDE A

CASSETTE 4: SIDE B

CASSETTE 5: SIDE A

CASSETTE 5: SIDE B

CASSETTE 6: SIDE A

CASSETTE 6: SIDE B

CASSETTE 7: SIDE A

CASSETTE 7: SIDE B

THE NEXT DAY

13 INSPIRATIONS

Sir? she repeats. How soon do you want it to get there?

I rub two fingers, hard, over my left eyebrow. The throbbing has become intense. It doesnt matter, I say.

The clerk takes the package. The same shoebox that sat on my porch less than twenty-four hours ago; rewrapped in a brown paper bag, sealed with clear packing tape, exactly as I had received it. But now addressed with a new name. The next name on Hannah Bakers list.

Bakers dozen, I mumble. Then I feel disgusted for even noticing it.

Excuse me?

I shake my head. How much is it?

She places the box on a rubber pad, then punches a sequence on her keypad.

I set my cup of gas-station coffee on the counter and glance at the screen. I pull a few bills from my wallet, dig some coins out of my pocket, and place my money on the counter.

I dont think the coffees kicked in yet, she says. Youre missing a dollar.

I hand over the extra dollar, then rub the sleep from my eyes. The coffees lukewarm when I take a sip, making it harder to gulp down. But I need to wake up somehow.

Or maybe not. Maybe its best to get through the day half-asleep. Maybe thats the only way to get through today.

It should arrive at this address tomorrow, she says. Maybe the day after tomorrow. Then she drops the box into a cart behind her.

I should have waited till after school. I should have given Jenny one final day of peace.

Though she doesnt deserve it.

When she gets home tomorrow, or the next day, shell find a package on her doorstep. Or if her mom or dad or someone else gets there first, maybe shell find it on her bed. And shell be excited. I was excited. A package with no return address? Did they forget, or was it intentional? Maybe from a secret admirer?

Do you want your receipt? the clerk asks.

I shake my head.

A small printer clicks one out anyway. I watch her tear the slip across the serrated plastic and drop it into a wastebasket.

Theres only one post office in town. I wonder if the same clerk helped the other people on the list, those who got this package before me. Did they keep their receipts as sick souvenirs? Tuck them in their underwear drawers? Pin them up on corkboards?

I almost ask for my receipt back. I almost say, Im sorry, can I have it after all? As a reminder.

But if I wanted a reminder, I couldve made copies of the tapes or saved the map. But I never want to hear those tapes again, though her voice will never leave my head. And the houses, the streets, and the high school will always be there to remind me.

Its out of my control now. The package is on its way. I leave the post office without the receipt.

Deep behind my left eyebrow, my head is still pounding. Every swallow tastes sour, and the closer I get to school, the closer I come to collapsing.

I want to collapse. I want to fall on the sidewalk right there and drag myself into the ivy. Because just beyond the ivy the sidewalk curves, following the outside of the school parking lot. It cuts through the front lawn and into the main building. It leads through the front doors and turns into a hallway, which meanders between rows of lockers and classrooms on both sides, finally entering the always-open door to first period.

At the front of the room, facing the students, will be the desk of Mr. Porter. Hell be the last to receive a package with no return address. And in the middle of the room, one desk to the left, will be the desk of Hannah Baker.

Empty.

YESTERDAY

ONE HOUR AFTER SCHOOL

A shoebox-sized package is propped against the front door at an angle. Our front door has a tiny slot to shove mail through, but anything thicker than a bar of soap gets left outside. A hurried scribble on the wrapping addresses the package to Clay Jensen, so I pick it up and head inside.

I take the package into the kitchen and set it on the counter. I slide open the junk drawer and pull out a pair of scissors. Then I run a scissor blade around the package and lift off its top. Inside the shoebox is a rolled-up tube of bubble-wrap. I unroll that and discover seven loose audiotapes.

Each tape has a dark blue number painted in the upper right-hand corner, possibly with nail polish. Each side has its own number. One and two on the first tape, three and four on the next, five and six, and so on. The last tape has a thirteen on one side, but nothing on the back.

Who would send me a shoebox full of audiotapes? No one listens to tapes anymore. Do I even have a way to play them?

The garage! The stereo on the workbench. My dad bought it at a yard sale for almost nothing. Its old, so he doesnt care if it gets coated with sawdust or splattered with paint. And best of all, it plays tapes.