第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
1 / 20
Sometimes we have thoughts that even we don't understand. Thoughts that aren't even true -- that aren't really how we feel -- but they're running through our heads anyway because they're interesting to think about.
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Would you want the ability to hear other people's thoughts?
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Of course you would. Everyone answers yes to that question, until they think it all the way through.
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For example, what if other people could hear your thoughts? What if they could hear your thoughts… right now?
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They'd hear confusion. Frustration. Even some anger. They'd hear the words of a dead girl running through my head. A girl who, for some reason, blames me for her suicide.
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I adjust the napkin holder in front of me till Tony's booth is reflected in the polished silver. He leans back and wipes his hands on a napkin.
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If you could hear other people's thoughts, you'd overhear things that are true as well as things that are completely random. And you wouldn't know one from the other. It'd drive you insane. What's true? What's not? A million ideas, but what do they mean?
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第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
2 / 20
That's what I love about poetry. The more abstract, the better. The stuff where you're not sure what the poet's talking about. You may have an idea, but you can't be sure. Not a hundred percent. Each word, specifically chosen, could have a million different meanings. Is it a stand-in -- a symbol -- for another idea? Does it fit into a larger, more hidden, metaphor?
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Did the poet use red to symbolize blood? Anger? Lust? Or is the wheelbarrow simply red because red sounded better than black?
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This is the eighth person, Hannah. If it's about poetry, then it's not about me. And there are only five names to go.
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I hated poetry until someone showed me how to appreciate it. He told me to see poetry as a puzzle. It's up to the reader to decipher the code, or the words, based on everything they know about life and emotions.
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I remember that one. From English. There was a big discussion on the meaning of red. I have no idea what we decided in the end.
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I have no idea what Tony's thinking. And he has no idea about me. He has no idea that the voice in my head, the voice coming through his Walkman, belongs to Hannah Baker.
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第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
3 / 20
If you're angry, you don't have to write a poem dealing with the cause of your anger. But it needs to be an angry poem. So go ahead… write one. I know you're at least a little bit angry with me.
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Or audiotapes.
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The same person who taught me to appreciate poetry also taught me the value in writing it. And honestly, there is no better way to explore your emotions than with poetry.
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I bought a spiral notebook to keep all of my poems in one place. A couple days a week, after school, I'd go to Monet's and write a poem or two.
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Maybe a therapist would have helped, Hannah.
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And when you're done with your poem, decipher it as if you'd just found it printed in a textbook and knew absolutely nothing about its author. The results can be amazing… and scary. But it's always cheaper than a therapist.
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I did that for a while. Poetry, not a therapist.
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My first few attempts were a bit sad. Not much depth or subtlety. Pretty straightforward. But still, some came out fairly well. At least, I think they did.
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Then, without even trying, I memorized the very first poem in that notebook. And no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to shake it from my head even today. So here it is, for your appreciation… or amusement.
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第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
4 / 20
Why didn't he stop to say good-bye?
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Just knowing I'd be going to Monet's to write poetry made the days more bearable. Something funny, shocking, or hurtful might happen and I'd think, This is going to make for one fascinating poem.
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To me, I suppose, these tapes are a form of poetic therapy.
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And if my love could grow wings,
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Go ahead. Laugh. But you know you'd buy it if you saw it on a greeting card.
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Over my shoulder, I see Tony walking out the front door. Which seems weird.
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And the closer we get to the end, the more connections I'm discovering. Deep connections. Some that I've told you about, linking one story to the next. While others, I haven't told you about at all.
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If my love were a desert, you would see only sand.
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I'd be soaring in flight.
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There's a sudden ache deep inside my chest.
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Through the front window, I watch Tony get in his car.
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He flips on the headlights.
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As I tell you these stories, I'm discovering certain things. Things about myself, yes, but also about you. All of you.
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If my love were an ocean, there would be no more land.
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If my love were a star -- late at night, only light.
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第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
5 / 20
No, Hannah. I'm barely keeping up.
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In other words, a poem.
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The Mustang shudders as Tony revs the engine. Then slowly, his car backs up.
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As if turned off.
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Is he out there, sitting in his car, waiting? Why?
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But you can't get away from yourself. You can't decide not to see yourself anymore. You can't decide to turn off the noise in your head.
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Watching Tony's car through the window is like watching a movie, the Mustang backing slowly offscreen. But the headlights don't gradually fade away, which they should if he kept backing up or turned away. Instead, they just stop.
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Maybe you've even discovered some connections that I haven't. Maybe you're one step ahead of the poet.
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And when I say my final words… well, probably not my final words, but the last words on these tapes… it's going to be one tight, well-connected, emotional ball of words.
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If you hear a song that makes you cry and you don't want to cry anymore, you don't listen to that song anymore.
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Looking back, I stopped writing in my notebook when I stopped wanting to know myself anymore.
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第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
6 / 20
But the only steady source of illumination, though distant, appears in the upper right-hand corner. A blurry pink-and-blue light. The tip of the Crestmont's neon sign peeking over the rooftops of every business around it.
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With Tony's headlights turned off, the windows of the diner are just a stretch of black glass. Every so often, at the far end of the parking lot, a car drives down the road and a sliver of light glides from one end of the glass to the other.
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God. What I wouldn't give to relive that summer.
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In that tiny fishbowl box office, my only connection to my coworkers in the lobby was a red phone. No buttons to punch, just a receiver. But whenever I picked it up and Hannah answered on the other end, I got nervous. As if I wasn't calling from thirty feet away, but calling her at home.
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When we were alone, it was so easy to talk to Hannah. It was so easy to laugh with her. But whenever people came around, I got shy. I backed off. I didn't know how to act anymore.
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"I need change," I would say.
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"Again?" she'd respond. But always with a smile in her voice. And every time, I felt my face grow warm with embarrassment. Because the truth was, I asked for change a lot more when she was working than when she wasn't.
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第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
7 / 20
A couple of minutes later, there'd be a knock on the door and I'd straighten my shirt and let her in. With a tiny cash box in hand, she'd squeeze by me, agonizingly close, to change some of my bills. And sometimes, on slow nights, she would sit in my chair and tell me to close the door.
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Whenever she said that, I struggled to keep my imagination in check. Because even though windows kept us exposed on three sides, like attractions in a carnival show, and even though she only said it because we weren't supposed to leave the door open, anything could happen within that cramped space.
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But why? Why, whenever anyone saw us, did I pretend it meant nothing? We were working, that's what I wanted them to believe. Not hanging out. Just working.
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Or so I wished.
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Because Hannah had a reputation. A reputation that scared me.
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Why?
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Those moments, however brief and rare, made me feel so special. Hannah Baker chose to spend her free moments with me. And because we were at work, no one would think anything of it. No one could read into it.
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第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
8 / 20
And that's why, right at this moment, I feel so much hate. Toward myself. I deserve to be on this list. Because if I hadn't been so afraid of everyone else, I might have told Hannah that someone cared. And Hannah might still be alive.
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But now, it's too late.
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Looking down into her eyes, I couldn't help telling her I was sorry. Sorry for waiting so long to let her know how I felt.
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That truth first came to light a few weeks ago, at a party, with Hannah directly in front of me. An amazing moment when everything seemed to be falling in place.
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Sometimes I would stop by Monet's for a hot chocolate on my way home. I'd start my homework. Or sometimes I'd read. But I wasn't writing poetry anymore.
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For a brief moment, I was able to admit it. To her. To myself. But I could never admit it again. Till now.
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I slide my hand from under my chin to the back of my neck. The bottom strands of my hair are drenched in sweat.
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I needed a break… from myself.
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I pull my gaze back from the neon sign.
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But I loved poetry. I missed it. And one day, after several weeks, I decided to go back to it. I decided to use poetry to make myself happy.
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第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
9 / 20
Happy poems. Bright and happy sunshiny poems. Happy, happy, happy. Like the two women pictured on the flyer at Monet's.
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They taught a free course called Poetry: To Love Life. They promised to teach not only how to love poetry, but through poetry, how to better love ourselves.
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D-7 on your map. The community room at the public library.
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Looking around, I see that I'm the only one left in Rosie's. They don't close for another thirty minutes. And even though I'm not eating or drinking anymore, the man behind the counter hasn't asked me to leave. So I'll stay.
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Sign me up!
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The poetry class began at the same time the last bell rang at school, so I'd race over there to try and make it without being too late. But even when I was late, everyone seemed happy to have me there -- to provide the "feminine teen perspective" they called it.
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It's too dark to go there now.
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Imagine ten or twelve orange chairs arranged in a circle, with the happy women from the flyer sitting at opposite ends. Only problem was, from day one, they weren't happy. Someone, whoever made that flyer, must have digitally turned their frowns upside down.
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第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
10 / 20
No.
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Seriously, that's how they described it. They went on to call Earth a knocked-up gaseous alien needing an abortion.
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"Expose yourself," they said. "Let us see your deepest and your darkest."
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So many times I wanted to raise my hand and say, "Um, so, when do we get to the happy stuff? The stuff about loving life? You know, Poetry: To Love Life? That's what the flyer said. That's why I'm here."
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They wrote about death. About the evilness of men. About the destruction of -- and I quote --"the greenish, bluish orb with wisps of white."
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Another reason I hate poetry. Who says "orb" instead of "ball" or "sphere?"
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Hmm… I wonder.
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In the end, I only made it through three of those poetry groups. But something did come of it. Something good?
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Hannah.
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My deepest and my darkest? What are you, my gynecologist?
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Ryan Shaver.
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You know who I'm talking about. And I'm sure you, Mr. Editor, can't wait for me to say your name out loud.
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See, someone else was in that group. Another high schooler with a perspective adored by the older poets. Who was it? The editor of our school's very own Lost-N-Found Gazette.
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第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
11 / 20
The poem from school. God, it was hers.
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The poem. We discussed it in English. We read it aloud many times.
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Remember, this is one tight, well-connected, emotional ball I'm constructing here.
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Some of you may recall it now. Not word for word, but you know what I'm talking about. The Lost-N-Found Gazette. Ryan's semiannual collection of items found lying around campus.
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I allow my eyelids, my jaw, to relax.
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No?
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Fine. But you've already read it. It's very popular at our school.
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Would you like to hear the last poem I wrote before quitting poetry? Before quitting poetry for good?
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You've known this for a while, Ryan. I'm sure of it. At the first mention of poetry, you knew this one was about you. You had to. Though I'm sure you must have thought, This can't be why I'm on the tapes. It wasn't a big deal.
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The motto of the Lost-N-Found.
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And Hannah was there for it all.
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I close my eyes tight, covering my eyes with my hand.
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I crush my teeth together, jaw muscles burning, to keep from screaming. Or crying. I don't want her to read it. I don't want to hear that poem in her voice.
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So here you go, Ryan Shaver. The truth shall set you free.
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第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
12 / 20
Photographs that fell out of binders… he scanned them, too.
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Like a love letter tossed under a desk, never discovered by its intended love. If Ryan found it, he'd scratch out the give-away names and scan it for use in an upcoming gazette.
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History notes covered in doodles by an extremely bored student… he scanned them.
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Sometimes, he admitted, people did slip items they found into his locker. Those, he said, he couldn't vouch for one hundred percent. That's why he scratched out names and phone numbers. And photographs, as a rule, couldn't be too embarrassing.
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Some people may wonder how Ryan found so many interesting items to scan. Did he really find them at all? Or did he steal them? I asked him that very question after one of our poetry meetings. And he swore that everything he printed was found purely by chance.
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He'd gather five or six pages of good, quirky material and print up fifty copies. Then he'd staple them together and drop them off at random places throughout school. Restrooms. Locker rooms. On the track.
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第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
13 / 20
"Never in the same spot," he told me. He thought it was fitting for people to stumble across his magazine of stumbled across items.
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I pull a napkin out of the holder and wipe the abrasive paper across my eyes.
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After the second week of class, we sat on those library steps and read some of our own poems to each other. Poems we'd written at different points in our lives.
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Each week, after our poetry group, Ryan and I would sit on the library steps and talk. That first week, we simply laughed about the poems the other people had written and read. We laughed about how depressing they all were.
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I look up. The man behind the counter tugs on the strings of a heavy trash bag. It's closing time.
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"Wasn't this supposed to make us happy?" he asked. Apparently, he signed up for the same reason as me.
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But guess what? My poem? He stole it.
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"Can I get a glass of water?" I ask.
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He looks at my eyes, at the skin rubbed raw by the napkin.
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But only happy poems. Poems about loving life. Poems we would never read to that depression-loving group of miserable poets inside.
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第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
14 / 20
And, as poets never do, we explained ourselves. Line for line.
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Wow! That took a lot of courage. For me, definitely. I'm sure for you, too, Ryan. And for the next two hours, with the sun going down, we sat on those concrete steps, turning pages.
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He pushes a glass of ice water in front of me. Except for that glass and the napkin dispensers, the entire length of the counter is empty.
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The third week, we took the biggest chance of all and handed each other our entire notebooks of poetry.
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His stuff sounded like real poetry. Professional poetry. And someday, I'm sure of it, kids will be forced to analyze his poems out of a textbook.
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His handwriting was horrible, so it took me a bit longer to read through his poems. But they were amazing. Much deeper than any of mine.
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Of course, I had no idea what his poems meant. Not exactly. But I felt the emotions precisely. They were absolutely beautiful. And I felt almost ashamed at what he must have been thinking as he went through my notebook. Because reading through his, I realized how little time I'd spent on mine. I should have taken the time to choose better words. More emotional words.
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I touch the cold glass, wrapping my fingers around it.
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第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
15 / 20
I don't drink the water. I watch a single drop slide down the glass and bump against my finger.
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On the surface, he said, the poem was about acceptance -- acceptance from my mother. But more than that, I wanted her approval. And I wanted certain people -- in this case a boy -- to stop overlooking me.
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It was anonymous. Just like the poem that appeared in the Lost-N-Found.
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But one of my poems grabbed him. And he wanted to know more about it… like when I wrote it.
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So Ryan wanted to know why I wrote the poem.
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How insensitive.
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With that one, I told him, the poem had to speak for itself. But I was interested in knowing what he thought it meant.
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But I didn't tell him.
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At the base of the glass, the water creates a delicate suction, then lets go. I take a sip and let a small cube of ice slip into my mouth.
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I wrote it the same day a group of students got angry that someone had the nerve to ask for help regarding suicide. Remember why they got upset? Because whoever wrote the note didn't sign her name.
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A boy?
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第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
16 / 20
Part of me was joking. I thought he'd figured out my poem exactly. But I wanted to know what a teacher assigning the poem might want his or her students to discover. Because teachers always overdo it.
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I asked if he thought it meant anything deeper.
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But you found it, Ryan. You found the hidden meaning. You found what even I couldn't find in my own poem.
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I hold the ice on my tongue. It's freezing, but I want it to melt there.
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You told me I wrote that poem because I was afraid of dealing with myself. And I used my mom as an excuse, accusing her of not appreciating or accepting me, when I should have been saying those words into a mirror.
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The poem wasn't about my mom, you said. Or a boy. It was about me. I was writing a letter to myself… hidden in a poem.
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"And the boy?" I asked. "What does he represent?"
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I flinched when you told me that. I got defensive -- even angry. But you were right. And I felt scared, and sad, by my own words.
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I cover my ears. Not to block any outside noise. The diner is almost completely silent. But I want to feel her words, all of them, as they're said.
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It's me. Oh God. It's me. I know that now.
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第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
17 / 20
While I waited for your answer, I searched my backpack for tissue. At any moment, I knew I might cry.
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In our class, no one got it right. Not even close. But at the time, we all thought we did. Even Mr. Porter.
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You told me that no boy was overlooking me more than I was overlooking myself. At least, that's what you thought it meant. And that's why you asked about the poem. You felt it went deeper than even you could figure out.
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Well, Ryan, you were right. It went much, much deeper than that. And if you knew that -- if that's what you thought -- then why did you steal my notebook? Why did you print my poem, the poem that you yourself called "scary" in the Lost-N-Found? Why did you let other people read it?
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And dissect it. And make fun of it.
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It was never a lost poem, Ryan. And you never found it, so it did not belong in your collection.
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But in your collection is exactly where other people found it. That's where teachers stumbled across it right before their lectures on poetry. That's where classrooms full of students cut up my poem, searching for its meaning.
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第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
18 / 20
Put me underneath God's sky and know me
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People ask you
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hello
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You hardly respond
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Could be my soul mate
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Then Mr. Porter waited, hoping someone would fess up to writing it. But that, as you know, never happened.
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So now you know. And for those of you who need a refresher, here it is. "Soul Alone" by Hannah Baker.
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You smile and nod
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Maybe we're not
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two kindred spirits
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I meet your eyes
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you carried me in you
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Do you know what Mr. Porter said before handing out my poem? He said that reading a poem by an unknown member of our school was the same as reading a classic poem by a dead poet. That's right -- a dead poet. Because we couldn't ask either one about its true meaning.
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So, did your teachers dissect me properly? Were they right? Did you have any clue at all it was me?
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And now you know why.
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I guess we'll never know
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Take away this mask of flesh and bone and see me
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you don't even see me
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when I whisper
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My own mother
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don't let it end there
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how I am doing
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don't just see me with your eyes
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Now you see nothing
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for my soul alone
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but what I wear
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第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
19 / 20
This doesn't seem like a big deal, does it?
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Some even wrote parodies of my poem, reading them to me in the hopes of getting under my skin.
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It was all so stupid and childish… and cruel.
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Yes, some of you did. Ryan must have told someone -- proud that his collection made it into the curriculum. But when people confronted me, I refused to confirm it or deny it. Which pissed some of them off.
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Once, in Mr. Porter's class, when those girls were teasing her, Hannah looked up. Her eyes caught mine for just a moment. A flash. But she knew I was watching her. And even though no one else saw it, I turned away.
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They were relentless, bringing new poems every day for an entire week. Hannah did her best to ignore them, pretending to read while waiting for Mr. Porter to arrive. For the start of class to come to her rescue.
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No, maybe not to you. But school hadn't been a safe haven of mine for a long time. And after your photo escapades, Tyler, my home was no longer secure.
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Now, suddenly, even my own thoughts were being offered up for ridicule.
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I saw that. I watched two girls in Mr. Porter's class recite a version before the bell rang.
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第八章: 磁带4，B面 Cassette 4, Side B |
十三个理由
20 / 20
She was on her own.
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I shake my head and reach back for my wallet. "No, I'll pay."
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Very nice, Ryan. Thank you. You're a true poet.
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I pull the headphones out of my ears and hang them around my neck.
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"I don't know what's going on with you," the man says from across the counter, "but I'm not taking your money." He blows into a straw and pinches both ends shut.
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So I nod, grab my backpack, and change the tape as I head for the door.
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I don't know what to say. Even if the words would come, my throat is so tight it won't let them escape.
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He winds the straw tighter and tighter. "I'm serious. It was only a milkshake. And like I said, I don't know what's going on, and I don't know how I can help, but something's clearly gone wrong in your life, so I want you to keep your money." His eyes search mine, and I know he means it.
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