Free Thirteen Reasons Why by Jay Asher Page A

I can hear you now. “Those are for the yearbook, Hannah. 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 Hannah’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.
    It must have been terrifying for him to hear this. And it must be hell knowing he’s not the only one.
    Okay, listeners, ready? Car door . . . and . . .
    Shh!
    A long pause. Her breathing is soft. Controlled.
    A door slams. Keys. Footsteps. Another door unlocks.
    Okay, Tyler. Here’s the play-by-play. You’re inside the house with the door shut. You’re either checking in with Mom and Dad, saying everything went great and this is going to be the best yearbook ever, or they didn’t buy enough pizza and you’re heading straight for the kitchen.
    As we wait, I’m going to go back and tell everyone how this all began. And if I’m wrong with the timeline, Tyler, find the other people on these tapes and let them know that you started peeping way before I caught you.
    You’ll do that, right? All of you? You’ll fill in the gaps? Because every story I’m telling leaves so many unanswered questions.
    Unanswered? I would’ve answered any question, Hannah. But you never asked.
    For example, how long were you stalking me, Tyler? How did you know my parents were out of town that week?
    Instead of asking questions, that night at the party, you started yelling at me.
    Okay, confession time. The rule around my house when the parents are away is that I’m not allowed to date. Their feeling, though they won’t bring themselves to say it, is that I might enjoy the date too much and ask the boy to come inside.
    In previous stories, I told you that the rumors you’ve all heard about me weren’t true. And they’re not. But I never claimed to be a Goody Two-Shoes. I did go out when my parents weren’t home, but only because I could stay out as long as I wanted. And as you know, Tyler, on the night this all began, the boy I went out with walked me all the way to my front door. He stood there while I pulled out my keys to unlock the door . . . then he left.
    I’m afraid to look, but I wonder if people in Monet’s are staring at me. Can they tell, based on my reactions, that it’s not music I’m listening to?
    Or maybe no one’s noticed. Why would they? Why should they care what I’m listening to?
    Tyler’s bedroom light is still off, so either he’s having a detailed conversation with his parents or he’s still hungry. Fine, have it your way, Tyler. I’ll just keep talking about you.
    Were you hoping I’d invite the guy in? Or would that have made you jealous?
    I stir my coffee with the wooden stick.
    Either way, after I went inside—alone!—I washed