Free Thirteen Reasons Why by Jay Asher Page B

my face and brushed my teeth. And the moment I stepped into my room . . . Click.
    We all know the sound a camera makes when it snaps a picture. Even some of the digitals do it for nostalgia’s sake. And I always keep my window open, about an inch or two, to let in fresh air. Which is how I knew someone was standing outside.
    But I denied it. It was way too creepy to admit to myself on the very first night of my parents’ vacation. I was only freaking myself out, I said. Just getting used to being alone.
    Still, I wasn’t dumb enough to change in front of the window. So I sat down on my bed. Click.
    Such an idiot, Tyler. In middle school, some people thought you were mentally challenged. But you weren’t. You were just an idiot.
    Or maybe it wasn’t a click, I told myself. Maybe it was a creak. My bed has a wooden frame that creaks a little. That was it. It had to be a creak.
    I pulled the blankets over my body and undressed beneath them. Then I put on my pajamas, doing everything as slowly as possible, afraid whoever was outside might snap another picture. After all, I wasn’t totally sure what a Peeping Tom got off on.
    But wait—another picture would prove he was there, right? Then I could call the police and . . .
    But the truth is, I didn’t know what to hope for. My parents weren’t home. I was alone. I figured ignoring him was my best option. And even though he was outside, I was too afraid of what might happen if he saw me reaching for the phone.
    Stupid? Yes. But did it make sense? Yes . . . at the time.
    You should’ve called the cops, Hannah. It might have stopped this snowball from picking up speed. The one you keep talking about.
    The one that ran over all of us.
    So why was it so easy for Tyler to see into my room to begin with? Is that what you’re asking? Do I always sleep with my shades wide open?
    Good question, victim-blamers. But it wasn’t that easy. The window blinds were kept at an angle exactly as I liked them. On clear nights, with my head on the pillow, I could fall asleep looking at the stars. And on stormy nights I could watch lightning light up the clouds.
    I’ve done that, fallen asleep looking outside. But from the second floor, I don’t need to worry about people seeing in.
    When my dad found out I kept the blinds open—even a crack—he walked out to the sidewalk to make sure no one could see me from the street. And they couldn’t. So he walked from the sidewalk, straight across the yard, up to my window. And what did he find? That unless they were pretty tall and standing right outside my window on their tiptoes, I was invisible.
    So how long did you stand like that, Tyler? It must have been pretty uncomfortable. And if you were willing to go through all that trouble just to get a peek at me, I hope you got at least something out of it.
    He did. But not what he wanted. Instead, he got this.
    Had I known it was Tyler at the time, had I snuck under the blinds and looked up to see his face, I would’ve run outside and embarrassed the hell out of him.
    In fact, that brings up the most interesting part of . . .
    Wait! Here you come. We’ll save that story for later.
    I push my mug of coffee, not even half-finished, to the far end of the table.
    Let me describe Tyler’s window for the rest of you. The shades are all the way down, yet I can see in. They’re made of bamboo, or fake bamboo, and between each stick are varying amounts of space. If I stand on my tiptoes, like Tyler, I can reach a fairly wide-open gap and see in.
    Okay, he’s turning on the light and . . . he shuts the door. He’s . . . he’s sitting on the bed. He’s yanking off his shoes and . . . now his socks.
    I groan. Please don’t do anything stupid, Tyler. It’s your room, you can do what you want, but don’t embarrass yourself anymore.
    Maybe I should warn him. Give him a chance to hide. To undress underneath the covers.