Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Prologue
He bikes home from school promptly after the last bell. Some days, Clay Jensen stops to talk to an acquaintance in the halls or makes up some excuse not to bike straight home. It's a Thursday - typically an early-shift day for Clay at the theater, but the new girl asked him to trade shifts. He's not complaining.
On the way home, he thinks about his pre-calculus homework. Conic sections. He wasn't really paying attention during the lecture, so it'll take him twice as long to get through it. If only he had a math professor for a father, instead of English. (If only he hadn't spent half the period staring at the back of Hannah Baker's head.)
Hannah. His perennial crush. She's like the Kevin Bacon of his thoughts. How many degrees of separation does it take to get from Topic X to Hannah Baker?
Conic sections. Cones. Boobs. Hannah. 3.
They haven't talked since she quit the Crestmont to work in her parents' store. At one point, it seemed like they were fumbling toward some form of friendship, but then they stopped. Or, she stopped, and Clay didn't do anything to start back up. Not like she was making it easy. She'd been so distant in school. Stopped making eye contact in the halls. Wouldn't meet his gaze when someone made a particularly stupid joke in class.
When he arrives home, 15 minutes after the final bell, there's a package on his front porch.
It's small - a shoebox, judging by its shape. Wrapped in brown paper. No postage, no address. Just his name written in black sharpie.
Huh.
Clay doesn't usually get packages. Occasionally he'll order something with his parents' Amazon account, but he doesn't remember purchasing anything recently, and besides, no postage. There are no gift-giving holidays either fast approaching or recently past. His birthday's 5 months away. Curious, he takes the package into the kitchen and immediately opens it.
It's a shoebox, filled with...tapes? Six tapes, labeled with numbers written in blue nail polish. Maybe it's from Tony. Clay vaguely remembers Tony promising (read: threatening) to "educate" him, musically. Yes, that must be it. He's got nothing else on the agenda for the evening besides pre-calc, and he's not exactly itching to get started. Clay wracks his brain for a way to play the tapes. He searches the living room idly, not expecting to find anything, when he remembers: his dad's boombox. It's probably sitting in the garage, collecting dust.
He lets his gut lead him through the garage. It's full of clutter - Clay could waste a good chunk of time digging through junk before he finds this boombox, but he finds it sitting on the workbench.
He's never actually operated one of these before, but given his knowledge of symbols commonly associated with music technology, he finds the "eject" button with ease. The door slides open, and Clay pulls out the tape inside: Johnny Cash. Not bad, dad.
Clay returns to the kitchen to grab the shoe box. He sets the box down on the workbench and debates whether to listen to the tapes in order or not. It's just music, right? Tony takes everything so seriously.
But conscience gets the better of him. Or rather, Clay realizes it won't be worth the argument when Tony inevitablly quizzes him on the experience. Clay eyerolls just thinking about it.
He pops in the tape labeled "1," and hits play.
Hey. It's Hannah. Hannah Baker.
"What the fuck?"
Don't adjust your...whatever device you're listening to this on.
Clay sits on a metal stool beside the work bench. His jaw drops.
It's me. Live and in stereo. No return engagements, no encore, and this time,
absolutely no requests.
Clay jerks his head at the distant sound of keys dropping on the kitchen counter.
Get a snack. Settle in. Because I'm about to tell you the story of my life.
Or, more specifically, why my life ended.
Clay nearly gives himself whiplash. He stares bug-eyed at the tape deck. His fingers fumble for the rewind button. The tape squeaks as it backs up. He hits play.
-the story of my life. Or, more specifically, why my life ended.
Fuck.
Fuck.