Read an Excerpt
"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 doesn't 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 Baker's list.
"Baker's 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 don't think the coffee's kicked in yet," she says.
"You're missing a dollar."
I hand over the extra dollar, then rub the sleep from my
eyes. The coffee's lukewarm when I take a sip, making it
harder to gulp down. But I need to wake up somehow.
Or maybe not. Maybe it's best to get through the day
half-asleep. Maybe that's 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 doesn't deserve it.
When she gets home tomorrow, or the next day, she'll
find a package on her doorstep. Or if her mom or dad or
someone else gets there first, maybe she'll find it on her bed.
And she'll 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.
There's 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, "I'm sorry,
can I have it after all?" As a reminder.
But if I wanted a reminder, I could've 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.
It's 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 alwaysopen
door to first period.
At the front of the room, facing the students, will be the
desk of Mr. Porter. He'll 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.
