Thirteen Reasons Why by Jay Asher

Jessica Davis. And while we never became close friends, we did rely on each other those first few weeks of school.
    I twist the top off my orange soda. It hisses and I take a sip.
    With one week left of summer vacation, Ms. Antilly called me at home to see if I’d meet her at school. A little new-student orientation, she said.
    In case you don’t remember, Ms. Antilly was the guidance counselor for students with last names beginning A through G . Later that year, she moved to another school district.
    I remember she was replaced by Mr. Porter. It was supposed to be a temporary position, but he’s still at it. An English teacher as well as a guidance counselor.
    Which is very unfortunate, as it turns out. But that is for a later tape.
    An icy sweat breaks across my forehead. Mr. Porter? Does he have something to do with this?
    The world around me tilts and spins. I grab onto the trunk of a skinny sidewalk tree.
    If she had told me the real purpose of our get-together was to introduce me to another new student, I wouldn’t have gone. I mean, what if we had nothing in common? Or what if I thought we had nothing in common but she, the other student, thought we did? Or what if the opposite happened and I thought we could become friends but she didn’t?
    So many things could have gone so horribly wrong.
    I press my forehead against the smooth bark and try to calm my breathing.
    But the other girl was Jessica Davis, and she didn’t want to be there any more than I did.
    We both expected Ms. Antilly to spew a bunch of psychobabble at us. What it means—what it takes—to be a great student. How this school is made up of the best and the brightest in the state. How everyone is given the same opportunities to succeed if they’re willing to try.
    But instead, she gave each of us a buddy.
    I close my eyes. I don’t want to see it, but it’s so clear. When rumors of Hannah’s unexplained absence began spreading through school, Mr. Porter asked our class why he kept hearing her name mentioned in the halls. He looked nervous. Almost sick. Like he knew the answer but wanted someone to convince him otherwise.
    Then a girl whispered, “Someone saw an ambulance leaving her house.”
    The moment Ms. Antilly told us why we were there, Jessica and I turned to each other. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something. But what could she say with me sitting right there? She felt blindsided. Confused. Lied to.
    I know that’s how she felt because I felt the same way.
    And I’ll never forget Ms. Antilly’s reaction. Two short, drawn-out words. “Or . . . not.”
    I squeeze my eyes tight, trying hard to remember that day as clearly as possible.
    Was it pain on Mr. Porter’s face? Or was it fear? He just stood there, staring at Hannah’s desk. Through her desk. And no one said a word, but we looked around. At each other.
    Then he left. Mr. Porter walked out of class and didn’t come back for a week.
    Why? Did he know? Did he know because of something he’d done?
    And here, to the best of my memory, is what we said.
    Me: I’m sorry, Ms. Antilly. I just didn’t think that’s why you called me in here.
    Jessica: Me, neither. I wouldn’t have come. I mean, I’m sure Hillary and I have things in common, and I’m sure she’s a great person, but . . .
    Me: It’s Hannah.
    Jessica: I called you Hillary, didn’t I? Sorry.
    Me: It’s okay. I just thought you should know my name if we’re going to be such fabulous friends.
    And then the three of us laughed. Jessica and I had very similar laughs, which made us laugh even harder. Ms. Antilly’s laugh wasn’t quite as heartfelt . . . more of a nervous laugh . . . but still a laugh. She claimed to have never tried matching up friends before, and was doubtful she ever would again.
    But guess what. After the meeting, Jessica and I did hang out.
    Very sneaky, Ms. Antilly.