Hannah Baker
My dad always says the world can be divided into two groups: those who hug with one arm, and those who hug with two. I always sort of thought he was full of shit with that. It seemed like such an oversimplification. At least, it did until this morning.
Now I think he might be on to something.
I was barely out of my mom's car when Tony Padilla's cherry red Mustang lit the corner of my vision, and I glanced over to see both him and Clay Jensen staring back at me. Clay looked away, fast. But Tony got out and strode over, a huge grin on his face.
"Look who's back," he said, and pulled me into a big, two armed hug.
See, the thing about people who hug with two arms—people like Tony—is that they're open. They aren't scared. And because they aren't hiding, they're able to be generous. Kind. Present. They really see the people around them.
All of this went through my head as I struggled to embrace him with my one good arm.
After I loosened my grip just slightly, but not a moment before, he let me go. "You look good, Baker," he said.
I looked over his shoulder and saw Clay, shifting from side to side with his hands in his pockets. He couldn't even meet my eye. And his hug—if you could even call it that—was sort of like a stage kiss: it might've looked like the real thing from a distance, but up close… up close it wasn't anything at all.
"You guys have a good summer?" My voice rose an octave as I spoke. It made me want to wince. I was sure they could tell how uncomfortable I was.
"Just too short," Tony said.
A strange expression crossed Clay's face. I waited. He didn't say anything.
I smiled a little. "Earth to Helmet."
He blinked, as if coming back from some distance. "Yeah," he said dismissively. "Yeah, I mean, I guess it was as good as could be expected."
I nodded, waiting for more. Something, anything. But he didn't offer it.
I stuck my hands in my pockets and smiled until my face was so stiff it felt like hardened plastic.
"… I'm gonna leave you two to talk," Tony said, then.
I glanced after him as he walked away, then looked back at Clay. "I didn't realize you guys were friends."
"Yeah, well, a lot happened while you were…" he stopped short, making an illegible gesture with his hands. He still couldn't quite look at me. It reminded me of the way a stranger might politely avoid your gaze if you if you had spinach in your teeth and they were too polite to say something. Or, you know, if you were standing stark naked in public.
"I guess—I guess it did," I said, and crossed my arms over my chest.
He itched his eyebrow. "He said your arm…"
"Oh. Yeah, it's pretty fucked up. But I'm right-handed, so, could be worse, I guess."
"Otherwise you're, um…"
"Drowning in ellipses?"
"Sorry?"
"Nothing." I shook my head. "It was a joke."
"Oh."
"I still make those," I said. "I know, it's shocking."
"A little."
My smile finally cracked. It was something about his tone. I wanted Helmet, my friend. Instead I was getting Condescending Clay. "You know if there's something—if there's something you want to say, there's no reason you shouldn't just say it."
"Actually, I can think of thirteen reasons I shouldn't."
"I… deserve that." I allowed.
"Fuck," he said. "I didn't mean to say that."
"It's okay. I know… I know what I did was fucked up. Really fucked up. And I know it probably doesn't make a difference, now, but I am sorry. If I could change the past, I mean—"
"Look, don't apologize. This… this isn't how I meant for this to go. At all."
"How you meant for this to go," I repeated.
He met my eye for the first time, and for a moment, I felt like he was as naked as I was. Then, almost immediately, he looked away, shifting his stance.
"I should probably get to class," he said.
I nodded, letting him go.
Clay, the one armed hugger. Just like me.
