Clay Jensen Character Analysis

“So what’s going on, Clay?”

I repeat his words in my head. What’s going on? What’s going on? Oh, well, since you asked, I got a bunch of tapes in the mail today from a girl who killed herself. Apparently, I had something to do with it. I’m not sure what that is, so I was wondering if I could borrow your Walkman to find out.

“Not much,” I say.

A brass bell jingles when I open the door. The same bell Hannah listened to whenever she came in for a candy fix. Instead of letting it swing shut behind me, I hold the edge of the door and slowly push it shut, watching it ring the bell again.

I think I need to finish them, and finish them tonight.

But should I? In one night? Or should I find my story, listen to it, then just enough of the next tape to see who I’m supposed to pass them off to?

“And you?” I ask. “What did you do?”

For a moment, his eyes stare through me. Then he blinks.

“Nothing. It’s ridiculous,” he says. “I don’t belong on those tapes. Hannah just wanted an excuse to kill herself.”

I let the rock drop onto the sidewalk. It was either that or smash it in his face right there.

If you ever caught me reading one of those teen magazines, I swear, it wasn’t for the makeup tips. It was for the surveys.

Because you never wore makeup, Hannah. You didn’t need it.

Fine, some of the hair and makeup tips were helpful.

You wore makeup?

“Did you order yet?”

I swivel around. Mom sits on the stool next to me and pulls out a menu. Beside her, on the counter, is Hannah’s shoebox.

“Are you staying?” I ask.

If she stays, we can talk. I don’t mind. It would be nice to free my thoughts for a while. To take a break.

Why, whenever anyone saw us, did I pretend it meant nothing? We were working, that’s what I wanted them to believe. Not hanging out. Just working.

Why?

Because Hannah had a reputation. A reputation that scared me.

Two people—me and him—one house. Yet he drove away with no idea of his link to me, the girl on the sidewalk. And for some reason, at that moment, the air felt heavy. Filled with loneliness. And that loneliness stayed with me through the rest of the night.

Even the best moments of the night were affected by that one incident—by that nonincident—in front of my old house. His lack of interest in me was a reminder. Even though I had a history in that house, it didn’t matter. You can’t go back to how things were.

The only thing that’s not fair are these tapes, Hannah, because I was there for you. We were talking. You could have said anything. I would have listened to absolutely anything.

How many times had I let myself connect with someone only to have it thrown back in my face?

Everything seemed good, but I knew it had the potential to be awful. Much, much more painful than the others.

“Honestly. Thank you,” I say. And when I say it, I mean it for more than just the ride. For everything. For how he reacted when I broke down and cried. For trying to make me laugh on the most horrible night of my life.

It feels good knowing someone understands what I’m listening to, what I’m going through. Somehow, it makes it not as scary to keep listening.

I want to look back. To look over my shoulder and see the Stop sign with huge reflective letters, pleading with Hannah. Stop!

But I keep facing forward, refusing to see it as more than it is. It’s a sign. A stop sign on a street corner. Nothing more.

I’m walking down the hall.

Her voice is clear. It’s louder.

His door is closed behind me. It’s staying closed.

A pause.

He’s not coming.

I press my face hard against the bars. They feel like a vise tightening against my skull the further I push.

He’s letting me go.

A flood of emotion rushes into me. Pain and anger. Sadness and pity. But most surprising of all, hope.

I keep walking.

Skye’s footsteps are growing louder now. And the closer I get to her, the faster I walk, and the lighter I feel. My throat begins to relax.

Two steps behind her, I say her name.

“Skye.”