by L. E. Flynn
The day after the regional game—which we won, of course, thanks to Jordan—Tabby comes over to me with this huge smile. “Kennedy, we’re going to a party. I got us in. Just tell your mom you’re sleeping over, and I’ll tell mine the same thing.”
She had the lie all planned out. We met at the bus stop and did our makeup in a McDonald’s bathroom, Tabby plastering her face with bronzer and dark eyeliner, pouting at her reflection. “I’m going to hook up with Jordan,” she said, pulling a little bottle of vodka, the kind you get on airplanes, out of her purse. “Just wait and see.”
“He’s with Bella,” I said. “He’s not going to cheat on her.”
She shrugged and took a swig, then passed the bottle to me. I didn’t have any. It didn’t bother me that she liked Jordan—whatever. It bothered me that she was conceited enough to think he’d leave his girlfriend for her. And it really bothered me that she didn’t care about Bella at all, that she was willing to do that to another girl.
I lost track of Tabby at the party. I have no idea why she bothered bringing me, because obviously her plan was to ditch me the entire time. I ended up calling my mom to pick me up and going home, and I got grounded for a month.
The next day, I heard what had happened. How somehow Jordan and Tabby left the party together. How he was driving the car that crashed into a tree. How his blood alcohol level was super high, even though he claimed to have had only one drink at the party. How his knee was mangled, and his football career probably finished.
Tabby claimed he had pushed her head down. That she got in the car because she wanted to leave. She had no idea there would be drinking at the party, and she felt uncomfortable, so when Jordan said he could give her a ride, she got in the car.
Of course, Jordan thought the ride meant something else, and Tabby learned that when he pulled over and started undoing his pants. She refused and tried to get out, and apparently that’s when Jordan locked the doors and started driving away, faster and faster, freaking her out, until the car hit a tree and Jordan was slumped over the steering wheel and she got out and called for help.
People at school were divided on Tabby, but most of us were firmly in the camp of she lied. Jordan wasn’t like that. Although thanks to what happened, Bella broke up with him. Tabby got the typical slut-shaming at school, until the principal intervened and her parents got called in and suddenly, boom, just like that, they were moving, the entire family. The SOLD sign hit their lawn before anyone even knew the house was listed.
She never said goodbye—she was done with me. I had been used, whatever purpose I had served completed, even though I still don’t know exactly what the purpose was. But I just so happened to be out walking our dog on the day Tabby’s family pulled away from the house in their baby-blue Ford Escape. And I swear, I’m not making it up when I say that she turned around, pressed her face to the back window, and put a finger to her lips, as if to say shh. Then she gave a little wave and a wink.
It was hot outside, but I got a chill. I still have one when I think about it. I didn’t know where Tabby was going, where she would end up, but I knew she’d land on her feet, just like a cat. I knew there would be a new Jordan eventually, the latest guy with a promising future whose life she would ruin. I knew, but what could I do? I was a teenage girl. Nobody would have believed me anyway.
11
ELLE
TABBY IS A MESS. Her face is puffy and her eyes are red, and she looks smaller, somehow, sitting across from me at the detention center, her shoulders hunched under lank hair. Maybe it’s the absence of me that makes her smaller. Her shadow doesn’t take up as much space without me by her side.
“Has anyone else come to see you?” I ask. I know the answer before finishing the question. I had to get approved to come for a visit, and driving up to the complex of buildings, squat like trolls, made me want to turn around and head home. Getting past security and marching down a narrow corridor, shoes squeaking, made me feel like a criminal, as if the walls themselves were breathing in my secrets. People would rather hide behind their computers than make that walk.
She laughs dryly. “My parents. Bridge. Who else would come? I don’t have anyone.”
That’s the irony. She doesn’t have anyone, but she has the whole world on her back, bending her in half under the weight of its collective suspicion.
“Are you okay? Like, actually okay? I think about you—” I cut myself off before I make it worse. Of course she’s not okay. And it’s partly my fault.
“I’m fine,” she says. “I like to pretend I’m just living in a shithole apartment with a bunch of bitchy wannabe actresses.” She sucks in a breath of stale air. “Home sweet home.”
She wants me to laugh—she needs me to laugh, to know she’s okay, and I do, even though it’s not funny. This room is gray and windowless and the girls in it, dotted at other tables across from their own visitors, are all wary eyes and drawn faces, blending into the somberness. Maybe after enough time, this place will soak Tabby in like another one of its stains. I can’t let that happen.
“What are they saying about me?” She pulls her hair over her shoulder. “I need to know. Tell me everything.”
“Nothing,” I say. “I mean, everyone has their own stuff to worry about. They’re not talking as much as they used to.”
“You’re lying,” she says, bringing her hands together in a knot. “I could always tell.”
Not always.
“They think Beck had something to do with it. I don’t know. This is all going to blow over, you know, right? Obviously Beck won’t say anything.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Say anything about what? I thought there was nothing to talk about.”
I hold her eye contact for two seconds, three. Those eyes, always bright, always unnatural. I’m the one who looks away first.
“You’ll be out soon, Tabby. Fuck everyone. They just have nothing better to talk about.”
Suddenly she leans across the table and grabs my wrists, almost hard enough to hurt. We’re not supposed to touch—one of the guards is coming over now. They see everything.
“Make it stop,” she says. “Do something to make it stop.”
I can’t, I want to say. It’s only when I’m watching her retreating, as she’s dragged back to wherever she came from, that I realize maybe there is something I can do.
12
BRIDGET
YOU’RE STILL WONDERING what that detective asked me before. You’ll find out, eventually. But today, on a Saturday morning, when I should be in the woods doing hill intervals, they’re questioning me again. Stewart, his hands in a meaty clump across our kitchen table. Tabby isn’t here, but they don’t think they’ve wrung enough out of me.
Mom brings over two coffees, like it’s normal having Stewart in our house. Maybe it is by now. She knows he takes his coffee with cream and sugar. We never even kept creamer in the fridge until Stewart started making these appearances.
“What did Tabby say to you in the days leading up to the hike?” I hate his voice, slow and measured, like I’m a baby who doesn’t understand.
“Nothing unusual,” I say. “She was just going because Mark wanted to.”
“You know those woods well, from what I’ve heard,” he says. From who, I want to ask.
“I’m a runner. That’s where I go.”
“You drew her a map,” he says, either a statement or an accusation.
“Yeah. I told you that already. It was in case she wanted to go running again. I guess she held on to it.”
“Running again?”
Shit. I shouldn’t have said anything. Now they’re going to take that and twist it around, another weapon to use against my sister.
“I took her running with me once. She had no idea where she was going.”
“You say she held on to the map. But she never took it with her that day.” He leans back, like it’s some kind of big revelation.
“She must have forgotten it. And look what happen
ed. She did get lost.”
“Look what happened,” he echoes. “Did you run in the woods that day?”
My mouth, bone-dry. “Yes. I run there almost every day.”
“Did you happen to time your run to see your sister with Mark?”
I shake my head. It doesn’t matter anyway. I only got a glimpse of them, walking together. I stayed hidden in the trees. They were laughing, not fighting, Tabby trailing just a few steps behind. Mark was singing a song. I left, because they looked okay.
“You didn’t like Mark, did you?”
My head snaps up. “Why do you think that?”
“Because of what you said to him at Crest Beach. Some may have taken it as a threat.”
Keegan. That asshole Keegan. No wonder my sister hates him so much.
“It was a joke,” I say. “He just didn’t take jokes very well.”
Stewart nods, his chin bobbing. “Thanks for answering my questions. If you can think of anything else—anything at all—you have my card.”
When he gets up to leave—another unfinished coffee in his wake, how many of those has Mom made him?—he turns around. “One more thing, Bridget. What size shoe do you wear?”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. “Seven,” I finally manage. “Sometimes seven and a half.”
I’m not sure why I tack on that last part, but it feels important somehow.
Let’s get something straight. I’m guilty of nothing except trying to protect my sister, because she’s the one who needs me. I see what the media does to girls like Tabby. Everyone says boys will be boys, but girls? Girls will be monsters.
SHARP EDGES CRIME—
CUT TO THE TRUTH!
October 24, 2019
Let’s talk about sex (and what it leads to), baby
By Oberon Halton
Got your attention with that headline? Well, keep paying attention. I have the inside scoop on some photos that shed some light on when things started going downhill between Mark and Tabby, and it’s not just because somebody got bored or someone had a wandering eye. No, it’s because someone got knocked up.
Photos sent in by one of our readers show Tabby heading into an abortion clinic. As you can see, she’s wearing a Princeton sweatshirt, which is pretty cruel since Mark knew nothing about the baby at all. The photos were published on an Instagram account belonging to someone who obviously created the account just to post them, and post them they did.
The question is, when did Mark find out about the abortion? Some speculate it was when he crashed and burned at the NCAAs, failing to even make the finals after being favored to win a gold medal. Others claim he didn’t know until they went into the woods, and when Tabby tried to tell him, he freaked out, and something happened up there on the Split.
I don’t know about you all, but this bombshell has made me rethink everything. If you know anything else about the situation, help a friend out! Let’s shed some light on this mystery.
COMMENTS
LookCloser: Those pictures don’t even show her face. It could be any girl in a sweatshirt. Also, the Princeton could be photoshopped on, if someone hated her enough to do it. And sounds like they did.
WhenDovesCry: There are other guys who could have been the father.
Excerpt from Tabby’s Diary
March 29, 2019
Great, now he doesn’t believe me about this abortion thing. It wasn’t me—truthfully, I swear to God, and I told him that, but he doesn’t believe me. He said we’d talk about it later, but now it’s later and we haven’t talked about it. I watched his heats online and he wasn’t himself at all. He didn’t even make the semis. He’s going to be so livid, and it’s all because of me. I’m scared that he’ll break up with me, and I’m scared he won’t.
13
BECK
Coldcliff Police Station, October 24, 10:43 a.m.
BECK: I just don’t have anything else to say. (pauses) Am I gonna be here much longer? Because I have a test tomorrow. I don’t want to fail.
OFFICER OLDMAN: You don’t want to fail this test either. Just a few more questions today, Beck. Do you recognize these images?
BECK: (shuffles through photos, closes file folder) Nope. Never seen them before in my life.
OFFICER OLDMAN: I find that hard to believe. I was under the impression that almost everyone in your class had seen them. They went live on a new Instagram account in March.
BECK: It’s a girl in a sweatshirt. So?
OFFICER OLDMAN: A Princeton sweatshirt. Look where she is.
BECK: Some building. Don’t recognize it.
OFFICER OLDMAN: It’s right near your house, though. You ride past it on the way to school. It’s a clinic that performs abortions.
BECK: Okay. Guess I never noticed it before.
OFFICER OLDMAN: Did Tabitha ever confide in you about getting an abortion? Did she tell you she was going there?
BECK: No. Why would she? And how do you know that’s even Tabby? It could be anyone in a Princeton sweatshirt.
OFFICER OLDMAN: That’s the sweatshirt sources say Mark gave her. Who else would be wearing it?
14
ELLE
YOU WANT TO KNOW about her abortion. Namely, if she got one or not. And honestly, I’m not the right person to ask, because I don’t want to talk about it. Some things, girls have to go through on their own. Tell one other person and suddenly you’re too big to fit through it.
All I remember is Lou making a comment at school. “Tabitha put on weight,” she said to me when we both happened to be in the bathroom at the same time, washing our hands practically in tandem.
“Oh,” I said. “I don’t think so.” I felt like I should defend her, because Lou barely ever even talked to me, and my allegiance was with Tabby, no matter how weird she had been acting lately.
“Maybe because you see her, like, every day. But in gym class she had a doctor’s note to avoid jumping on the trampoline. And I wasn’t looking or anything, but I saw her when she was changing after class. Her stomach looked super bloated.”
I thought about Tabby. The girl I saw eat less and less every day. Maybe I hadn’t noticed her putting on weight, but she hadn’t been losing it, no matter how many Cheetos she ditched in favor of celery sticks.
“I thought you might know something,” Lou said. I shook my head. She was gone before I could ask her about the trampoline, about what that had to do with Tabby’s stomach. But it only took a few seconds for me to figure it out. The same thing every teenage girl is taught to be terrified of.
But Tabby couldn’t be pregnant. I hadn’t seen her drink in a while, but that was only because she was trying to cut out alcohol. She didn’t like how she got when she drank it, didn’t like how it made her forget. Mark didn’t like who she became.
Had she told Mark? Would he be happy? In my head, there were two versions of him. One who wanted to go to every doctor’s appointment and put together a crib and time contractions. Another who accused her of lying to keep him around, who spat out lines like How do you know it’s even mine?
“Are you okay?” I asked her when we were out for a walk at night, something we used to do when we needed to get away from the boxes that were our homes, the ceilings that trapped us under the stars. “Are things okay with you and Mark?”
“What’s up with you?” she said, kicking a pebble with her pink Converse. “Things are fine. You know, we have our moments. But we’re making it work.”
Making what work? A baby? A relationship? Suddenly I felt like a little kid tagging along, trying to get my big sister to notice me.
“Here’s the thing about Mark,” she said, and tilted her head back to the sky. “I love him more than he loves me. But I think I’m okay with it. I mean, every relationship is a bit off-balance. One person always cares more.”
I thought about me and Dallas. There was so much to say.
“You know you can tell me anything,” I said. The words came out of me so loud that they were practicall
y a shout. They were a demand. Tell me anything and everything because there is so much I need to tell you.
She rubbed her arms and pulled the sleeves of her shirt over her hands, making her fingertips disappear. “Sometimes,” she said, dragging out the word for so long that I wondered if she even had the rest of the sentence planned. “Sometimes I wish I could stop apologizing. Like, not everything is my fault.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. She just laughed, but it wasn’t her normal laugh. It was hollow, like she had been emptied out.
“You know what I mean. Every girl knows. We all apologize for everything. It’s like, genetic. In our DNA.”
She was right. I lost track of the number of times I said sorry on a regular basis. Sorry to the lady in the cafeteria for not carrying cash. Sorry to teachers for not knowing the answers. Sorry to girls for hogging the mirror in the bathroom. Sorry to boys for being too much and never enough.
Sorry for my body, for all the ways I fought with it. Even sorrier for the hot clash of emotions in my chest, the way they all churned there nonstop.
“You can tell me anything, too,” she said.
So I did. I told her everything about Dallas and nothing about how I wished it was Beck instead. Beck was the one whose thumbs I felt tracing my jawline, his arms pinning me beneath him. You’re beautiful, Elle was supposed to spill from his lips. But of course, I left all that out. Tabby listened to my ugly truth, her hand finding mine, fingers tangling together, and she made it less ugly somehow.
“I can’t believe you kept all this from me,” she said. “I can’t believe you wouldn’t tell me. I thought we told each other everything.”
As much as I love Tabby, there was a tiny part of me that was annoyed. She managed to take something wholly and utterly mine and make it all about her. But I wasn’t pissed off for long. There was too much going on inside my head.