All Eyes on Her

by L. E. Flynn

  Weeks later, I heard the rumors, same as everyone else. Somebody saw a girl about Tabby’s height wearing an orange Princeton hoodie in front of the clinic. The hoodie—remember that, because it was an important detail. That was Mark’s college. Mark’s sweatshirt.

  And when Mark found out—that was when Tabby fell apart.

  15

  BRIDGET

  I HAVE NO IDEA how he got my email address, but the message that appears today proves that he has his ways.

  The truth is coming out—you may not know your sister as well as you think. I’m not trying to be creepy—I can just tell you’re not like her.

  It’s from Alexander. Alex. He’s back in Australia by now, but still finds a way to send a chill down my spine. Especially since his message comes around the same time that article goes up on Sharp Edges about the abortion.

  Honestly, I don’t have much to say about that. I heard the rumors the same time as everybody else. I was at school before fifth period, getting my math textbook from my locker, and there was Elle, wanting to talk. Which was weird, because Elle never wants to talk to me. She’s Tabby’s friend, someone I’ve always been jealous of by association. People think Tabby and Elle are sisters. I used to see the comments on Tabby’s Instagram. OMG you two are twins! Yet when Tabby and I go out in public together, nobody ever comments on the resemblance.

  “Tabby didn’t meet me at lunch,” she said. I could tell by her pinched face that she was upset about a lot more than lunch. “And she missed a big bio test. I texted her a bunch of times.” She leaned against the locker next to mine. “Bridge, I have to ask. Has Tabby been acting strange lately?”

  There was Tabby, pushing food around, cradling her laptop in her arms like it was her baby, staring at Mark’s Instagram. There was my sister, shiny as a gold band, dulled down to something that didn’t even catch the light. I considered lying to Elle, but part of me thought I could save Tabby with the truth.

  “Yes,” I said. “Ever since Mark went back to Princeton.”

  The bell chose the seconds following to split the silence.

  “We need to talk more about this,” Elle said. “I think something’s going on.”

  Later that day, I saw what they had done to Tabby’s locker. Someone had spray-painted two words over it. BABY KILLER. I couldn’t move when I saw them, but somehow I kept walking. The longer I stared, the less I would be able to convince myself it wasn’t true. Somebody else, though—somebody else apparently couldn’t keep walking, because he was staring at the words like they were going to move. Beck Rutherford. I wondered why Beck cared now after he made it very clear to Tabby that he didn’t want her. A whole month of not returning her texts or calls. A month of Tabby’s tears, where she didn’t want to go outside or to the mall or anywhere. She always let boys become her earth, while she orbited them like an obedient little moon.

  The next day, my parents got a phone call at home. They got called into a meeting with Tabby and Principal Stanton. I heard them talking about it, my ear up against their bedroom door, like an eavesdropping kid. It was exactly what I had been reduced to.

  “She’s in trouble,” Mom was saying. “Ryan, we need to help her.”

  Then Dad said something I would never be able to forget I heard. “Paula, you remember what happened last time. Sometimes I think she is the trouble.”

  He was a traitor, our father, another boy who didn’t believe a girl when she was screaming the truth right in front of his face.

  I’ll never know what happened at that meeting. I saw them all getting out of the car—Dad driving, Mom in the passenger side, Tabby climbing out of the back seat in a dress I had never seen her wear, knee-length and all buttoned up, hair pushed back with a headband. I saw her for what she was. Young and scared.

  When we got to school on Monday, Tabby’s locker was back to normal. I never asked her about the words there, if they were true. I never asked her what Mark made her do. I never asked, but I should have. The truth was, nobody helped Tabby. So whatever happened next was on all of us.

  Text messages from Tabitha Cousins to Mark Forrester,

  March 27–28, 2019

  16

  LOU

  OKAY, THE ABORTION. You all think I took the photo outside the clinic, but trust me, I didn’t. I knew Tabby had hooked up with guys, so I figured she had her business taken care of, if you know what I mean. I mean, I went on the Pill last year, when I was dating Braden Hall, even though we never ended up doing it. Anyway, I was wrong about Tabby. Maybe she’s like the rest of us. Too afraid to ask a guy to find a condom because that ruins the moment, and ruining the moment can sometimes seem worse than ruining your entire life.

  I heard about the abortion from Leslie Sears. Leslie knows I hate Tabitha, and one day she’s at my locker, telling me her older sister saw it. Tabitha Cousins at the abortion clinic. Wading through the Jesus freaks and their signs, YOUR BABY IS THE SIZE OF A CLENCHED FIST or whatever.

  “Is there proof?” I asked, and there was. A picture. You can’t really see Tabby’s face, but you don’t need to. She had the sweatshirt on, that one of Mark’s that she used to fold herself into like it was some kind of security blanket. It was her way of broadcasting to everyone at our school: I’m dating a Princeton guy.

  Okay, so I’m not totally proud of what happened next. Or what I did. I started a new Instagram account just to post the photo. Then I sent the link to Mark. I took a chance on what I thought his school email address would be. I also took a chance that he didn’t already know, because he wasn’t in that photo, holding her hand.

  He didn’t already know. He replied to the email, who’s this? Of course, it wasn’t my real email addy, so he had no way of knowing who I was. I wasn’t going to write back at all, but then I felt bad, or maybe I was just bored, if we’re being totally honest. So I wrote sorry you had to find out this way, but it’s better than not finding out at all. And I added, just before hitting SEND, you should know who she is.

  I never heard from him again.

  And you know, I carry some guilt over it. I mean, obviously I didn’t shove him off the Split. But we learned in school about this thing, the butterfly effect. Which is also a terrible movie with Ashton Kutcher. It’s all about how everything you do can lead to something bigger, even something far away. Maybe Mark never wanted to talk about the abortion until they were out hiking in the woods, with nobody to overhear them, and she got riled up and pushed him.

  But some people believe her. Just like I believed her, once upon a time. At one of Elle’s parties early this year, when she and Mark were long-distance and Beck had called me sweetheart for the first time. She watched us together, and later, she cornered me in the bathroom, which felt super aggressive. But she just sat on the counter while I put more eyeliner on.

  “You have great lips,” she said. Random, right? “You should play them up more. Here, have this.” And she gave me a tube of lipstick from her purse, this berry color I knew I’d never wear. I can’t even find it now. Maybe I threw it out, because I was sick of having Tabby’s leftovers. But I shit you not, the name of the lipstick was Boy Slayer.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, hoping she would leave. There were rips in her nylons, but, like, on-purpose rips, which just looked super trashy. At the next party, I’m ashamed to say I wore mine that way, too. Not because I wanted to be like her, but because I wanted Beck to look at me the way he looked at her.

  “You have nothing to worry about,” she said. “It’s totally over between us. And I think you’re good for him. He needs to be with a nice girl.” She hopped off the counter and ran her hand through my hair, just like my mom used to do before she got busy hooking up with strange men at bars.

  I let her leave without saying anything, because what the hell was I supposed to say to that? Later, when I was trying to fall asleep, I thought of a bunch of good comebacks. I wasn’t looking for your approval. I’ll go for whatever I want. If it’s a competition you want, then bring it. And
one alternate reality where our eyes met in the mirror and I said What makes you so sure I’m a nice girl?

  It was like Tabby cursed me that day in the bathroom, and I spent every day after trying to prove her wrong, that I wasn’t nice. And you’ve gotten to know me a bit, right? I’m not exactly a peach.

  I’m surprised it took the rest of the world this long to find out about her abortion. But I’m glad they know now, because it’s part of her story. And let’s get something straight. I’m not judging her for deciding to get an abortion. We should all have the right to choose what happens with our own bodies. I’m judging her because I doubt she knows who the father even was.

  17

  ELLIOTT WRAY,

  PRINCETON TIGERS SWIM TEAM

  I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE IT. That he’s gone. Practices aren’t the same without him. He was always the leader—I can still hear his voice, yelling from beside the pool as I worked on my turns. You can do better than that, man, he’d say. I guess some people would say he was intense, but he just wanted the best for everyone. He pushed people, you know? Oh man, that was a terrible choice of words.

  Anyway, you asked about the NCAAs, where Mark bombed. I know a lot of people were happy to see that. The guys from Boston College practically cheered. It was a really big shock for us. After he lost the hundred free, he didn’t want to anchor the relay, so Mike Mathers swam instead. He isn’t half the swimmer Mark was, so we didn’t advance in that either.

  I saw Mark in the locker room after it all happened. He was hunched over the sink, gripping his goggles in his fist. He looked so pissed off. There was this energy crackling around him and I didn’t even want to talk to him, because I knew anything I said would just blow up. He had to cool down first.

  I didn’t think he saw me anyway, but I heard him as I tried to open my locker.

  “She ruined everything,” he said. “She has no idea how hard I worked, and it’s all for nothing.”

  I didn’t know who she was. Mark never mentioned a girl. From what I saw, he was work hard, party hard. He didn’t have time for a girlfriend. But then again, he was a private person. I mean, he wasn’t a guy who went around bragging about who he screwed or whatever.

  Mark the Shark, man. I still can’t believe he’s gone. And the crap he was dealing with all that time. With that weighing him down, I’m surprised he didn’t drown sooner.

  18

  ELLE

  MARK WAS SUPPOSED TO WIN, because Mark always won. He had been training forever. I knew he was serious because I creeped his Instagram every day. There were no party pictures lately, no beer bottles in sweaty hands, no blurry faces. There was also no Tabby. It was like she didn’t exist.

  Anyway, Mark didn’t win, and he didn’t get a medal, and not only that, he didn’t advance to the finals. He came in fourth in his heat and didn’t advance from there. All that training, and he had absolutely nothing to show for it.

  The night of the meet, Tabby came over crying. Mom let her in. Mom was used to seeing Tabby like that, in tears. Sometimes I got the feeling she preferred it that way, having a broken girl to put back together. I never let her see me like that. Tabby was the daughter she always wanted but never had. She let Mom hold her and rub her back and bring her tea.

  But that day, Tabby only wanted me.

  She flopped onto my bed, landing with her head between my pillows. “I fucked up so badly. It’s all my fault. Mark hates me.”

  “How could he possibly hate you?”

  “I ruined his life,” she said. “He told me that.”

  “He said that to you?” Guilt twisted in my gut.

  “He texted it. Same thing. Actually, worse, because now I have a reminder of it.”

  “Where is it? I’ll delete it for you.”

  But she wouldn’t give me her phone. “It’s my fault he lost his race. He was distracted. Like, by all those stupid rumors. Somehow he heard about them. I have no idea who would have told him. He’s in college. Who would bother bugging him with that shit?”

  Those stupid rumors. The clinic on Swanson Road. The baseball cap, the flick of a ponytail over the hump of a Princeton sweatshirt. The roar of traffic on the street. Sunglasses not big enough to cover her face. The sun a hot hand on her lower back, pressing her toward it but away, playing tug-of-war with her body.

  “I know who could have told,” I said, because I didn’t want to think about that anymore. “Keegan. He’s here, and Mark’s not. He’s keeping tabs on you for Mark.”

  Tabby snorted. “That’s ridiculous. Keegan—he must have his own life. I don’t think he cares what Mark and I do.” She sat up, hugging the pillow to her chest. “I just have this feeling I’m about to lose everything.”

  “I told you not to—you know,” I said. “I told you I could handle it. Then you wouldn’t be in this mess.” I hated how everything was her idea, that she stepped so easily into martyrdom. I hated that lately, I went along with it.

  “It was something I had to do,” she said. I wanted to argue—No, it wasn’t, until you made it that way—but suddenly I had no energy to fight with Tabby. Especially over this.

  “I’m sure Mark is just pissed off at himself for losing his race and needs some time to cool off. He’ll probably apologize tomorrow.”

  “He never says sorry.” She wiped her eyes, and I knew the crying was over, the tears hardened into something else. “He has a temper, Elle.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. But she never got a chance to answer, because Mom chose that moment to knock on the door, brandishing hot chocolate with Irish cream, forever the cool mom.

  I wish I would have asked again.

  Text message from Tabitha Cousins to Mark Forrester,

  April 25, 2019, 10:19 a.m.

  19

  KEEGEN

  I MEAN, I HEARD about the abortion from Mark. He asked me about it, like I knew anything. I really don’t have anything to say, except that she should have told him, because he would have been there for her, because he loved her. He would have respected whatever she decided to do and understood that it was her body, her choice.

  That’s pretty much all I have to say about it.

  20

  ELLE

  TABBY CALLS ME FROM JUVIE. They get phone privileges. I picture her lining up to use a shitty pay phone, like in Orange Is the New Black. She must be going crazy in there without her iPhone. I know I’d be losing it without mine. Mom loves to get on my case about being addicted to my phone, but she’s just as bad with hers, with her mommy blogger websites and rounds of Candy Crush.

  “Tell me what they’re saying,” she says. “I don’t get the internet in here, obviously. So tell me.”

  “Nothing much new,” I say. Her silence, just a few seconds too long, makes me think she knows I’m lying. “How are you doing anyway?”

  “I shower with forty other girls. Just tell me what they’re saying. I need to know.”

  “The guys on the swim team started this campaign to raise money for a scholarship in Mark’s name. It’s some GoFundMe thing. And there’s this Remember Mark hashtag on Instagram, where people are posting pictures of him and stories about nice stuff he supposedly did.” I leave out the post about the abortion and the comments that festered underneath it.

  That gets a laugh. “I bet they are. What else, Elle?”

  “It’s not all bad,” I say. “That Facebook group that started up to defend you. The Tabby Cats. They’re doing all kinds of marches and stuff.”

  “That’s cute.” I can hear the smile in her voice, the relief. Not everyone worships Mark’s memory. Not everyone let death make him blameless.

  “Don’t you want to talk about something else?” Because I do. I need to talk about something else, and I need my best friend.

  “Did something happen?” There’s the Tabby I know, the fierce one who would defend me even if it was my fault. And it is my fault.

  “He knows it was me and not you,” I say. “He keeps trying to talk to me. I
t was—I feel like a monster.”

  “You’re not a monster, Elle,” Tabby snaps. “Do you hear me? I’m so sick of people making us think like this. Like our choices either make us good or evil. Picture it the other way. There was literally no way out where you weren’t going to get judged.”

  I don’t think we’re just talking about me anymore. We’re talking about her. Whether she did it or not—whatever it even was—people are going to hate her. They already do.

  “I heard they found Beck’s boot print,” Tabby says. His name is a stab wound, short and swift.

  “Yeah. I saw that on Lou’s Facebook. She wrote some cryptic message about the truth coming out.”

  “Can you do something for me? Talk to him, okay? Tell him this will all blow over.”

  “I—” I don’t want to talk to Beck. I have good reasons to keep my distance.

  “Just tell him, Elle. This is totally my fault. He was only trying to protect me.”

  I hold my breath. I’m the reason why Beck’s fist made contact with Mark’s face. Because of what I said. He isn’t a good guy, and I saw him shove her.

  I did see him shove her—that much is true. I’d been drinking, but I know what I saw. But I didn’t say it to defend Tabby. I did it to test Beck. I needed to know how much he cared. If he still loved her.

  I got my answer.

  “I’ll talk to him,” I say.

  “I have to go, Elle,” Tabby says. “Love you, okay? Whatever happens, remember that.”

  She hangs up before I get a chance to say it back.

  21

  BRIDGET

  I’M NOT SURE WHY the detectives care about the map at all, as if a girl knowing her way around is the most dangerous thing of all. Yes, I made the map. No, I didn’t make it as part of some grand scheme to lure Mark deep into the woods. Tabby only became familiar with those trails at all because of me. Because I asked her to go running with me.