All Eyes on Her

by L. E. Flynn

  At first, she had laughed, sitting there at the kitchen table, cradling the coffee she only ever drank black anymore. “The only way I’ll manage to be fast is if I’m running away from someone.”

  “Well, you can pretend you’re running away from me,” I said. “Come on. Just give it a try. They say running gives you endorphins and makes you happy.”

  “What makes you think I’m not already happy?” she said. “Besides, they also make pills for that. Those require a lot less effort.”

  I knew I had hit a sore spot. Ever since my parents got called in to school that day to talk about what was written on Tabby’s locker, they had been making her see a therapist. Some woman at an office downtown for an hour a week, where Tabby was supposed to spill her soul. I wondered if she lied about Mark, or if he even came up. I had no idea what she talked about in those sessions, or if her therapist had a diagnosis. Depressed. Withdrawn. I had my own diagnosis. In a toxic relationship.

  I was ready to give up on the idea of Tabby running with me, but she stood up and drained the rest of her coffee mug. “Okay, fine. But I don’t have running shoes.”

  I let her borrow a pair of my Nikes. She wanted to wear her Princeton hoodie, even though I told her it was way too hot for that in the woods. But it didn’t matter, because she couldn’t find it anyway.

  “Probably Mom doing the laundry,” she said. “I told her I can do my own, but she never listens.”

  Surprisingly, Tabby was fast. She didn’t need to stop and take a break. She didn’t double over, head between her knees. Tabby was a natural.

  To give you a mental picture, the woods are a circuit of different trails, crisscrossing each other like a spider’s web. There’s a baby trail, the Boardwalk, for people who only have time for a mile. Then the three- and four-mile trails, Humpback Ridge and the Bottleneck. I know what supposedly happens on those trails. Humpback is for humping and Bottleneck is for drinking, littered with beer cans and bottle caps to honor its namesake. Then there’s Cider Creek, six miles, which wraps around everything else like a tight hug. Last of all is the Mayflower, a long and winding eight miles, a too-big belt. Getting to the end means making it up to the Split, a steep rock face, the highest point in Coldcliff, where you get rewarded with an epic view.

  I’ve never been all the way up to the Split. I’ve heard stories about what has happened there. That people disappeared over the edge, never to be seen again. I know they’re cautionary tales meant to keep drunk kids away from the brink, but they’re enough to scare me away. Besides, I’m a runner, not a climber.

  Tabby and I were on our way around the Boardwalk. If she wasn’t tired, I figured we could do another lap. But instead, she stopped and stared at the signs for the other trails. “The Split,” she said. “That’s a weird name for something.”

  “It’s apparently named that because the rocks split, like, years ago, and there’s a rumor that one day it will all cave in.”

  “One day,” she said. She rubbed her bare arms. “Should we head back?”

  And even though I was the one who knew the woods, it felt for a minute like she was leading me.

  Excerpt from Tabby’s Diary

  June 1, 2019

  I’m so glad to have Mark home for the summer. Things are better now. I know we have a lot to talk about, but I’m happy. This is going to be the best summer ever. When it’s over, we’ll look back on everything we’ve done. All the plans we made. And we’ll know we did them all.

  I really do love him. I just hope he loves me back.

  22

  ELLE

  WE STILL HAD A MONTH of school left when Mark came home at the end of May. Tabby and I were at my house and he just showed up there on the porch with a bunch of flowers, scooped her into a hug. Keegan was skulking behind him, hanging back like a pet that wasn’t allowed indoors. I didn’t want either of them in the house, but there was Mom, asking if they wanted to stay for dinner.

  “I wish we could,” Mark said. “But I want to take my girl on a proper date.” I swear, he winked at Mom, and even more embarrassing, she blushed. Mom, forty-two years old, blushing because of a boy half her age. I hated her in that moment, for the baby-pink blotches on her cheekbones, shiny and high like hard candies.

  I hated her. I hated Mark. I hated my girl, like she was his property. I hated Mark’s hand on Tabby’s lower back, his other hand clamped firmly around hers, a fleshy seashell. The only thing I didn’t hate in that moment was Tabby’s face. She was smiling, but it was pinched at the corners, her smile generally reserved for school pictures and the lunch lady in the cafeteria.

  “Do you have a vase, Maggie? These should go in water,” Tabby said, handing her the flowers. I didn’t know what kind they were, just that they were a riot of purple and pink. Somehow I knew the act of passing the bouquet to Mom was a rebellion Mark wouldn’t like, something Tabby did anyway.

  Suddenly I didn’t want to let her go anywhere with him.

  “I could eat, too,” I said, peeling the skin back from my thumb cuticle. “Maybe Keegan and I can tag along.”

  That took Mark by surprise. His face clouded over, but only for a second, because he was calculating like that. He wasn’t about to show his opponent that she had struck him somewhere it hurt.

  “I am kind of hungry,” Keegan said. I tried not to show my shock that he was playing along. Maybe he was bored. Maybe he was horny and wanted in my pants. Maybe I didn’t even care. Dallas wasn’t talking to me anymore.

  “I don’t see why not.” Tabby tugged on Mark’s arm as he stood there like a department store mannequin. “We have the whole summer to ourselves, right?”

  Mark grunted, reduced to a caveman. There were things he wanted to talk to Tabby about that he didn’t want anyone else to hear. If we were there, he wouldn’t be able to say them, wouldn’t be able to squeeze his words into her. He would be alone with her eventually, but at the time, I really thought putting it off one more day would make a difference.

  So we went to this fancy restaurant downtown where my parents sometimes go on dates. Umbrage, the place with the lights strung up around the awning. The four of us got squished into a table at the back. Keegan ordered a beer without getting carded, and when it arrived, I took a big sip. Then his hand moved from the table to my bare leg, and I let it stay there, even though it was heavy and hot.

  Mark had recovered by then. His arm slung around Tabby’s shoulders like a scarf. I noticed the dark brush of stubble where his hair was growing back. He had to shave his entire body for swimming, Tabby had told me.

  “All of it?” I had asked.

  “Everything except his head. And, well, he might have left a little behind in other places.”

  Mark the Shark. His swimming nickname. Once I heard it, I couldn’t think of him any other way. Cutting through the water, hunting for prey. He even started to look less human to me. Eyes too far apart, like they were set on his face that way specifically for him to know what was happening on either side of him.

  But Mark the Shark was a gentleman at dinner. He even ordered for Tabby, a gesture I thought was chauvinistic and gross, but one she didn’t balk at. She eased into his arm, let Mark talk about everything he wanted to do that summer. He said “I” a lot more than “we.”

  “I’m going to take this girl camping,” he said, matter-of-factly, like it wasn’t up for debate. “Did you know she has never been?”

  I never noticed before how often he called Tabby “this girl” and “my girl” instead of her real name. I wondered how many girls at Princeton got the same treatment. The shiny faces in the background of his Instagram, hair flying, arms in the air, always trying to get somebody’s attention, and probably ending up with attention from someone they never wanted, because that was how life worked.

  That was how my life worked. Keegan’s hand wasn’t just on my legs but sandwiched between them, inching upward under the tablecloth.

  “Tabby has been camping,” I said flatly. “She hates
it. Her parents made her go last summer and it was a disaster.”

  “That’s because my dad had no idea how to pitch a tent, and it was pouring rain.” Tabby glared at me from across the table. “Just because I tried something once and didn’t like it doesn’t mean I hate camping.”

  It stung. She was siding with him in a battle she might not have even known was going on. Keegan’s hand slid up slowly, the meaty weight of it a relief somehow.

  “And a picnic,” Mark said. “We need to go on a picnic, right, babe?”

  He was gaining steam because he knew he had pulled out in front. He folded Tabby closer to him, his arm not a limp scarf but now some kind of dangerous snake, a boa constrictor, like the one that zoologist brought to school last year as part of the career fair. We were allowed to touch it, and I only did because Tabby did, because her boldness meant it was okay, that neither of us would get hurt.

  “A picnic would be fun,” Tabby said. “But only if we can get one of those old-fashioned wicker baskets. I’ll make sandwiches and we can bring champagne.”

  In that moment, I had no idea who she was. Tabby had never mentioned wanting to go on a picnic with an old-fashioned wicker basket. She didn’t even own a lunch bag. When she brought her lunch to school, it was in a plastic grocery bag, a hasty afterthought when she was sick of eating cafeteria fries.

  “Anything for you, babe.” Mark kissed her cheek. I fixated on his fingers, how tightly they gripped her arm. When he pulled away, they would leave white indents.

  “I don’t know why anyone would want to eat outside,” I snapped. “Especially during the summer. It’s too hot and there are bugs everywhere.” I knew I had lost the battle and that I was verging on pathetic, but I didn’t care. I needed her to know I was still armed, that just because her fight had been sucked out didn’t mean I didn’t have enough to spare.

  Keegan had remained almost totally silent, periodically sipping beer with his free hand. I unclenched my legs, an invitation for him to creep in.

  “What are your plans for the summer, Keegan?” Tabby asked, choosing that moment to rope him into the conversation, sounding formal and forced. His hand stopped moving, like he couldn’t do what he was doing to me and answer a question at the same time. I couldn’t tell if I was relieved or disappointed.

  “Same old,” he said. “The store isn’t going to manage itself.”

  “You got promoted?” she asked. “Congratulations.”

  “It’s a pretty big honor,” he said. “The last manager passed the torch to me because he’s going to Stanford this fall. He knew a lifer when he saw one.”

  I felt sorry for Keegan, affection spreading through my chest like fire. In that moment, I forgot that he was more than likely spying for Mark while Mark had been away at school. I managed to clear my head of that. We all did shady things for our friends. I dropped my hand under the table to meet his, to let him know I wanted it there. But his hand, formerly its own animal, was still.

  “You could apply for college, too,” Tabby said. “Even community college. It’s not too late.”

  Keegan laughed. “It’s too late for a lot of things.”

  Mark cut in. “I keep bugging him about college, but it’s no use. People need to do their own thing.” Then he launched back into his summer itinerary, one he had apparently put a lot of thought into. The Calloway Carnival in July. The beach. A road trip to Cape Cod to see the turtles. Keegan’s hand woke up, his fingers breaching the sides of my underwear. I picked up my water and downed half the glass because I wasn’t sure what to do with my own hands.

  His thumb, rubbing slowly at first, then faster.

  After, I felt like I had done something wrong. Maybe I just felt cheap. I let a boy inside my body at a restaurant and we weren’t even on a date. It was the first time anything had been inside since—since. When the food came, I barely touched mine. When the bill came, Mark paid for his and Tabby’s, and Keegan and I paid separately. Maybe he felt like he had already given me enough.

  I never told Tabby what happened. I never told her that as we were leaving, Mark bent down to pick up his wallet and looked up our waitress’s skirt. I never told her a lot of things, and maybe if I had, she would have paid me the same courtesy.

  23

  BRIDGET

  MY PARENTS VISIT TABBY every weekend. The first time, Mom brought cookies. As if they were going to let those cookies find their way to my sister. I’m sure the guards ate them and had a laugh at our expense.

  I visit when I can, but I prefer not going with my parents. They change things—Tabby is different when they’re around, more censored. It’s not like she’s a liar or anything, but we all act different around our parents. Like the best versions of ourselves, because we want them to be proud.

  Mom and Dad don’t talk about Tabby. At least, they don’t talk about her when I’m within earshot. They must have something to say. The night Tabby got arrested, they both just kind of stood there, frozen, like pieces of machinery that forgot they needed to be recharged. I was the emotional one, the one matching Tabby’s tears.

  Yes, she cried. People are commenting on how she doesn’t look sad in any of the pictures online. Emotionless, someone wrote. She’s basically a robot. Of course she killed him. Total sociopath. But what do you want from her? Do you really need to see her tears? Do you feel entitled to them? If so, ask yourself why. Do you think you’re owed water coming from her eyes as some kind of apology?

  What did she do to you? Do you even know her, or do you just think you know her because you’ve read so much about her, because her face has been everywhere? It’s a legitimate question. But I know my sister is capable of emotion because I’ve seen her wearing every single one. I’ve even borrowed some from her, same as I used to swipe clothes from the hangers in her closet without asking. Funny, now that she’s not around to tell me to quit touching her stuff, I haven’t gone into her closet once.

  The police went in there, though, the night they arrested her. I’m not sure what they were looking for. Some hidden box of secrets, maybe. If you’re thinking I should go and search her room myself—because I’m her sister and can unravel the knot of her mysteries better than anyone—I’m not doing that. My sister may have things to hide, but they’re inside her head, stamped into her skin. And she’s allowed to have secrets. Nobody gets the right to extract and unwrap them just because they don’t know exactly what happened that day in the woods.

  Today, Tabby is happy to see me. Her spirits are high, considering. She’s wearing makeup and her hair has been straightened and she’s Tabby again, not a muddy-eyed girl in a prison jumpsuit.

  I mean—I guess that’s one secret I can tell. Tabby’s famously (infamously?) blue eyes aren’t blue at all. She has worn color contacts for as long as I can remember, even back when we lived in Rochester. Mom’s eyes are blue and Dad’s are brown. I took after Mom and Tabby didn’t, so she claimed she wanted to match. I used to like it, matching my sister, except the eyes weren’t enough for people to think we looked related, and hers were brighter than mine anyway, more electric. Just like she’s brighter than me, more electric.

  Sometimes I want to tell the media about my sister’s brown eyes, just so they’ll stop calling her the Blue-Eyed Boyfriend Killer. I hate whoever came up with that. I hate that they reduced her to her appearance. I hate that it’s a facet of her appearance that came from a box. I hate that we get judged for changing our looks with things that come from boxes. I hate everything about this.

  “The food in here sucks,” Tabby says. “But the good news is, I think I’m down a few pounds.” She leans back in her chair.

  “You don’t need to lose weight” is my stock response. Although I’m sure Mark made her feel otherwise. You could use the exercise.

  “I’m working on my beach body,” she says. “For next summer.” There’s that smirk, the one everyone reads so deeply into. It’s just her face. It’s just her attempt to find the humor in a situation that is comple
tely not funny. What’s so wrong with that? Everyone just wants her to be miserable, a grieving widow. But Tabby was never much for mourning anything. I remember once when she was driving—shortly after she got her license—a bird flew into the windshield and broke its neck. I cried. She didn’t.

  “What was I supposed to do?” she had said. “Swerve into traffic? That bird had a death wish.”

  (Don’t repeat that story. It’ll only make people read into everything more. The way things have been going, that bird will come back from the dead to tell its sob story to a reporter and make Tabby look even worse. Here’s evidence she’s a murderer. She didn’t hesitate before killing me!)

  “How’s school?” she asks now. “I never thought I’d miss it. But being in here is kinda like being there, honestly. The people in here aren’t very nice either.”

  “It’s fine.” I don’t tell her what they’re all saying. That some of them are looking at me differently. That sometimes I don’t mind, because at least they’re looking.

  “And cross-country? I know I missed your first meet. I’m sorry.” She looks down at her hands. She is sorry. And that’s the Tabby nobody else gets to see. My Tabby. The one who remembers every single detail of my life that I deem important, along with details I don’t think matter but she somehow knows do.

  “Don’t be sorry. I won.” It’s a lie. I didn’t win. I didn’t even run. But Tabby is here, the one place the truth can’t travel. She has no way of knowing—Mom and Dad can’t even tell her, because they don’t know either.

  “Of course you did.” Her hands drum on the table in front of us, pale fingers and perfect cuticles, the opposite of my jagged mess. Her nails are painted black. “You know, I’m jealous of you. I always have been. You have all this talent. Your body just knows what to do. It runs. Mine never got the memo.”