by L. E. Flynn
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I held my arms out. His went out instinctively, too—he thought I was going to hug him, maybe. But instead, my palms made contact with his chest, and he went over the edge, with the backpack slung around one arm.
My scream was louder than his.
I don’t know how long it took me to get down—maybe an hour, maybe more—but I ran, I fell, my legs bled. I was a mess, dirty and sweaty, and I realized I had left the picnic basket behind, and that it didn’t have any food in it—the sandwiches I’d made were still in the fridge. I would get rid of them when I got home. The key to getting away with it was not being sloppy.
I didn’t see Mark at first. It was dark out and I panicked, thinking he managed to get out, that he was staggering through the woods and I would have to hunt him down like a wounded animal. I had to get right up close to the creek—ta-da, the footprint!—and that was when I practically bumped into his body, bobbing there, arms outstretched, like a starfish.
You’re wondering if he was dead by then, or if I had to finish him off. And that’s one secret I’ll never tell. Maybe I only stuck around long enough to see if he would surface. I knew from all his bragging that Mark could hold his breath for just shy of five minutes. I waited ten.
The backpack, though—it was nowhere to be found. I thrashed around for a few minutes, digging under the water for it, before realizing the creek was a lot deeper than I thought. I wasn’t going to find it, and I needed to get home.
But not before I planted something of Keegan’s where nobody would ever find it, unless they really knew where to look. The Gatorade! That was another brilliant touch. Mark and Keegan both chugged the stuff nonstop. It was so easy to slip some vodka into Mark’s bottle, and if he noticed, he didn’t say anything. I wanted him just a bit disoriented. Just a bit slow, so that I could pounce right.
I knew I’d end up arrested, but that was okay, because I also knew they didn’t have enough to convict me in the end. The diary—did I really believe what I wrote in it, or was it a whole bunch of bullshit, because I knew they’d find it? You decide. Maybe it was my best work, the most brilliant fiction I’ll ever create. Maybe it was the truth, from a girl who didn’t know any better.
I gambled with my own future, and they say the house always wins. But the house is no match for the teenage girl living in it.
If you were to look at my junior high yearbook, you’d see my hopeful little face, my boobs pushed up to my chin even then, because I had them before everyone else and figured I might as well use them. You’d see my nickname—Tabby Cat, which nobody ever called me, but I was embarrassed to not have an actual nickname. Kennedy just called me “Hottie,” but she called everyone “Hottie,” probably because she thought it made her sound cool. You’d see my favorite quote—“a prayer for the wild at heart kept in cages”—which I told anyone who asked that it was from my favorite Tennessee Williams play, but it was really stolen from one of Angelina Jolie’s tattoos.
You’d see my ambition, the heart of that girl, out there on the page for everyone to see. Become a best-selling author by age twenty.
I’m sure they laughed at me behind my back. It was ridiculous, putting so much of myself out there. I should have put something generic like everyone else did. Get rich or be happy. But if you’ve followed along, you know I’m not generic, now, am I? Plus, I read somewhere that your chances of achieving something are at least fifty percent higher if you write it down.
I don’t know what became of everyone else in that class, if they Got Rich or Became Happy. But me—I’m a girl, nineteen now, and my little life story is about to hit the New York Times bestseller list. I guess you could say I got what I wanted, even though I had to do something wild to get there.
Okay, did you actually believe all that?
Because I made it all up. I’m supposed to be modest, but you believe it, because I’m a damn good writer. (Or because you want a reason to hate me, in which case, you’re part of the problem.)
I spent so much time in juvie with nothing to do that I’ve made up a lot of stories in my head. Imaginary friends are great company when you’re alone in the dark, and imaginary enemies are even better. I’ve thought about that day in the woods, all the days leading up to it, so many times that I’ve been able to construct endless versions of the same thing. I’ve been able to consider how I would have done it, if I did it at all. I’ve cast myself as a victim and a villain, but can you honestly tell me you haven’t been both in your own life?
Here’s what really happened. But I’ll warn you, it’s not nearly as exciting. Mark’s fingers were gripping my arm, tight enough to hurt. We’re going on a hike this weekend. Eight miles. I know you’re out of shape, but you can handle it. (Really nice, right?) I went along with it because I loved him, and maybe because I wanted to prove something to him. That I could do it.
He bitched and complained the farther we got into the woods. He hated that I brought a picnic basket. He chastised me for wearing shorts instead of long pants. He laughed because I had lipstick on. (Excuse me for wanting to look nice!) And when we made it up to the Split (him a few minutes ahead of me, because he was sick of waiting around), I felt this sense of pride in myself that I had done it. Do you know what he said? He turned around and said, “It took you long enough.”
Then he took a drink of Gatorade and laid into me about coming on to Keegan. I started to cry, because that’s what I do when someone yells at me. Then he lunged, like he wanted to hurt me. That’s when he lost his balance. I’ll never forget the look on his face—a mixture of revulsion and shock. I wake up with it burned into my brain, along with a question nobody will ever be able to answer. Would he have hurt me, if he hadn’t slipped? Would I have been the one underwater in the creek? Or would he have realized he was being an asshole, apologized, and let me tell my version of the story?
I tried to find my way down, to see if he was okay. But the whole time, I swear, I heard breathing, and the occasional laugh. I know I wasn’t alone in those woods. When I told the cops, they told me I had gone through a trauma. They convinced me I was hearing things. I knew they didn’t believe me, and wouldn’t believe another word I said.
Now, be honest. Ask yourself if you really think I did it. And if the answer is yes, ask yourself why. Why you assumed I was guilty. The answers might be very telling.
I’ve pretty much said everything I have to say. You can love me or hate me, victimize me or demonize me, but after all this, you’re going to remember me, and that goddamn counts for something.
Maybe I’m just a girl who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Maybe I’m just a girl who has had to live with all of your eyes on me for too long.
Maybe I’m just a girl.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Making fictional characters feel real is a job that starts in an author’s (sometimes disturbed) imagination, but involves so many other smart, passionate people. I have been very lucky indeed to work with the enthusiastic team at Imprint. Thank you to my editors, Erin Stein and Nicole Otto, for your excellent suggestions and the care you took with this manuscript. I had so much fun collaborating and editing with both of you.
To Connie Gabbert and Natalie C. Sousa, thank you for designing such a striking cover that perfectly captures Tabby’s infamous gaze. Thanks are also in order for the rest of the Imprint team—Jessica Chung, Carolyn Bull, John Morgan, and Weslie Turner. To Dawn Ryan and Avia Perez in managing editorial, Kerry Johnson for her copyediting magic, and Raymond Ernesto Colón in production. To the Fierce Reads team for your marketing and publicity efforts. To Katy Robitzski and the Macmillan audio team.
Thanks to my magical superagent, Hillary Jacobson, for believing in this book and in all of my writing, and to Josie Freedman and Randie Adler at ICM for their hard work on the film side.
Thank you to Kathleen Rushall for your support, encouragement, and guidance, and to Taryn Fagerness for handling the foreign rights side of things.
To everyone who read early drafts of this book and offered encouragement and support—I love you all.
Being a writer means a lot of time spent alone, which requires an incredibly understanding family. I may be biased, but I have the best one. My parents, Denis and Lucy Burns, knew I was meant to be a writer and never failed to encourage my creativity. Now that I’m a parent, too, I can’t thank them enough for all they did to shape me into the person I am now. Thank you, Mom and Dad, for letting me grow up seeing my massive ambitions as balloons—buoyed by hope and optimism—and not as anchors. Dad, I like to think I inherited (some of) your work ethic, and Mom, I know I got my fair share of your fun-loving spirit. (Oh, and I feel like in every book acknowledgments, I have to say a word of thanks for all the leftovers and groceries you guys still bring me.)
My sister, Erin Shakes, is also my BFF, and continually supports me in everything I do. Thanks for the world’s longest Messenger conversation (sorry to our husbands), for enabling my purse purchases, and always being up for a Sephora trip or dinner with bottle(s) of wine. Thank you to Jermaine Shakes for being an eternally positive and upbeat presence, and to Fiona for her adorable royal waves.
To all of the Flynns, thanks for reading and recommending my book babies so enthusiastically. To my in-laws, Jim and Doreen, for always being interested in what’s happening in book world and celebrating my good news. To my sisters-in-law, Suzanne and Kelly, thank you for making the time to read and tell friends about your book nieces.
Thank you to my extended family—aunts, uncles, cousins—for your support, with special hugs to Aunt Linda, Uncle Tom, and Aunt Pat. And to those no longer with me in person, but there in spirit: I know Grandma Gibb (Honeybee) and Grandma Burns are watching out for me, and I continue to feel their presence in my life.
To my network of girlfriends, both old and new, thank you for being exactly the kind of independent, inspiring women I want to surround myself with. And as always, to the RBF ladies for too many laughs and DC jokes.
To the person who puts up with me on a daily basis and has been there since before I sent my first query—my husband, Steve. Thanks for letting my head live in the clouds part of the time, for making space for my big dreams, and for talking me through lots of mental roadblocks. To my babies, Astrid and Cullen—you’re too young to read this book (yet), but your brilliant, effervescent little spirits motivate me every single day. Astrid likes to say “I love our family.” I do, too, more than anything.
To coffee, quite simply, for everything. Aside from my husband, you’re my greatest love story.
To you—readers, bloggers, teachers, librarians, booksellers—your passion makes the writing community what it is, and I’m endlessly grateful to be part of it.
Lastly, I want to send love to my inspiration: teenage girls. To the Tabbys, Elles, Bridgets, Lous, and Kylas. To every girl who has ever felt judged, used, or misunderstood; who has ever felt too invisible or too seen. I hear your voices, and for what it’s worth, I believe in you and your ability to do great things. I wrote this book, and will continue to write, for you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
L.E. Flynn is the author of Firsts, a YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults pick, and Last Girl Lied To. Flynn is a former model who worked in Tokyo, Athens, and Paris. Flynn now lives in London, Ontario with her husband, daughter, and the world’s most spoiled Chihuahua. When she’s not writing, you can likely find her hiking in the woods, perusing thrift stores for vintage dresses, or binging on reality TV. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Part I
Her
You
1. Elle
2. Bridget
3. Keegen
4. Bridget
5. Elle
6. Elle
7. Bridget
8. Beck
9. Elle
10. Bridget
11. Lou
12. Bridget
13. Keegen
14. Bridget
15. Slate Ford
16. Elle
17. Beck
18. Lou
19. Bridget
20. Keegen
21. Beck
22. Elle
23. Lou
24. Lou
25. Elle
26. Keegen
27. Bridget
28. Elle
29. Lou
30. Keegen
31. Lou
32. Keegen
33. Kyla Dove
34. Bridget
Part II
1. Elle
2. Beck
3. Lou
4. Bridget
5. Elle
6. Elle
7. Madeleine Swanson
8. Elle
9. Lou
10. Kennedy Baker
11. Elle
12. Bridget
13. Beck
14. Elle
15. Bridget
16. Lou
17. Elliott Wray,
18. Elle
19. Keegen
20. Elle
21. Bridget
22. Elle
23. Bridget
24. Beck
25. Lou
26. Elle
27. Keegen
28. Beck
29. Lou
30. Elle
31. Bridget
32. Elle
33. Lou
34. Bridget
35. Keegen
36. Lou
37. Bridget
38. Elle
39. Keegen
40. Bridget
41. Kyla Dove
Part III
You
1. Bridget
2. Elle
3. Lou
4. Keegen
5. Kyla Dove
6. Keegen
7. Bridget
8. Keegen
9. Elle
10. Keegen
11. Bridget
12. Keegen
13. Lou
14. Keegen
15. Elle
16. Keegen
17. Elle
18. Keegen
19. Lou
20. Keegen
21. Bridget
22. Keegen
Her
Part IV
1. Beck
2. Elle
3. Bridget
4. Lou
5. Keegen
6. Tabby
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
A part of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC
120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271
ALL EYES ON HER. Copyright © 2020 by Laurie Elizabeth Flynn Inc. All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019941053
ISBN 978-1-250-15817-8 (hardcover) / ISBN 978-1-250-15816-1 (ebook)
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact your local bookseller or the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945 ext. 5442 or by email at [email protected].
Imprint logo designed by Amanda Spielman
First edition, 2020
eISBN: 9781250158161
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Never forget whose book this is.
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