Kill the Boy Band

by Goldy Moldavsky

  CONTENTS

  HALF TITLE

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  PART TWO

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  People have called me crazy.

  It’s understandable; fangirls get a bad rap all the time. They say we’re weird, hysterical, obsessed, certifiable. But those people don’t understand. Just because I love something a lot doesn’t mean I’m crazy. And I did love The Ruperts a lot. I loved them more than soft-serve vanilla ice cream in summer, more than seeing a new review of one of my fanfics, more than discovering a good ’80s movie I’d never seen before.

  Just because I was a Ruperts fangirl does not mean I was crazy.

  I think it’s important that you know that up front. Because everything I’m about to tell you is going to seem … well, crazy.

  * * *

  Rupert Pierpont was in our hotel room.

  You’re probably curious about how we pulled this off. It’s not every day you get to be alone with a member of the most popular boy band ever.

  Wait. Let me rephrase that.

  It’s not every day you get to be alone with the biggest flop in the most popular boy band ever while he is blindfolded and bound to a hotel armchair.

  I know what you’re probably thinking: What made him such a flop? But we’ll get to that. First, Erin and Isabel and Apple and I just stared at him, waiting for him to regain consciousness.

  We hadn’t turned on the lights yet, so the room was only lit by the afternoon sunlight peeking through the wood-framed windows. It splashed the gray carpet and parts of the plum-purple walls, turning them violet. Overall, though, the place was dark. You could say it matched the current vibe.

  The only sound in the room came from the clicking noises on Isabel’s phone. The screen wasn’t much more than millions of cracks, and the skin was a homemade paper-and-Scotch-tape collage of Rupert L.’s bare chest, but Isabel clutched her phone like it was the most precious thing in the world to her. It probably was. She held the screen to her face as she typed, which cast her in an eerie, campfire-blue glow. She was the first to break the silence. “What is he wearing?”

  “Hip-hop,” I said.

  Literally, the words “HIP-HOP” dangled at the end of the chain around his neck. Rupert P. was nothing if not a walking identity crisis. Just two weeks ago he’d been all about the punk thing, with spiked hair and bleached eyebrows. But today he was buried under a jersey, saggy pants, high-tops, and, of course, the chain that spelled the whole ensemble out for you. It felt all wrong, though. The jersey wasn’t even a basketball jersey; it was a child-size hockey jersey for some team called the Red Wings. Leave it to Rupert P. to get an identity crisis wrong. “An aggressive style choice.”

  “He tried it,” Isabel snorted.

  “I think he looks cute,” Apple said, her already full cheeks going fuller with her smile.

  “We’re all well aware that you do,” Erin said.

  It was hours or maybe just minutes, but after what felt like an agonizingly long stretch Rupert P. started to stir. He rolled his neck, tried to move his arms, slow at first but then all jagged and frantic and stuck. I was kind of in awe, watching it all. I had no idea tights could make such sturdy knots.

  Finally, the perfectly pruned eyebrows that stuck out over the top of his blindfold (BTW, tights also make really good blindfolds) rose in fear, or realization. And the first thing he said was:

  “Griffin?”

  We all looked at one another. Isabel’s phone lost its magnetic hold on her eyes long enough for her to roll them, but there were the beginnings of a smirk curling her upper lip. She went back to thumb-typing with a renewed relish. Apple’s forehead crinkled, and having no food on hand to munch on (her go-to when things get stressy), she did the next best thing: She chewed on a strip of her dyed auburn hair. But the two of them were in my periphery because my eyes were focused on Erin. I told her this was a bad idea. But Erin doesn’t listen so much as ignore. She says I still have my baby teeth. I tell her there’s nothing wrong with being nice. Erin says, “Fuck nice.”

  Usually she’s straightening my collar or tucking my hair behind my ear when she says it, though, and the word “fuck” coupled with “nice” has never sounded so reassuring.

  Right then, though, when it mattered most, Erin said nothing. She only smiled.

  Erin was all shine and pale golden hues, but her face really lit up when she smiled. Her mouth—lips always painted red—was the standout feature on her face. When she talked, it moved in subtly unexpected ways, like she’d grown up speaking another language, or had an accent once upon a time and English was this new exotic tongue. It was transfixing. I know because I’ve seen the way boys look at Erin when she says things—often the most innocuous things. They stare at her mouth. Girls stare too. I think part of the reason Erin took to liking me straightaway was because I always focused on her eyes. Unlike every other part of her, they were dark and did not cast spells.

  But her smile was like a cavity, a sweetness you were sometimes hesitant to peer into for fear you’d plummet to its sugary depths. Truly a bummer that Rupert P. was too blindfolded to see it.

  “No, not Griffin,” Erin said. Singsong. Sweet. Sexy. Screwed up if you thought about it, but somehow fitting.

  Every part of Rupert P. got very still very suddenly, except for his chest, which rose and fell so fiercely it was like it was hooked up to a defibrillator. I could feel the outburst coming. CLEAR!

  “Who the hell are you people?!” Rupert P. yelled, his posh London accent catching on “hell.”

  Here’s the truth: None of us liked Rupert P., except for Apple, and if I’d had a choice about which of The Ruperts to kidnap, I certainly would not have picked him. Rupert P. was that one boy band member that every boy band must inevitably have: the Ugly One. Historically, ugly boy band members have often tried to distract from their faces by doing the absolute most with their hair (beards, dye, never-cute braids), but Rupert P. couldn’t even be bothered to put that mess under a hat.

  Flop sweat prickled at his temples, staining the copper hair there a darker shade of mahogany. Rupert P.’s hair was a mushroom cloud of red, which made his face the catastrophic bomb that caused mass hysteria. Okay, I know that’s mean, and Apple would disagree with me, but ginger guys just don’t do it for me.

  Apple, though—bless her heart—she really loved him. Her devotion was truly an inspiration, not only to me but to fangirls everywhere.

  Apple knelt down before Rupert P. “It’s okay,” she said. “Everything is juuust fiiine.” Her open palm hovered over his white-knuckled fist until slowly, so slowly, she lowered her hand on top of his. Judging by the sharp intake of breath, the furrowed brow, and the little embarrassing noises coming out of her mouth, I was pretty sure Apple had just reached climax.

  Rupert P. didn’t seem to have the same enthusiasm for touching Apple, though. “Gerroff!” he roared.

  As I watched Rupert P. try to break free from his restraints, one of The Ruperts’ songs popped into my head.

/>   I’m all tied up in your lovin’, girl

  I’m all tied up in you

  But don’t ever let me free, girl

  Let’s take these chains of love and tie you up too

  I was holding someone captive and all that was going through my mind was a Billboard Top 40 love song.

  I was going to hell.

  I knew all along that this was bad, but now that Rupert P. was awake and talking it made it all the more real.

  We couldn’t keep him.

  I would tell the girls how I felt, convince them that this was a stupid thing to do, even for us. I didn’t usually take a stand—that was Erin’s role—but we needed to do the right thing here. We were all fifteen, but I was turning sixteen sooner than the rest of them, which meant I was the oldest person there. I had a responsibility to be mature about this. Erin was my best friend—she’d back me up. And Isabel would do whatever Erin said. I mean, what were we even going to do with him? No one in this room except for Apple even liked him. Midterms were coming up. I really did not have time to go to hell.

  “What do you want?!” Rupert P. shouted. “Do you want me to sing for you? I’ll sing for you!”

  “Holy flopping hell, is he for real?” Isabel said. She glanced toward Erin and her eyebrows danced on her forehead. I didn’t get it, but Erin smirked. An in-joke. The four of us had lots of in-jokes, but this one seemed exclusive only to the two of them. I wondered if Isabel and Erin had marathon chat sessions without me, chock-full of in-jokes. I wondered what they’d do if I mentioned letting Rupert P. go. Would they look at me funny? Would Isabel cast a glance Erin’s way, make her eyebrows dance? Would Erin smirk back?

  “Is it money?!” Rupert P. said. “Is this a ransom?! Are you a Mexican drug cartel?!”

  He had absolutely no idea who we were. At least we had that going for us. If we let him go now we could get away with this, sweep it under the rug, get off scot-free, et cetera, et cetera.

  “Please, I’ll give you anything you want! Just don’t cut off my finger! Bloody hell, don’t cut off my hair.”

  “We would never touch your hair!” Apple said, her voice taking on a mouse’s squeal, the way it did whenever she got overly excited. “I mean, maybe just the rattail?”

  You’d be forgiven to think he had an actual tail coming out of his lower back, but in this case Apple was only talking about the strip of hair down the back of his neck. I tried to spare you this detail for your own benefit, but now it’s come up.

  “Would that be okay?” Apple continued. If there were scissors anywhere in this room, that rattail would’ve been in her hands (and possibly in her mouth) an hour ago.

  Rupert P. heaved in some breaths, and then the weirdest thing happened: He started to laugh. “Oh. I get it. You’re just fans, aren’t you?”

  Shit. He had us pegged.

  I tugged on the elastic bracelet on my left wrist and snapped it against my arm repeatedly, trying to think. I had to do something before we gave ourselves away completely. The more minutes that passed the more I realized that all of this was very wrong. Today wouldn’t just be the day I kidnapped a ginger. Today would be the day I set a ginger free. That was what was going through my mind, at least. In reality, though, I still cared too much about what my friends would think if I brought any of this up.

  “Fans!” Rupert P. yelled. “Stupid-bloody-snot-nosed-crying girls! You’re all psychopaths, the lot of you!”

  Isabel’s face tore open with a grin, not because she was happy about being called a psychopath—Isabel could be kind of sadistic, but even she wouldn’t be happy about that—but because, as I suspected, she was thrilled to see a real live boy bander lose his shit. A famous celebrity calling his fans psychos was a newsworthy thing. A headline. A scandal. And there was nothing Isabel liked more than scandal. “Gee, Rupert P., tell us how you really feel.”

  “D’ya wanna know how I really feel about fans?” Rupert P. said.

  Isabel nodded eagerly and held her phone a few inches from his face, the little lines on her voice recorder app spiking spastically in the same rhythm as my heartbeat. “Please speak clearly,” she said.

  “There’s Catholic schoolteachers,” Rupert P. began. “Then below that, there’s paparazzi, and below that still there’s homeless people, and miles and miles below that there are fans. You’re the scum of the bloody earth, is what you are, innit? As soon as I get free, d’ya know what I’m keen to do? I’m keen to murder all of you. Yeah, yeah, forget telling the police. I will tie you all up like you did me and set you on fire. And then I’ll just watch as you burn. How does that sound?”

  Harsh.

  Isabel tapped the red button on her screen to stop recording. “Well, that should get me a few hits.”

  “You can’t post that!” Apple said. “This is obviously a very distressing situation for him. Can’t you see how scared and vulnerable he is right now? Nobody likes being tied up—least of all celebrities.”

  “Wait, was I being recorded just now?” Rupert P. said. “You have got to be kidding me. Let me go!”

  He was getting increasingly agitated, and all we could do was watch, dumbfounded, like this was another Ruperts performance. “I have places to be!” Rupert P. whined. “I was meant to meet up with Michelle! Ugh, she’s going to kill me!”

  Michelle Hornsbury, Rupert P.’s girlfriend.

  Actually, that should read: Michelle Hornsbury, Rupert P.’s kind of/not really/alleged girlfriend.

  I’d almost forgotten about her, but I should’ve known she’d be around here somewhere. She followed Rupert P. everywhere he went.

  My phone buzzed in my jeans, and I dug it out to find a new text message from my mom. She worked long hours, and being a nurse didn’t afford her many opportunities to call in, so texts were the next best thing.

  You girls having fun? it read.

  My mom thought I was having a sleepover with a friend. Which was technically true. I’d just neglected to tell her that this sleepover was taking place in a hotel in downtown Manhattan. Lying to my mother was easy, mostly because she never asked follow-up questions. Something as simple as Which of your friends’ houses are you staying at? Can I have their parents’ number? Are you sure they won’t mind having you over? It is Thanksgiving, after all would have been enough to catch me in the lie. But that was the thing about being the kind of girl who never gets into trouble: Parents trusted you.

  The truth is my mom probably didn’t ask any questions because she likely felt guilty about having to work extra shifts over the Thanksgiving holiday. Also, I was showing an interest in something that involved the very social act of meeting up with actual friends instead of talking to them through phones and computer screens. Mom liked me best when I was social and happy, and the therapist I was seeing twice a week agreed with her. It’s something that I’ve admittedly struggled with after everything that happened with my dad.

  I texted back.

  So much fun!

  I wasn’t watching Erin, so when she whizzed past me it snapped my attention back to her. The hot-pink tights she tied around Rupert P.’s mouth didn’t exactly go with his freckled skin tone, but I guess that was beside the point when they were being used as a gag.

  Tights were really so much more versatile than I ever thought.

  Erin yanked on both ends, splitting Rupert P.’s lips into an awful grin. “Group meeting,” she said. “Right now.”

  Group meetings weren’t a thing we usually did. Actually, we’d only had a group meeting one other time.

  Almost exactly a month before, the four of us got together at Chocolateburg in Manhattan to hatch a plan to meet The Ruperts. Erin and I rode in together on the subway from Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn—a short ride across the river, but Apple and Isabel were already there by the time we showed up. The boys were having their Thanksgiving half-hour live spectacular in one month’s time, straight from NBC Studios in New York City, and none of us had been able snare tix. You can see why this meeting was an
emergency.

  Isabel giggled as she dipped her spoon into her drink, an order that consisted of runny chocolate, two scoops of blueberry ice cream, and caramel drizzling off of it. She lifted her spoon a few inches over her bowl and watched as the gloopy mess dripped back into it. “This is some Willy Wonka realness.”

  It was weird seeing Isabel giggle. Hell, it was weird seeing Isabel in a normal, nonstalkery setting. The four of us were friends, but aside from Erin and I, who went to the same school in Brooklyn, none of us ever got together in the real world without the promise of the boys being close enough to stalk, and that only happened whenever the boys had a single to promote. When we did meet up in person, it was usually outside somewhere, standing in the freezing cold, huddled behind barricades for hours on end, armed with nothing but cell phones and CD cases, wielding Sharpies like weapons, and passing the time by discussing optimal ambush tactics. It was a lot like going to war. At least, that’s what I imagine going to war is like. Stalking boy bands was serious business.

  Anyway, our friendship lived and breathed primarily in Twitter DMs and text messages. That might sound strange, but talk to any Ruperts fangirl and she’ll tell you just how important the Internet was in all of our lives. Without it we probably never would’ve even heard of The Ruperts.

  The band was formed on the reality show So You Think the British Don’t Have Talent?, a weekly talent competition that aired in the UK, where the boys were from. They had each competed separately for the fifty-thousand-pound grand prize, but the producers decided to group them together into a boy band because the four boys were around the same age and all had the same first name. As the now famous story goes, SYTTBDHT’s host looked out into the audience one night, saw all the signs that featured the name “Rupert” on them, and said, “Seems the Ruperts are getting a lot of love tonight!”

  The crowd went nuts, a million lightbulbs went on over the heads of music execs, and The Ruperts were born.

  The group consisted of Rupert Lemon, the baritone who had auditioned with an opera/jazz fusion thing of his own making; Rupert Kirke, who came onstage with an acoustic guitar and got a standing ovation before his song was even over; Rupert Xavier, who explained in his intro reel that along with singing he was also interested in modeling and would be the first contestant in the history of the show who would showcase both of those talents at once; and Rupert Pierpont, the juggler.