Kill the Boy Band

by Goldy Moldavsky

  It seemed like she was waiting for a “none taken,” but none came.

  “So, what do you say?” Michelle Hornsbury went on. “Will you help a girl out? We can make a slumber party out of it! Oooh, I could tell you loads of stories about the boys. Things you’ve all surely been absolutely dying to know.” She leaned forward, raised her eyebrows, and whispered, “Penis sizes?” She said it conspiratorially, like she was selling fake Louis Vuitton purses on a Chinatown street corner and was hoping we’d be in the market for them. Penis sizes, anyone?

  “Michelle,” I began, “we’ve got a pretty small room and two other friends staying there with us—”

  “No problem at all!” Michelle Hornsbury said. She pressed her palms flat against her tummy and said, “I’m so small I could easily squeeze between two people on a bed. Blessing and a curse, really.”

  “Uh, can’t you stay with the boys?”

  She cleared her throat. “The boys and I don’t really … We’ve all mutually agreed we prefer to spend time apart from each other whenever we can, you know, because we spend so much of it together as it is.”

  “Huh?”

  “How can I put this in terms you might understand?” she said. “I love those boys like brothers whom I hate.”

  “Uh, look, Michelle—”

  “Please,” she said. The smile was still there, but her eyes were dimming. “This will probably sound absolutely absurd, and it’s truly rather embarrassing, but you must believe me when I tell you that I’ve got no money, no friends here, and nowhere to go.”

  Erin and I looked at each other. I wish I knew what she was thinking, that we could communicate telepathically like twins or preternaturally close best friends, but I had no idea what she thought. All I knew was we had to get rid of Michelle Hornsbury.

  “Okay,” Erin said.

  Are you fucking kidding me?

  “Splendid!” Michelle Hornsbury said.

  “Erin, we should talk about this,” I said through gritted teeth. “Make the decision as a group.”

  “Why don’t you just go up and tell the girls we’ve got someone coming.” Erin took my hand and pulled me off my stool and away from Michelle Hornsbury. “I’ll get rid of her,” Erin whispered. “Go up and warn the guys just in case.”

  I left the bar and made a beeline through the lobby. There was no way Michelle Hornsbury could see Rupert P.’s body in our room, or any of the crap that Isabel and Apple looted from the boys’ room. I pressed the button for the elevator as quickly as I could. As I waited for it to come I stared at the phone booth a few feet from me. I wondered if I could step through it and go back in time somehow. I stared at it so long I didn’t even realize that I could see through the glass and into the other side of the lobby, toward the entrance. And when my eyes focused I saw him. There, in a corner of the lobby, was Griffin Holmes: stylist extraordinaire and actual significant other of Rupert P.

  And he was talking to Isabel.

  If you were there and saw Griffin Holmes like that, you’d probably be asking yourself the same thing that I did: How the hell did someone so good-looking end up with Rupert P.?

  Griffin Holmes’s style was on point. He always looked like he’d just stepped out of a Brooks Brothers ad, and I can confirm this is even more true in real life. His Rumpelstiltskin-spun hair was parted impeccably at the side, not a strand out of place. Beneath his tan trench coat (sleeves pushed up to the elbow) his rust-colored tie was pinned to his shirt and his tweed gray suit seemed pinned to his muscular form, which could rival any mannequin’s. Honestly, even the way he stood was mannequin-like, with all of his weight resting on one leg, a hand in his pocket, his head cocked just so. His face was made of laser-cut edges. You’d think a stylist would steer clear of a fashion disaster like Rupert P. Mayherestinpeace. You had to wonder: What did the two of them even talk about?

  Also, what the hell was Isabel doing talking to Griffin?

  I abandoned my post at the elevator. This was way more important than getting back to the room. Well, probably it wasn’t. Like, at all. But the curiosity was clichéing me.

  I marched right up to Isabel and Griffin, and whatever they were talking about abruptly came to a halt. This told me two things: (a) this wasn’t just a regular fan encounter where Isabel spotted him and wanted a selfie or something, and (b) this was the two of them speaking about something secret, and if they had a secret that meant they knew each other.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hello,” Griffin said, his eyebrows lowering, his mouth falling into a slight pout. Imagine a Marc Jacobs ad where the male model sits on a rock in the middle of a field, looking like he’d just dropped his ice-cream cone on his alligator-skin shoes.

  Isabel avoided my gaze, but I squirmed into her line of sight and forced her to look at me. “What’s going on?”

  “Sorry, who are you?” Griffin said.

  “Lydia Deetz,” I said, sticking my hand out. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Isabel pushed my hand away, which was just as well, since Griffin stared at it like the concept of shaking hands upon meeting new people didn’t exist in the beautiful world of magazine ads from whence he came.

  “It’s okay,” Isabel said. “She’s a friend of mine. But maybe we should go somewhere else to talk.”

  “I don’t have time for that,” Griffin said. He seemed exasperated, not like his usual calm, magazine-photo self. Strepurs knew Griffin from all sorts of behind-the-scenes videos the band put out of them getting ready for awards shows, or going through wardrobe fittings for their tours. Griffin even sometimes uploaded his own videos, talking about fashion and the boys. He was known for ranking their outfits, which seemed kind of ridiculous since he was the one picking all of them. Also, he usually put Rupert P. on top of his best-dressed lists, even when Rupert P. was dressing himself in his everyday streetwear and you honestly couldn’t tell if it was Halloween or not. Some fans called Griffin out on it once, explicitly stating that he was ranking Rupert P. higher because the two were in a clandestine homosexual relationship. Griffin started ranking Rupert P. dead last after that.

  Of course, the girls and I now knew him from the NSFW video we’d seen on Rupert P.’s phone.

  “Look, Isabel, you have to help me,” Griffin said. “Rupert wouldn’t just leave the band. That’s the last thing he would do.”

  I still didn’t understand how or why Griffin and Isabel knew each other, but they were letting me be privy to this conversation and I wasn’t about to screw it up by saying anything. I just watched them talk, my eyes darting back and forth between them.

  “Well … what do you think is going on, then?” Isabel said. You’d think Isabel would be good at lying, but she was actually clearly very bad at it. If I didn’t already know that she was hiding something, I’d still think she was acting shady. Her eyes were looking all shifty and unsure. Like, put some effort into it, at least.

  “I don’t know,” Griffin said. “But all of this is highly suspicious to me. He wouldn’t just turn off his phone, he wouldn’t not answer my calls unless he was with Michelle, and he’s never with Michelle. And most of all, he would not quit the band. You know how hard he’s been working on being good. Being kicked out of the band was his biggest nightmare—he told me all the time. Why would he just quit?”

  “Maybe he’s just playing a prank on everyone.”

  This was the most plausible lie anyone had said all day. If Rupert P. was known for one thing, it was his penchant for ruining other people’s days. Mayherestinpeace.

  “Maybe,” Griffin said. “But something’s still fishy about all of this.” He dug his fingers into his hair, though it was so perfectly moussed that every strand fell back into place when he took his hand out again. He narrowed his eyes and his lips fell into a pout. Imagine a male model lying on a bed of women while staring blankly ahead, contemplating the meaning of life. “I’m going to call the police.”

  “No!” Isabel said. She coughed, trying
to cover up her outburst. Not only was she a bad liar, she was also apparently a terrible actress. “You can’t do that.” She leaned closer to him, and farther from me. “That’ll out the both of you. Think about Rupert. Would he want you to do that?”

  Griffin glanced in my direction, like he wasn’t sure if it was still safe to talk around me now that the word “out” had been spoken aloud.

  “I don’t care about that anymore,” he said. “If Rupert’s in trouble then the police need to be involved. Will you do me a favor? Would you just ask around for me? Your resources combined with mine—we could get to the bottom of this.”

  “For sure,” Isabel said.

  “Great.” He placed his hand on Isabel’s arm, and his face melted into something heartfelt. Imagine a male model riding a horse naked. “Thank you, Is.”

  The sound of screeching metal caught all of our attention. It came from outside, and I’m pretty sure I saw the frame of the scaffolding move.

  “That has to be a fire hazard,” Griffin said. “There are too many girls out there. That scaffolding is going to come down.”

  Griffin Holmes: style icon/gorgeous gay prophet.

  “I better go,” he said.

  I watched him walk through the lobby and out the front entrance, and for a second I could feel the heat of the roaring fire of Strepurs outside, their yells licking the doors.

  “Do you want to explain what just happened, Is?”

  “You were there, Lydia. You heard the whole thing.”

  She headed for the elevators and I followed, close on her heels. “What I meant was how the hell do you know Griffin Holmes?”

  “He’s one of my sources.”

  The gilded elevator doors opened. Luckily, it was empty, so we could speak openly. “For your site? How come you never told us?”

  “I gotta tell you everything?”

  “We’re friends,” I said, and even I could hear how false that sounded now. But I pressed on. “Friends tell each other things like this. Especially if it involves The Ruperts.”

  She turned to look at me, straight in the eye. Whenever she did that it was intimidating. It was one of the reasons I liked the fact that Isabel was mainly an online friend. Isabel was taller than me. And meaner. And her nostrils were permanently flared, like she smelled something she didn’t like and that something was me. She was so much easier to talk to when she was just an icon on a screen.

  “Let’s not pretend that you’re friends with me for any reason other than the fact that I get you the best Ruperts leaks,” she said. “I’m a source for you. And Griffin Holmes is a source for me. It’s the circle of life, et cetera, et cetera.”

  Before today I probably would’ve been offended by her substituting the word “source” for “friend,” but I knew she was right.

  “How’d you get him to be your source?”

  “I worked on him for a minute. Tweeted him incessantly til he followed me back, and then I shot over a DM right quick letting him know I had proof that he and Rupert P. were coupling it up.”

  “Did you?”

  “No, obvs. He took the bait anyway.”

  “You blackmailed him.”

  “And I’ve been getting insider deets on the boys’ every move ever since. You’re welcome.”

  “That’s kind of messed up.”

  “It’s not that serious. He spills all the tea and in return I give him scoops from my other sources too. Symbiotic relationship and all that. Anytime Rupert P. and him ever got into a lovers’ tiff you best believe I became Griffin’s own personal news outlet. How do you think I got those pics of Rupert P. passed out drunk in his house last year? Griff leaks stuff all the time through me. We’re actually kind of friendly now.”

  Griff? “Clearly.” And then something hit me. “You knew Rupert P. would be on the eighth floor because Griffin told you his room was on the eighth floor, didn’t he? Wait, were you … Was there a plan?” My mind was spinning faster than I could form words to explain it all. Had Erin told Isabel about her plan to ruin the boys? Was Isabel in on this whole thing? And maybe more importantly, was I the only one who wasn’t?

  Isabel stopped looking at me. Just when I actually wanted her to be straight with me. The elevator doors opened on our floor.

  “Talk to Erin.” Isabel stepped out of the elevator first. I watched her walk down the hall and I got the strangest feeling, like it was the first time I was seeing her. Maybe it was the first time I was seeing the real her.

  And all I saw was hate. Because after a while, obsession without any payoff can breed it—hatred. The boys will inevitably disappoint you somehow. You think a girl that they date isn’t worthy of them. You think their songs could be better, that their relevance is weak. You begin to wonder why you still care so much, why you still fight their battles for them over Twitter while they themselves are sipping piña coladas on some Mexican beach, and you realize that at some point your obsession is mostly perfunctory. You’ve sold your soul to it and now you open up Tumblr and scroll because it’s hardwired in you to do it. If you can just get one more piece of info, one more pic, one more scoop, it’ll fill that empty feeling in you that you dug unbeknownst in the first place.

  This is what I thought of Isabel’s obsession. The way fans are necessary to keep a boy band going, the boys became necessary for Isabel to keep her site going, and therefore her life going.

  Killing Rupert P. would cause the most chaos. It was the biggest story to ever hit her site. She was on cloud nine—I could see it in the way she walked. She was practically skipping. And Isabel didn’t skip.

  I pictured her standing over Rupert P. in his chair, wrapping the pink tights around her fists and pulling as hard as she could. I imagined those flared nostrils of hers, and her smile, which was always more of a snarl. It was the kind of smile that was meant to be formed when performing murder anyway.

  “Did you kill Rupert P.?”

  She turned around slowly, just as she was about to put the key card into our room’s lock. “What did you say to me?”

  “You heard me.” I was scared to confront her like this, but I needed to know. “Did you?”

  She marched over to where I stood. “Oh, you tried it, escuincla babosa.” That was not the sort of Spanish they taught in class, but even if I couldn’t translate it the message was clear. Isabel was mad. She seemed much taller than me in that moment. Or maybe I was shrinking. I was Alice in Wonderland and I’d just downed the magic shrinking potion. Isabel was the Queen of Hearts. Seriously, I was worried for my head.

  She jammed her fingers against my shoulder. The hallway wall behind me broke my fall.

  We were alone on the eighth floor of The Rondack, and Isabel very well could’ve killed me and gotten away with it. “If I’d known I’d have to deal with your whiny ass the entire night, I would’ve told Erin to keep you home until you were properly housebroken. Just so we’re clear, I give zero fucks what you think. But keep reaching, Icarus. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a site to update and a body to dispose of.”

  Not exactly a denial.

  She went to open the hotel room, and I was left to rub the newly blossoming bruise on my shoulder.

  When I got to the room Isabel was nowhere in sight, having obviously retreated to the bedroom to update her site or bite the heads off bats or something. Apple sat on the couch. I realized this was the first time we’d dared to leave her alone with Rupert P., but this time was obviously different. There was no fear that she’d try to hump his leg or something. Or at least I hoped not. She just sat there on the couch, looking anywhere but at Rupert P., eating a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup.

  I sat next to her.

  There was something I needed to find out, before we spoke about anything else. “Apple, were you in on Erin and Isabel’s plan?”

  She didn’t stop chewing her chocolate altogether, but she chewed more slowly, her eyebrows scrunching as she looked at me. “What plan?” she asked through a mouthful.

  �
��You know … to mess with The Ruperts?”

  Apple swallowed. “There was a plan?”

  I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding. So Apple wasn’t in on it. I wasn’t the only one who was out of the loop. It made me feel closer to her suddenly. If I had someone on my side, that meant that this whole night wasn’t totally fucked. Maybe we could do something to make things right again.

  “I’m sorry I blew up at you earlier,” she said.

  “Me too.”

  “I guess it doesn’t really matter now, huh? The boy we were fighting about is dead.”

  I had avoided looking at Rupert P., but now that Apple had mentioned him it seemed almost rude not to acknowledge him. He was still in his chair—where else would he be?—and he was privy to our conversation. This was the most pleasant he’d been all day.

  “Are you okay?” I asked Apple. “I know he meant a lot to you.”

  Apple was looking at him too, but I couldn’t read the expression on her face. She only shrugged. “He did. But he was also really mean, wasn’t he?”

  Don’t speak ill of the dead don’t speak ill of the dead don’t speak ill of the dead. “He was an entitled little shitstain,” I said. “Mayherestinpeace.” I know that sounded bad, but it was the nicest thing I could’ve said about him.

  “He called me a beached whale.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Do you know how much time I spent loving him?” She looked down at her chocolate, meticulously peeling back the wrapper. “I used everything I had in me. I loved him with my head and my heart. I loved him with every single nerve ending. But he wasn’t good.”

  “No.”

  “He got what he deserved.”

  My eyes sprung to her, but she was still staring at the chocolate, her face betraying nothing. She’d said it like it was nothing, but words had meaning. “Beached whale” meant something, and so did “He got what he deserved.” But she continued to eat her Reese’s like what she’d just said didn’t mean anything at all.

  I pictured her standing over his chair, a steely resolve beneath the dried tear streaks on her face. I pictured her pulling on those tights around his neck with the same force she’d used to knock him unconscious with love when she saw him in the hallway. Had I overlooked the most obvious suspect? The one who loved him most. The one who would be most crushed by his words.