Kill the Boy Band

by Goldy Moldavsky

  “I love you!” the toy squealed. Rupert X. stuffed it face-first deep into the wastebasket. It was only when he was done that he looked up and saw him.

  Then Rupert L. saw him.

  Rupert K. was reading one of the notes from his stack of fan gifts, still clutched in the crook of his arm. Even in all this craziness he was all shine. There was a slight smile on his face, interrupted when Rupert X. threw the plush bear from the trash at his head.

  “I love you!” the bear said again as it bounced off Rupert K.’s head and fell to the floor.

  Rupert K. finally looked up, and for some strange reason I was grateful that he was the last one to see Rupert P. He got a few extra seconds to be a normal person instead of someone whose friend was dead in his room. But in the end, the few extra seconds were useless, because I could tell he understood first. He knew, before the other Ruperts did, that Rupert P. wasn’t just sitting in a chair. Rupert K.’s hands flew up to cover his mouth, all his fan gifts falling to his feet. I could only see his eyes, bulging and green. I couldn’t say “I’m sorry” out loud, but I thought it, and I hoped he felt it.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Rupert L. said to him.

  “Oh shit,” Rupert X. said. He got it too. “Oh shit oh shit oh fuck!”

  We could always rely on Rupert L. to be the slowest of the bunch. He looked at his friends and then followed their gazes to Rupert P. He walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. The two other boys watched, horrified, as Rupert P. did not respond. “Pierpont,” Rupert L. said. “P. Hey, P. P. P. P.”

  “Rupert, stop,” Rupert K. said. “Can’t you see he’s dead!”

  Rupert L. took his hand back like he’d just scorched himself, yet he still shot Rupert K. a disbelieving look. “No, he’s not.” He took a thumb and lifted Rupert P.’s eyelid and still didn’t seem to get it, but Rupert K. came and yanked his hand back, forcing him to stop touching Rupert P.

  “You can’t be serious,” Rupert L. said. “Is he really dead?”

  Rupert K. placed two fingers under Rupert P.’s jaw and waited. After a moment he said, “No pulse.” He touched the pink tights, obviously confused. That was the thing about Rupert K.—you could always see what he was thinking and feeling right there on his face.

  Rupert L. started pacing circles around Rupert P.’s beanbag. He walked over to the wall and threw himself against it, rubbing his palms and cheeks all over it. And then he fell to his knees and broke down. He screwed his face up until tears squeezed out, and I’ve got to say it shocked me. I never realized he was so sensitive. It was probably all the muscles that made me think he was a tough brute, but obviously, underneath all that, there was a warmhearted softie.

  “I always wondered when the band would break up,” he said.

  A selfish softie.

  “I’m not ready for it,” Rupert L. went on, dragging his palms along his temples until they met behind his head. “We all know what’s going to happen. K. is going to go solo and make it big. X. is going to attempt it and fail.”

  “Hey!” Rupert X. said. But Rupert L. was totally right. Out of all of them, Rupert K. was the only one with the talent to have a great solo career. Rupert X. would try it, just to stay relevant. He’d probably end up with a gig hosting a celebrity dance show or something, but that wouldn’t happen until he was thirty, and by then he’d be ancient anyway.

  “And me? Nobody’s going to want to see me go at it alone,” Rupert L. said. “I’ll be a has-been. I’m too young to be a has-been.” He was crying so hard. As hard as a child cries when he drops his ice-cream cone on the floor. “Sales for the watches haven’t been great, you know. I’m apparently in the red—which my accountants tell me is a very bad color to be in. And Ashley’ll surely leave me. She was going to show me how to tell time using the sun.”

  “Don’t mean to interrupt your existential crisis, mate, but our friend is dead,” Rupert K. said. “What the bloody hell happened?”

  “I’ve got a hunch,” Rupert X. said.

  “You do?” said Rupert K.

  “Yeah, and you know what it is—we’re all thinkin’ it.”

  “Yeah, I’m thinkin’ it too,” Rupert L. said.

  I squeezed Apple’s hand harder and sneaked a look in her and the other girls’ direction. Did the boys’ minds automatically go to “crazed fans” whenever something went awry? Were we about to be found out?

  “Okay, on three we all say what we’re thinking,” Rupert K. said. “One, two, three—”

  “Autoerotic asphyxiation,” the three boys said in unison.

  All four of us girls let out a breath.

  “I mean, clearly that’s what’s happened,” Rupert X. said.

  “Clearly,” Rupert L. agreed.

  “We need to call someone,” Rupert K. said. He took his phone out of his pocket and seemed like he was about to punch in a number when he froze. “Oh no. Griffin just uploaded a video to YouTube.”

  “So what?” Rupert X. said. “This is no time to check out his latest fashion rankings. Though I am due for a top spot this week.”

  “I have a feeling we might want to watch this.”

  The two Ruperts crowded around Rupert K., and although we obviously couldn’t see the screen from all the way in our closet hiding space, the volume on the phone was loud enough that when Griffin’s voice came on it was clear.

  “This is a message for all Ruperts fans,” Griffin said. “I know in my heart that Rupert Pierpont did NOT quit the band. He would never do something so rash. In fact, he spoke to me often about how much he loved the band, how important it was to him, and how he wanted to improve himself to be worthy of being in it. I know all of this because I am Rupert Pierpont’s greatest confidante. Actually, I’m his boyfriend.”

  If the boys were surprised by this information, they didn’t show it. The three of them were facing the closet, and all I could see in their features was intense concentration, not surprise. Actually, Rupert X. rolled his eyes, which may have been more of a confirmation that the boys already knew about Rupert P. and Griffin’s relationship.

  “I’m stating this here, publicly, because Rupert Pierpont is missing. I’ve called the police and they don’t believe me. They think I’m just another Ruperts fan. So here’s my message to the police.”

  His voice cut out and a muffled sound came from the phone. It could’ve been anything, but I definitely heard another voice. It sounded like Rupert P. and Griffin, talking. And then there came a noise that sounded unmistakably like lip smacking. Rupert P. and Griffin, kissing. Rupert L.’s eyes bulged wide, Rupert K. closed his, and Rupert X. looked vaguely disgusted. Griffin must’ve just shown a video clip of him and Rupert P. together. Probably a similar video to the one we’d seen on Rupert’s P.’s phone earlier.

  “That should be proof enough that I am without a doubt Rupert Pierpont’s boyfriend. I would never betray his trust like this, but I’m worried about him. He isn’t answering his phone and no one has seen him anywhere. I called the police to try and get some help, but they said I can’t file a missing persons report if it hasn’t been forty-eight hours. So that’s why I’m posting this video here. If the police won’t help, I’m enlisting the next best thing—the fans. I’m calling on all of you, as fans of The Ruperts, to please help. Especially the girls outside The Rondack Hotel right now in New York. Rupert is around here somewhere, and I’ve never underestimated the power of Strepurs in large groups. Infiltrate the hotel if you have to! Search high and low! I have reason to believe there may have been foul play involved in his disappearance, but I won’t go further into that just yet. I have my own theories about what’s happened that I’d be happy to share with the police if they’d just bother to cooperate with me. Rupert, if you’re watching this, I hope you understand why I had to do this.”

  There was a moment of stillness as the boys looked at one another, and then in an instant Rupert L. ran for the balcony door. I gasped, but the sound was drowned out by a much bigger one
. It came from outside—something awful, like billions of bees dying, or ghosts howling in the woods.

  But I knew what it really was.

  It was the sound of thousands of Strepurs, unleashed.

  “GET AWAY FROM THERE, YOU TOSSER!” Rupert X. roared.

  Rupert L. had popped outside for only a second, but it was enough. The sound got impossibly louder. It felt suddenly like we were in medieval times, when armies stormed castle walls, climbing on top of each other, blind with passion and a clear goal. Perhaps this goal was to take Rupert L. Not to hug or to kiss him or to sneak a selfie with him. But simply to have him.

  He pulled himself back with the effort of someone trying to get out of quicksand, like the power of the Strepurs’ yells had a physical hold on him and it was a fight between him and them for his soul.

  He shut the balcony door behind him and leaned against it, suddenly weak. “They’re climbing the scaffolding,” he said. “They’re infiltrating.”

  “And you’ve just shown them where our room is, you marvelous shit,” Rupert X said. “Brilliant.”

  “I can stop them,” Rupert L. said, gulping in air and focusing on Rupert P.’s body with an eerily determined gaze. “I know what we have to do.”

  And then he lifted Rupert P. off his bag of beans.

  “What are you doing?!” Rupert K. and Rupert X. shouted at the same time.

  Rupert P.’s legs dangled a foot off the ground as he hung limply in Rupert L.’s arms. “We have to show the fans that everything is alright!”

  “No.”

  “No.”

  “Put him down.”

  “This is a terrible idea.”

  “This will not end well.”

  “Just stop.”

  But Rupert L. ignored his bandmates’ protests and went back to the balcony before anyone could stop him. I couldn’t see what he was doing, so I had to rely on Rupert X.’s and Rupert K.’s horrified expressions as they watched. Rupert K. brought his hands to his head, digging his fingers into his hair and twisting. He only did that when things were really bad. I could only imagine that Rupert L. was standing Rupert P. upright with one hand and waving Rupert P.’s arm with the other. (And seeing the pictures later, I was totally right.) Rupert P. had been Weekend at Bernie’s-ed after all. And I’ll bet you anything that movie title has never been used as a verb before now.

  Rupert L. (and Rupert P.) came back into the room. “I think that may have been a terrible idea,” Rupert L. said.

  “You think?!” Rupert X. yelled.

  “Why didn’t either of you say anything?”

  “It’s alright, we just need to change the conversation, give the fans something new to talk about,” said Rupert X. “We’ll get new haircuts.”

  “That’s it, I’m calling the police,” Rupert K. said.

  “Are you mad?!” Rupert X. said. “The girls will get in here quicker than the police ever will. They’ll see P. sat there, dead! They’ll think we had something to do with it. You heard what Griffin said—he suspects foul play! What do you think he meant by that, by the way? Seriously.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No, wait. Griffin doesn’t like me. Never has.”

  “What does any of this have to do with you?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Rupert X. said. “Griffin is going to accuse me of this.” Clearly “this” meant Rupert P. Not a great nickname as far as nicknames went, but probably one of the nicest ones Rupert P. had ever had.

  “What?” Rupert K. said.

  “You know … because of the things I would say to P. sometimes.”

  “You mean constantly telling him you were going to kill him if he ever made eye contact with you?”

  “Jokes! Those were hilarious jokes! See, that right there. Why does everyone always take me so seriously all the time? Do you think P. ever told Griffin I said those things? Griffin would know that I was only joking, yeah? Griffin’s not an idiot.”

  “Our friend is dead and this is all you care about? I’m calling the police. They’ll get everything sorted.”

  “The police will investigate us!” Rupert X. said. “They’ll read through my journal. Do you know how many pages I’ve filled detailing my absolute hatred for P.?! They’ll think I had something to do with his death!”

  “Well, maybe if you weren’t such a homophobic twat …” Rupert K. said.

  “I am not homophobic! I was always pleased anytime P. and Griffin were off doing their thing. It got him out of my hair.”

  “Right.”

  “See? If you—my bandmate—think I’m a homophobe, then I’ve no chance with the police. Fuckin’ P.—even in death he’s managed to ruin my day.”

  “You’re such an arsehole,” Rupert K. said. “Our friend is dead. He’s dead.”

  “Maybe he’s just sleeping,” Rupert L. said.

  “SHUT UP!” Rupert K. and Rupert X. said together.

  “L., we need to get rid of him. Take him somewhere before any of the fans find their way in. Are we agreed?”

  “Okay,” Rupert L. said.

  “You’re mental!” Rupert K. said. “The both of you have gone mad. I’ll have no part in this.”

  In all the insanity there were so many emotions running through me, but most of all was the feeling of pride. I was so proud of Rupert K. He was reacting in pretty much the same way I’d reacted with my own friends. Which told me, more than anything, that we were obviously compatible and possibly meant to be.

  Once Rupert K. was out of the room the energy shifted. With Rupert P. dead and Rupert K. out, Rupert X. took control. You could see it in the way he stood, breathed, seethed. “Right,” he said, turning to Rupert L. “Right. What time is it?”

  “The time is 9:38!” It was the mechanical voice of Rupert L. And it came from two places: Rupert L.’s wristwatch, and Isabel’s.

  The four of us couldn’t get any more frozen in that closet, but I swear we turned to stone. The boys turned to the closet and stared at the doors. It looked like they were staring right through them, at four fans trying not to piss themselves with fear. And here I was, holding a neon-orange suitcase, probably visible from space.

  My heart sped up and beat so loud in my ears I thought for sure the boys could hear it, beckoning them to open the closet, just like Isabel’s stupid watch had.

  I mean, who even wears watches anymore?!

  Could they see through the slats? Were our lives over as we knew them? We held our breaths. We held our breaths so long we were going to pass out, and soon Rupert P. wasn’t going to be the only dead person in this room.

  “How many of those stupid watches have you packed?” Rupert X. said.

  “I didn’t think I’d packed any …” Rupert L.’s eyes were squinty, his face screwed up. When Rupert L. was thinking hard you could see it. It was the phenomenon most commonly known as Rupert L. Constipation Face (RLCF). He came closer to the closet, slowly. And then he sniffed. “Did we pack the perfume too?”

  We were all wearing The Ruperts’ perfumes.

  We were all fucked sideways.

  “I don’t know. Will you please just come here?”

  But Rupert L. didn’t turn back around. He kept coming closer. His hand was on the doorknob, ready to pull, when Rupert X. yelled, “Oi!”

  Rupert L. turned.

  “We need to focus. You’ve still got his Twitter passcode, yeah?”

  Rupert L. nodded.

  “Good. We’ll need to post on his behalf. Let’s go to the bedrooms and gather as many sheets as we can. We need to wrap him.”

  “We do?” Rupert L. said.

  “I don’t know, but it sounds right. Now come help me!”

  The boys disappeared down a hallway heading toward the bedrooms, and almost as soon as they did Erin pushed open the closet doors and we got the hell out of there.

  When we got back to our hotel room everyone around me was breathing sighs of relief, but I felt different. I felt like I couldn’t breathe at all.
>
  I went straight for the bedroom and locked the door behind me, falling onto the bed that Isabel and Erin had already claimed for themselves. It got me thinking about strange bedfellows. Which made me laugh. Which in turn made me realize that I was maybe going crazy and/or having a weird kind of panic attack. My heart was racing. It was all I could hear as I stared up at the ceiling, hoping for answers there that would quell the questions running through my mind. And there were a lot of them. Here’s an abridged list:

  Had I really just pinned a dead body on The Ruperts, thus betraying the de facto loves of my life?

  Was I going to hell?

  How had I started this day having milk and toast and ended it by stuffing a body into a way-too-flashy suitcase?

  Were my best friends actually my best friends? Was this what it meant to be part of a group of girlfriends? Kidnapping, murder, disposing of bodies all in a day’s work? Did the fact that I was so reluctant to help make me a terrible friend?

  Did I actually know my friends at all?

  Did I know Erin?

  And the most important question of all:

  How did Rupert Pierpont die?

  What Erin had said—or, more appropriately, what her dad the doctor had said—was worming its way through my gray matter until it was all I could think about.

  A person couldn’t strangle himself. Someone killed him.

  Someone standing on the other side of that door.

  I started to laugh again.

  I don’t know why, so don’t judge me. It was just … My body felt weird. Shaky, fidgety, like I was lying on a trampoline while people all around me jumped.

  People who looked an awful lot like my friends.

  My teeth chattered and my cheeks tickled. I was having a full-on freak-out, so if you really think about it, laughing was the least offensive thing I could’ve been doing at that moment. The thing is, I recognized this feeling. I was on the brink of a breakdown.