Kill the Boy Band

by Goldy Moldavsky

  “You alright?” Rupert K. said.

  I popped my head through the neck hole. “I’m great!”

  “So now you know what I like to do when I have a moment to myself,” he said. “What about you?”

  “Me?” I go to school, I come home, I check Twitter and Tumblr and Isabel’s site for updates on your every move, I write fanfic about you that you’d consider very embarrassing. Who am I kidding—that anybody would consider embarrassing. I watch hours of YouTube videos of you. I make gifs of you goofing around and smiling. I eat dinner. Repeat steps three to five and then I sleep. I wake up and the cycle begins again. “I don’t have too many hobbies.”

  “Come on, there must be something Sloane Peterson enjoys.”

  Well, in the movie Sloane Peterson liked … “Fast red cars. Ditching class. Museums. Nice restaurants. Random dance parties in the middle of heavily populated city squares.”

  Rupert K.’s eyebrows dipped, his eyes narrowed. “Well, that’s rather specific.”

  And then I decided to tell him something real about me. The real me. “I also like to write.”

  “Really? That’s amazing. What do you write?”

  “Fiction.” Fanfiction was still fiction.

  “Wow. I couldn’t write a word, not even with a gun to my head.”

  “It’s not that hard.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. You think up whole characters … whole worlds.”

  “I tell lies.”

  His lips twitched into a smirk, and I commenced with the swooning. “That’s a funny way to think of it.”

  I gave in. If he wasn’t selling me short, then neither should I. “Okay, yeah, I like to write. I like stories. I’m good at telling them.”

  “That’s the attitude. I’d love to read one of your stories one day.”

  This was the part of the conversation where I totally LMAO in my head because Rupert K.? Reading one of my fics about him?

  HAHAHAHAHAHA no.

  But it got me to thinking about my most popular fic—the one about the “I do” tattoo on his forearm. The only tattoo he had. My entire fic was an imagining of what that tattoo meant to him—what those words meant to him. “I do” meant he was a take-action sort of guy. It meant he was a romantic, maybe. It meant he was waiting for the day when he could say those words to the love of his life and he etched them onto his skin so that he’d be reminded every day that every action he took was in preparation for meeting that special someone.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said. “What does your tattoo mean?”

  He scrunched his eyebrows, and I mentally kicked myself for being so random. I was so obviously bad at talking to boys. And I was so obviously weirding him out. I was about to take back my question when he rolled up his sleeve.

  “This?” Rupert K. said. “This was supposed to say Idobabli.”

  “What?”

  “Idobabli. It’s the name of the hero in Goblin Gerald’s Kingdom? I wanted to immortalize him on my arm, but that needle is really quite more painful than they let on. I had to stop the tattoo artist almost as soon he began.”

  “Oh.”

  That was … I don’t want to say stupid. I would never say anything that Rupert K. did was ever stupid. So I’ll just go with quirky. It was adorably quirky.

  “I think it’s really great that you write,” he said. “I think creativity is the most important trait a person can have. I probably sound like a snob, since I say that as someone who makes a living off of his creativity.”

  “No, not at all, you don’t sound like a snob at all.”

  “That’s not entirely true anyway. I wish I were more creative than I am. It’s not like we get to write our own songs. And I never played my guitar on the album. They hired professional guitarists for that.”

  “But you get to play it when you tour.”

  Rupert K. shrugged and shook his head. “Not really. My guitar’s not plugged into anything when we’re onstage. Can’t really run around and entertain the crowd when you’ve got wires and cables tripping you.”

  “But you sing,” I said. “You’ve got the best voice in the group.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Yes, I sing. At least there’s that. But like I said, we don’t write our own songs, so I’m not singing the music I’d like to.”

  “You don’t like the music you sing?”

  He leaned forward. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  I leaned forward too. “Sure.”

  “I hate it,” Rupert K. said.

  A punch in the face. Those hurt the most when you don’t even see the blow coming. “What?”

  “It’s not about the music anyway. It’s about the screaming girls.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The girls who come to watch us sing aren’t doing so because they like our music. They just want to be part of the moment. A moment that’s much larger than them, and even larger than us. Every girl goes through a phase like that. It’s never about the music.”

  What Rupert K. was basically saying was that the reason I was in love with him was because I was just going through a phase. It was one thing when Civil War Bartender said it, and another when Erin said it, but to have the actual object of my affection spell it out for me was something else altogether.

  It was bullshit.

  “The music of The Ruperts isn’t exactly going to be known long after we’re gone, is it?” Rupert K. went on. “No, what I want to play is music that matters. Folk dubstep—that’s where my heart lies.”

  “Folk dubstep sounds …” Not stupid. Again, nothing Rupert K. said or did was stupid, but I honestly couldn’t think of another word just at that moment. Maybe it was me. Maybe I just didn’t understand the concept of folk dubstep. It was probably me. “Interesting.”

  “I think you’re amazing.”

  I sat back again. I’d never loved his non sequiturs so much. I’d been shocked by a lot tonight, but this shocked me more than anything. “You do?”

  He nodded and scooted even closer to me so that our knees were touching. I didn’t know if it was the contact, but I suddenly felt warmer. “In my line of work you meet a lot of girls and you don’t meet a lot of girls. That probably doesn’t make any sense.”

  “No, I get it. You guys have millions of fans, but …”

  “None that are as amazing as you.” I watched as he put his hand on my knee. I watched it like I was outside of my body, looking down at a scene that I was only imagining, a scene that couldn’t be real. “You’re smart, you’re artistic, and you’re beautiful. You’re everything I’d want in a girlfriend.”

  He was so close that I had a perfect view of the California-shaped birthmark on his neck, the subtly different shades of brown. I’d never loved California so much. I was enthralled by everything about him. He reached out and put his palm on the side of my face, his thumb caressing my skin slightly. He could feel how hot my cheek was. His own cheeks were red too. Redder than usual, I mean. He leaned in slowly.

  Rupert K. was going to kiss me.

  He was fishing for the kiss.

  And then he caught it. His lips were on mine, soft and pillowy with just the right amount of pressure. The perfect kiss.

  My feelings could best be described by Track 9 from The Ruperts’ album: “WHOA WHOA WHOA.”

  But the whole time he was kissing me I kept picturing Rupert P.’s dead face. Damn Rupert P., ruining everything. Even in death.

  I pulled back. It may have been the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. But I couldn’t go on kissing Rupert K. knowing I was keeping this huge secret from him. He needed to know my role in Rupert P.’s death. I needed to tell him.

  And I would, just as soon I finished kissing him again.

  This time I was the one who leaned toward him, but before I could get to him our phones started to go off, both at the same moment. We both took out our phones, checking our new texts. And I knew by the look on his face that we’d both just read a variation of the sa
me headline.

  THE RUPERTS SINGER RUPERT PIERPONT PLUMMETS 16 STORIES FROM HOTEL ROOF TO HIS DEATH.

  What had the boys done?

  That was all I could think. I know that we kidnapped Rupert P.—I know that he died in our room—but this was next-level crazy. Us fangirls—we were allowed to have the crazy. We had a monopoly on it. But when the boys acted crazy, that shifted the balance of things completely. The record that I’d been playing forever suddenly scratched, and I was left to wonder if I could ever play it again.

  I had just been on the roof.

  Was that noise Rupert K. and I heard … Was that Rupert L. and Rupert X. hauling up Rupert P.’s body? Did they throw their bandmate off the roof of a hotel to try and make it look like a suicide? Had I really spent the last two years of my life worshiping the dumbest boys alive?

  Yes, I think I had.

  Rupert K.’s face was stuck, unflinching, his eyes glued to his phone screen.

  “Rupert, I’m sorry.” Forget what Erin said about girls apologizing too much. This time was different. I meant it and I needed to say it. “I’m so sorry.”

  I really was. You have to believe me. Looking at his face right then made my stomach twist. I decided to tell him everything.

  “Rupert, there’s something—”

  He stood too quickly, cutting off my words. “I have to go.”

  “Where are you going? We can talk about it.”

  “I have to go,” he said again. And then he was gone, slamming through the pool doors and out of my life again.

  After a time I made my own way to the door, down the dimly lit corridors. The closer I got to a door labeled LOBBY the louder the sound was. I recognized the noise right away: feet hitting the floor and taking off, running in every direction; orders being yelled, juxtaposed with steadier voices trying to keep the calm; and of course, there was the screaming, the constant ringing. It was the first stirrings of pandemonium.

  The actual pandemonium greeted me once I opened the door. The sounds were nothing more than a buzzing dissonance in my ears, as distinct as the noise glass makes when it shatters. People whizzed past me in every direction. On the other side of the glass doors the entrance to The Rondack was madness. Bodies frantic and flashing lights and lots more police than there had been earlier. I was drawn to it, the cacophony, like any other person pulled into becoming a voyeur by chaos. But I had to stop just short of the doors when a cop stepped in front of me.

  “How did you get in here?” he said. His hand was already on my shoulder, gently pushing me toward an exit.

  “I have a room here.”

  “Sure you do. You can’t be in here.”

  I dug into my jeans pocket, thankful that I had one of the room keys on me. I showed it to the cop, who looked kind of disappointed to see that I wasn’t lying. “Go back to your room and await further instruction from the hotel staff.”

  “Wha—”

  “You can’t leave right now, miss.” Something over my shoulder caught his eye, something much more important than a wayward teen girl. He got out of my way.

  I had to go back to the girls.

  * * *

  Even before I walked through the door I could hear the crying. I didn’t know who it belonged to, but I guessed it was Michelle Hornsbury. Maybe her crying sounded British (can crying sound British?), or maybe it was the fact that none of my friends would be crying over the current circumstances. When I walked inside, Michelle Hornsbury was sitting in the middle of the couch bawling, and Erin, Isabel, and Apple surrounded her, lending clearly apathetic shoulders to cry on and tapping her back with unsure hands. I guess they’d long given up the charade about caring for Rupert P., even for Michelle Hornsbury’s sake.

  “I guess you guys heard what happened.” It was a dumb thing to say, I’m fully aware, but it was all I could come up with.

  A new wave of sobs spilled out of Michelle Hornsbury.

  “We didn’t just hear about it,” Isabel said. “We saw it.”

  “What?”

  “Check the window.”

  I had forgotten our room faced the front of the building. I went straight to the window and looked down. The street was congested with people and police cars and ambulances, and I couldn’t even see the pavement anymore. Every inch was covered, even with people who clearly weren’t Strepurs (men, oldies, sane people), all of them clambering close with outstretched cell phones. The scaffolding was folded over like used tinfoil, all bent metal and splintered wood. And in the center of it—limbs bent in every unnatural position imaginable—was the body of Rupert P.

  My hand flew to my mouth.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Michelle Hornsbury said, leaping up to go to the bathroom. Once she was out of sight Erin stood up and looked at me. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Just … around.”

  “The most important thing ever happens and she’s just around,” Isabel said. “Did you see what Rupert P. supposedly posted on Twitter a few minutes ago?”

  Apple shoved her phone in my face. On the screen was Rupert P.’s apparently final tweet.

  Goodbuy cruul world … (Going 2 off meself now.) … Buy 4evr.

  “Who wrote this?”

  “Rupert L. and Rupert X. were talking about Rupert P.’s Twitter password,” Erin said. “It was obviously their idea. And judging by the glaring typos it was Rupert L. who wrote it.”

  “You retweeted a suicide note?”

  Apple snatched the phone out of my hand. “All the cool kids are doing it.”

  She was right. The tweet had only been posted ten minutes ago, but it had already been retweeted over 160,000 times, with even more favorites.

  “I don’t want to be here anymore, guys,” Apple said. “This isn’t fun.”

  “This stopped being fun hours ago,” Erin said.

  “We can’t go,” I said. “The police are downstairs. They said they’re not letting anyone in or out.”

  “They won’t even notice us, we can slip right past them,” Erin said. “But what are we going to do about Michelle Hornsbury?”

  Right. Michelle Hornsbury. Our loose end. I hadn’t heard her crying in a while. “Why isn’t she crying anymore?”

  The four of us looked at one another. Normally not being able to hear Michelle Hornsbury’s oddly British crying would be a kind of blessing, but given the circumstances, it was more suspicious than anything. We all went toward the bathroom without having to consult one another. Erin knocked on the door.

  “Michelle? Everything okay in there?”

  Nothing for a minute. And then the door opened. Michelle Hornsbury walked out with something orange pinched in her fingers. Tighty-whities, well, tighty-oranges, as it were. The name “Rupert Pierpont” stitched across the back.

  “What the bloody hell is this?” Michelle Hornsbury said.

  I was going to kill Apple.

  Poor choice of words, all things considered, but really, we were all going to kill Apple. If only she didn’t have to collect Rupert P.’s nastiest shit for her shrine, we wouldn’t be in this hashtag-mess. Michelle Hornsbury held up Rupert P.’s underpants for further inspection. It was probably the closest she’d ever gotten to them.

  “That’s nothing!” Erin said. She was the quickest of all of us and snatched the thing out of Michelle’s hands.

  “Are those pants?”

  “Pants?” Isabel said. “Have you seen pants before, or …?”

  “Pants!” Michelle Hornsbury said. “What you Yanks call underwear.”

  “Definitely not underwear,” I said.

  “They’re Rupert’s,” Michelle Hornsbury said.

  “Definitely not Rupert’s,” Erin said.

  “They have his name stitched into them!”

  Shit shit shit. Quick. Somebody had to think quick.

  We stared blankly.

  “All Rupert P. fangirls have underwear like that, right, Apple?” I thought it was a good way to go, but as I said it I realize
d I shouldn’t have brought Apple into this. If this situation taught me anything, it was that Apple could not be trusted to make sane decisions when it came to Rupert P., dead or not. If I had only glanced in her direction before I said her name, I would’ve seen that she was hovering behind Michelle Hornsbury with an end-table lamp clutched over her head, ready to strike.

  At her house in Connecticut, Apple had added a punching bag to her gym and named it Michelle Hornsbury. I should’ve known this was going to happen.

  Erin and Isabel seemed to see it just as I did. We tried to motion to her. Isabel shook her head from side to side slowly. Erin mouthed the word “no” and I tried to discreetly make a “put down the blunt object” motion with my hand.

  Of course, Michelle Hornsbury saw all of this. She looked up. “What the hell are you doing?!” She stood and ran to the corner of the room, hiding behind Rupert P.’s death chair, ironically enough.

  Apple put the lamp down and walked over to Michelle Hornsbury. Well, I shouldn’t say “walked,” exactly. She stalked.

  “So you found your dead fake boyfriend’s underwear in our room. You want a prize or something?”

  “I’m not sure I like your tone,” Michelle Hornsbury said.

  “You don’t like my tone? Well, I don’t like that you’re practically accusing us of murder.”

  “Uh, Apple,” I said. “She really didn’t say that. Like, at all.”

  “Didn’t she?!”

  “Apple, honey, maybe you should stop talking,” Erin said.

  “No, she needs to hear this.”

  “Girl is gone with the wind,” Isabel muttered. She folded her arms in front of her chest and rested her weight on one leg. “I am so here for this.”

  “You!” Apple continued, walking closer to Michelle Hornsbury. “You think you know everything now, don’t you? You think finding Rupert P.’s underwear in our room is evidence that we did something wrong?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it not evidence,” Michelle Hornsbury said.

  “You think something’s up?” Apple moved even closer to her, close enough to make Michelle Hornsbury inch away slowly. “You think something’s fishy. Well, guess what, Michelle Hornsbury: It’s our word against yours, you dig? If you even think of going to the police, the four of us will say that we were together the whole time, braiding our hair or some shit, and that just leaves you out to dry, doesn’t it? Because maybe we could’ve been your alibi, but we’re done playing nice! You know, I never liked you from the start, right after Rupert P. picked you up from whatever street corner you were standing on and helped you wash the dried splooge out of your hair like the sweet angel that he was, and now I know why! It’s because you’re a bitch. A sussy bearding basic discount-bin bitch!”