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?”