Isabel put her phone in her pocket and focused solely on Rupert P.’s. “Let’s answer all of them at once.”
I wanted to know what she was going to do. No, not what she was going to do—what she had up her sleeve. Because that was how Isabel operated. She didn’t merely do things; she schemed. But I was also afraid to ask.
“There,” Isabel said. “How did people live without Twitter?”
I didn’t have to look at my phone to know that Isabel had just done something very bad. Her devilish smile told me that all on its own. I checked my Twitter feed. A new tweet from our very own Rupert P.
Apple got to it first. “Crisis!” she said. “Crisis!”
I looked down at my phone’s screen. “You didn’t,” I said, incredulous.
“I did,” Isabel said.
“What are you all going on about?” Rupert P. said.
“Baby, you just quit The Ruperts!” Apple said.
“What? No, I didn’t.”
“Just as I predicted you would on my website an hour ago,” Isabel said. She sighed. “Do you know how much traffic this will drive in? I can’t with how good I am.”
“I didn’t quit the band!”
“But you just said so, right here on Twitter.”
Isabel set his phone down on his lap, faceup so that he could read the tweet. Just two words.
I quit.
Cryptic enough to make his phone go silent for an instant, and then for it to light up again incessantly. It buzzed on his thigh until it slid off and then skidded on the carpeted floor. The phone was the only thing moving in the room until Isabel finally did what I never thought she’d ever do to a phone. She turned it off.
“Why would you do that?!” Rupert P. yelled. “I thought you girls were supposed to be fans!”
“Quite frankly!” Apple said. “He can’t quit the band! If he’s not in the band … do I even like him anymore?”
“You should be thanking me,” Isabel said to Rupert.
“Thanking you?! Are you mental?! You’re destroying my life!”
“Actually, I just got you some really good publicity. The whole world is going to tune in tonight to see if it’s true. The band will be in every news story tomorrow morning.”
“You should really get into public relations,” I told her.
She shrugged, all faux modest. “I see no lies in that statement.”
“Do you think anyone will believe this?!” Rupert P. shrieked. His voice got higher the angrier he got, like he was experiencing puberty all over again. “Tomorrow morning I’ll tell the whole world you did this!”
“You’ll tell the world a band of teenage girls kidnapped you and forced you to post that you quit on Twitter? I think the real concern here is, will anyone believe you?” Isabel said.
The door flew open and Erin blazed in, breathless. “Whose brilliant idea was it for him to quit the band?” she said, her phone in her hand and a grin on her face. Though the grin was short-lived, disappearing as soon as she saw Rupert P. She didn’t say anything, and neither did we. We only watched her, waiting to see what her reaction would be. For his part, Rupert P.’s eyes narrowed, and there was something behind his gaze. A kernel of recognition. Erin looked scared, like she was dreading something. I couldn’t make out what, though. I didn’t have all the information yet.
Erin sped right past him and went into the bedroom. We all followed her like she pulled on invisible leashes and we were helpless to take off the collars. Apple headed for the bathroom, though. “Where are you going?” Erin hissed.
“I’m taking off his underwear,” Apple said. And here I was in blissful ignorance, having forgotten that she still had that nasty thing on. “He quit the band. I’m not going to go around wearing the underwear of a former member of The Ruperts. Gross.”
She went off and Erin turned to Isabel and me. “Why is his blindfold off?” she asked.
“Why bother whispering?!” Rupert P. shouted. “I can still hear you!”
Erin walked out of the bedroom and the leashes tugged us along. She reached for the tights on the floor, but Isabel grabbed her wrist before she could do anything with them. “Wait. He should see this.”
Apple came to join us just as Isabel turned on the TV and flipped to Channel 4. It was eight o’clock. Time for The Ruperts’ Thanksgiving spectacular.
All there was on-screen was an empty stage. Well, the backup band was there, listlessly playing instruments—the starting chords to “Can I Get a Bite of That Sandwich, Girl?” to be exact—and there were spotlights roaming the stage, as if they too were looking for The Ruperts, to no avail. The only way you knew there was a live studio audience was because there would be an intermittent shout for someone’s favorite boy bander every few seconds. After a moment, two hosts skipped onto center stage, and for all the smiling and laughing and sweating under stage lights, it looked like they were bracing through the pain.
All of us in the room—even Rupert P.—watched with bated breath.