“Well,” said the female host. “Looks like we’re going to start with a video clip first!”
“You never know what’ll happen on a live show, folks!” said the male host.
“Not that anything’s wrong!” the female host said.
“Nothing is wrong at all!” the male host said. Then both of their hands went to their ears, and they nodded, and the male host said, “They’re telling me to cut to the video.”
“That’s what they’re telling me too, Stu.”
“Let’s see what the boys got up to when they paid a visit to Isla Pardon’s house to learn about preparing a turkey!”
“Sounds scrumptious and adorable!” the female host said.
They cut to a video of The Ruperts inside a beautifully sunlit kitchen with famed chef Isla Pardon looking lost in between them. This was obviously a prerecorded bit because there was Rupert P. with his arm around Isla, clueless to the fact that she looked none too pleased about it.
“That was our song ‘Can I Get a Bite of That Sandwich, Girl?’ ” Rupert L. said to the camera. “And speaking of food, let’s see if we might learn how to slaughter a proper American turkey for Thanksgiving!”
Isla giggled, or maybe coughed, and said, “We won’t be slaughtering a turkey—just cooking one, boys.”
“That’s what I meant.” Rupert L. rolled his eyes and laughed.
The boys proceeded to mess around while Isla took the recipe seriously. Rupert X. pinched some salt and threw it over his shoulder while Rupert L. dipped his finger into a bowl of powdered red stuff and then tasted it, grimacing. “I’ll have the breast, please!” Rupert P. said.
“Turkey breast,” Rupert K. said quickly. “He meant turkey breast.”
“OMG, I don’t think the boys have ever talked about breasts this much,” Apple said.
“Twitter is probably exploding right now,” I said.
Rupert L. thought it was the most original thing in the world to make the turkey look like it was dancing around; Rupert X. drank directly from the bottle of cooking wine; and Rupert K. tried to get Rupert P.’s hands out of the mixing bowl. They ended the segment with a turkey stuffing food fight.
“There’s no way they’re going on with the show after this, not without me,” Rupert P. said.
“No one is checking for you,” Isabel said.
“They’re all backstage right now, trying to find where I am. They’re going to cancel it. They are going to come out and apologize. You heard what Rupert said. He talked to the lads. They’re not doing anything without me.”
They cut back to the studio again, the camera focused on the stage. The backup band was still out, the girls were still screaming.
“Are The Ruperts really going to perform without Rupert P.?” I asked.
“Prayer circle,” Erin said.
The guitarists played the opening riffs of “Love U-FO,” and suddenly Rupert K.’s voice broke through the silence. “I think our love might be extraterrestrial,” he sang. The three boys came out and started jumping around, hyping the crowd and messing up their synchronized dance moves, as usual. And all we could do was watch, shocked, confused … amazed.
Isabel walked up to the TV, slack-jawed. “I can’t believe it,” she said.
I couldn’t believe it either.
Apple chewed her hair.
And Erin smirked. “Would you look at that,” she said. “It’s amazing how much better this song sounds without a fucking juggling break in the middle of it.”
I kept watching the screen. The Ruperts were performing flawlessly, maybe better than ever. It was almost as if they’d always been a three-man band. The point is that what was happening on TV was because of us. In a twisted way, we’d made history. The need to let Rupert P. go seemed almost beside the point now. I mean, yeah, it was still criminal, but something way bigger was happening. We’d changed the band.
We’d bettered it.
“What a time to be alive,” Erin said.
“I told you no one was checking for you!” Isabel said, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
I looked at Rupert P. His face was glued to the TV too, and he looked more shocked than any of us. Even he had seemed to forget about my plan to set him free.
“This is giving me life right now,” Isabel said. “This is giving me so much life I might be immortal.”
She was thinking of what must’ve been happening online. Her phone was already in front of her face, her chipped navy fingernails already dancing over the screen.