“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.