“Crisis, stop with the hashtags,” Erin hissed. “This isn’t my grandmother’s Twitter.”
If I could’ve added my own hashtag right then, it would’ve been hashtag-mess. Getting rid of Michelle Hornsbury was just another thing on the list of clusterfucks we were dealing with today, seeing as how she’d entered our hotel room and parked herself on our couch without any of us actually inviting her in.
“Wait, let’s talk this out,” Isabel said. “Think of all the shit Michelle Hornsbury could dish. I could fill my site for days.”
“No,” Erin, Apple, and I said simultaneously.
“She can’t stay,” Apple said.
“So we’re agreed,” I said. “Michelle Hornsbury goes.”
Erin and Apple nodded. A moment later, Isabel gave in and nodded too.
“Great. Let’s kick her out.”
*
Michelle Hornsbury stayed. I have no good excuse for why Michelle Hornsbury stayed, except to say that somehow, in the time we had decided to kick her out, she’d put on silk pj’s, curled up on the couch, and had a Kindle in one hand and a mug of tea that had mysteriously materialized in the other. After that none of us had the heart to kick her out. She was a sad, beautiful statue.
Also, she was Michelle Hornsbury. Even though she had no discernible talents, she was still famous, and that made her intimidating. The only one of us who probably could’ve stood up to her was Isabel, but she was also the only one of us who wanted her to stay.
And maybe Isabel had a point. Maybe sitting through Michelle Hornsbury’s stories about the boys would be kind of cool.
*
“Terribly small, I’m afraid,” Michelle Hornsbury said, snickering devilishly while the rest of us stared at her in awe, and at least one of us tried desperately not to believe her.
Michelle Hornsbury took a deep breath and let her laughter subside. “I’m sure you all want to talk about Griffin’s video. I’m just not sure I can bring myself to do it.”
Griffin’s video! I’d forgotten about it in all the madness. And by the way the rest of the girls perked up, it seemed they’d forgotten about it too. Isabel whipped out her phone and found it on YouTube immediately. We all crowded around her to get a better view.
“Sorry,” I said to Michelle Hornsbury. “We haven’t seen it yet.” Technically true.
Isabel clicked PLAY, and we finally had the video and audio together. Griffin sat in front of a white wall, all earnest and emotional. When he showed the video on his phone it was just the one I’d suspected—the same one that’d we’d all seen on Rupert P.’s phone. Michelle Hornsbury started to cry again.
“Alright, I’ll talk about it!” she said. “That weasel Griffin Holmes has always had a crush on my Rupie. It’s been clear from the start. But I’m certain he did some fancy CGI on that video or something. You girls don’t actually believe Rupert would go behind my back?”
“No.”
“Course not.”
“Never.”
“Rupie was not gay. He loved me. We loved each other.”
She looked so convinced of her own words that I realized that she believed them. Was Michelle Hornsbury a professional beard who didn’t realize she was a beard? This whole time I thought that she and Rupert P. had an understanding of what their relationship actually was: a front meant to convince the world that he was straight, a great ticket to fame for her. A win-win for both of them. But now I thought she may have been one of the few people in the world who wasn’t aware of her own role in the relationship. And as I looked at Michelle Hornsbury, beautiful and poised and so elegantly English, I suddenly felt really bad for her.
I felt bad for her and Rupert K.
I wondered where he was, what he was doing. Did he call the police like he said he would? Like I said I wanted to. We’d both wanted to do the right thing, but if his story ended up anything like mine, he hadn’t done the right thing either.
I took my phone out and checked his Twitter to see if he’d posted anything. It was a long shot in the middle of this shitstorm, but he was the most prolific tweeter in the Ruperts.
And then I saw it. He’d tweeted something twenty-two seconds ago.
Bright Lights, Big City.
I read it again and then a dozen more times. It was what we’d talked about on the roof. Was this a message for me? Did he want me to meet him on the roof?
I stood quickly.
“Where are you going?” Erin said.
“I need to be somewhere.”
“Let her go,” Isabel said. “I want to see if she’ll actually make it out the door this time.”
I did make it out the door, Isabel, thankyouverymuch. I headed for the roof.
Rupert K. was sitting against a low wall, his head in his hands.