He scrunched his eyebrows, and I mentally kicked myself for being so random. I was so obviously bad at talking to boys. And I was so obviously weirding him out. I was about to take back my question when he rolled up his sleeve.
“This?” Rupert K. said. “This was supposed to say Idobabli.”
“What?”
“Idobabli. It’s the name of the hero in Goblin Gerald’s Kingdom? I wanted to immortalize him on my arm, but that needle is really quite more painful than they let on. I had to stop the tattoo artist almost as soon he began.”
“Oh.”
That was … I don’t want to say stupid. I would never say anything that Rupert K. did was ever stupid. So I’ll just go with quirky. It was adorably quirky.
“I think it’s really great that you write,” he said. “I think creativity is the most important trait a person can have. I probably sound like a snob, since I say that as someone who makes a living off of his creativity.”
“No, not at all, you don’t sound like a snob at all.”
“That’s not entirely true anyway. I wish I were more creative than I am. It’s not like we get to write our own songs. And I never played my guitar on the album. They hired professional guitarists for that.”
“But you get to play it when you tour.”
Rupert K. shrugged and shook his head. “Not really. My guitar’s not plugged into anything when we’re onstage. Can’t really run around and entertain the crowd when you’ve got wires and cables tripping you.”
“But you sing,” I said. “You’ve got the best voice in the group.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Yes, I sing. At least there’s that. But like I said, we don’t write our own songs, so I’m not singing the music I’d like to.”
“You don’t like the music you sing?”
He leaned forward. “Can I tell you a secret?”
I leaned forward too. “Sure.”
“I hate it,” Rupert K. said.
A punch in the face. Those hurt the most when you don’t even see the blow coming. “What?”
“It’s not about the music anyway. It’s about the screaming girls.”
“What do you mean?”
“The girls who come to watch us sing aren’t doing so because they like our music. They just want to be part of the moment. A moment that’s much larger than them, and even larger than us. Every girl goes through a phase like that. It’s never about the music.”
What Rupert K. was basically saying was that the reason I was in love with him was because I was just going through a phase. It was one thing when Civil War Bartender said it, and another when Erin said it, but to have the actual object of my affection spell it out for me was something else altogether.
It was bullshit.
“The music of The Ruperts isn’t exactly going to be known long after we’re gone, is it?” Rupert K. went on. “No, what I want to play is music that matters. Folk dubstep—that’s where my heart lies.”
“Folk dubstep sounds …” Not stupid. Again, nothing Rupert K. said or did was stupid, but I honestly couldn’t think of another word just at that moment. Maybe it was me. Maybe I just didn’t understand the concept of folk dubstep. It was probably me. “Interesting.”
“I think you’re amazing.”
I sat back again. I’d never loved his non sequiturs so much. I’d been shocked by a lot tonight, but this shocked me more than anything. “You do?”
He nodded and scooted even closer to me so that our knees were touching. I didn’t know if it was the contact, but I suddenly felt warmer. “In my line of work you meet a lot of girls and you don’t meet a lot of girls. That probably doesn’t make any sense.”
“No, I get it. You guys have millions of fans, but …”
“None that are as amazing as you.” I watched as he put his hand on my knee. I watched it like I was outside of my body, looking down at a scene that I was only imagining, a scene that couldn’t be real. “You’re smart, you’re artistic, and you’re beautiful. You’re everything I’d want in a girlfriend.”
He was so close that I had a perfect view of the California-shaped birthmark on his neck, the subtly different shades of brown. I’d never loved California so much. I was enthralled by everything about him. He reached out and put his palm on the side of my face, his thumb caressing my skin slightly. He could feel how hot my cheek was. His own cheeks were red too. Redder than usual, I mean. He leaned in slowly.
Rupert K. was going to kiss me.
He was fishing for the kiss.
And then he caught it. His lips were on mine, soft and pillowy with just the right amount of pressure. The perfect kiss.
My feelings could best be described by Track 9 from The Ruperts’ album: “WHOA WHOA WHOA.”
But the whole time he was kissing me I kept picturing Rupert P.’s dead face. Damn Rupert P., ruining everything. Even in death.
I pulled back. It may have been the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. But I couldn’t go on kissing Rupert K. knowing I was keeping this huge secret from him. He needed to know my role in Rupert P.’s death. I needed to tell him.