by Anna Todd
It’s times like these when you’re reminded why you love her. You thank her and set your GPS app to the nearest Target. When you arrive a few minutes later, you tell her that you’re just going to run into the store quickly, grab the film, and leave. If she goes inside with you, there’s no way in hell that you will get out of that store in under an hour, and you have to get some studying done tonight.
When you walk into Target, you go to the bathroom first. After fluffing your flat hair, you go into the very last stall. Right as you finally get the wonky lock clicked into place, chaos ensues.
“Kylie!”
“Oh my God! Kylie Jenner!”
You’re immediately confused because the voice—no, voices—aren’t your friend’s. What the hell is going on?
To eavesdrop without revealing yourself, you lean against the stall door . . . and it immediately falls open, launching you toward the sinks of the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror is a girl with long blond hair wearing a baseball cap. She turns around to look at you, and you make a weird little noise. Really, you can’t even describe the noise because you’ve never before heard it come out of your mouth.
You cover your mouth just as you realize she’s pushing against the main door to keep it closed. She’s wearing an oversize black sweater, black leggings, and spotless white sneakers. It couldn’t really be her. You live hours away from Los Angeles.
Kylie Jenner is standing in front of you.
In Target.
In a Target bathroom.
What the . . . ?
“Kylie!” another female voice screams. The door pushes open a few inches and Kylie panics and repositions her body to force it back.
She waves her hands at you. “Help me!”
Without thinking, you rush over and lean your back against the door too. The people on the other side must be strong—or crazy—to be pushing so hard to get in.
Crazy and strong, you decide.
“I knew I shouldn’t have gone out without security. My mom is going to fucking kill me.”
Her voice is softer than you imagined, and when you look over at her face again, you notice that she’s not wearing any makeup. Not a single drop. Her skin is much paler than when she’s fully done up, and she looks much younger. Her skin is so clear; not a pore in sight. You’re thinking to yourself that she’s actually really pretty without makeup. Admittedly, you thought she was pretty before, just in a different way. The girl in front of you looks nothing like the girl whose Snapchat you watched earlier. You want to laugh at the irony of the situation.
Briefly you begin to wonder if Kris Jenner has spies in every corner of the country who just wait for people to say something rude about her family, and then she sends one of them in, just to fuck with the naysayers. It’s possible. The woman built an empire from people’s obsession with her beautiful family.
Kylie pulls out an iPhone, and you note the giant crack across her screen. You have one on yours too. This is about the only thing you could possibly have in common with an eighteen-year-old millionaire, you’re sure of it.
“Khloé—don’t freak out, but I’m stuck in a Target bathroom and I—”
You can hear Khloé Kardashian yelling through the phone when Kylie frowns and moves the phone from her ear.
“I know, but I need help,” Kylie says into the phone after her sister says something about not ever, ever, ever going out in public alone.
The door pushes open a few inches and you try to shove it closed. It’s so heavy. There has to be a lock somewhere. . . . Flailing blindly, your fingers find a latch and you quickly turn it left. A bolt clicks into place and you breathe a little sigh of relief.
“Oh my God, how did you get the door to lock? I tried it, but it was stuck.” Kylie reaches up and takes the baseball cap off her head and walks over to the sink. The long blond wig is next; her short black hair, pulled into a small ponytail at her neck, makes her look so different to you yet again.
The pushing on the door has turned to pounding on the door, and you begin to wonder how the hell you’re going to get out of this bathroom without being mobbed.
“Is it always like this everywhere you go?” You feel a little guilty that you made your friend stay in the car; she would have given her left arm to be locked in a room, even a bathroom, with Kylie Jenner.
Kylie sighs. “Yeah, pretty much.”
You look toward the door that people are still pounding on and feel a little bad for her. She’s eighteen and can’t even go into Target without being mobbed? “Yikes.” You shake your head. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Her phone begins to ring.
You aren’t convinced that she thinks it’s “fine,” but you stay quiet.
She looks down at the screen and tilts her head back. “Thank God! We will be out of here as soon as my security, and most likely the police, get here.”
“Kylie! Please open the door! I love you!” a girl screams.
Kylie’s face twists into a sympathetic frown and she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth.
“You have so many fans,” you say.
She sighs again and sits down on the floor and crosses her legs. She looks odd there, so pretty and rich and sitting on the dirty floor. “The sad thing is”—she pauses to look at the door, and you admire how long her eyelashes are—“most of them aren’t my fans. Half of them think they know me and my family from TV, and half hate me for that same reason.”
“Hate? I think that’s a pretty strong word to use.” You walk a little closer to her and sit down, leaning your back against a long mirror that goes from floor to ceiling.
“Have you seen the stuff people say to me? Teenagers, adults, even grown-ass men, send me death threats daily. I’ve been attacked while leaving a concert, I’ve had my car egged, been booed in front of thousands of people. The list goes on and on.”
Death threats? Grown men? What the hell is wrong with the world that anyone would send death threats to a celebrity for no reason at all? You have to ask. “I don’t get it. What do these people say you did, like, why do they hate you?” You’re positive that she doesn’t know because more than likely there’s no reason at all. You aren’t completely naïve to the nasty side of social media.
“Because they say I didn’t work for my money, that my family is trash, annoying, spoiled.”
You have seen comments like this everywhere. You’ve even rolled your eyes at pictures of the Kardashians on their lavish vacations.
“You have a hair-extension brand or something, right?” You wish you would have paid more attention when your friend was talking about her all day, every day.
“Yeah, and lipsticks, and endorsements, and a book, and photo shoots almost every day.” She closes her eyes when the screaming outside the door gets louder. “I’m not complaining at all—I have an incredibly blessed life, and I’m so lucky to have the life I do. It’s just that I wish people would pay more attention to what I do workwise or for my charity donations, or something positive. Instead they say hurtful things about my body, my face, my family. They don’t know anything about us; our personalities on our show and online are only what we choose them to be, you know? I just don’t understand why it’s okay for male models and celebrities to post shirtless pictures, but when I wear a tight dress and get my makeup done, I get spammed by people telling me to kill myself.”
You stay silent for a moment, taking in everything she said. She’s right: you don’t know her at all. You have no particular reason to think negatively about her or her family. Why should anyone care what she’s posting or doing? She’s not hurting anyone.
“I used to ignore it, but it gets hard sometimes.” Kylie looks into your eyes and you look down at the floor. “Sorry, I probably sound ridiculous: a spoiled Jenner girl whining about her fabulous life.” Her cheeks redden.
You shake your head. “No, no. It’s fine. I don’t know how you even deal with all of that. I mean, you were born into a family who became famous
and you’re using your resources.” You roll your eyes in frustration. “All of those people online are just hateful.” Who even has the time and energy to send rude messages to strangers?
“I have many more blessings than curses.” She smiles, picking at her long fingernails.
“That would be a cool tattoo. That quote, it’s cool.”
Her brown eyes light up. “It so would be! It would be so lit.”
“Lit?”
Kylie laughs and shakes her head. “Like dope, cool, happening—you know, lit?”
“Sure?” You decide it’s easier to agree than to delve any deeper into her language.
She laughs and you join her. When sirens break up your laughter, you turn to her. “I almost forgot that I was locked in a bathroom,” you say, then laugh again.
The voices outside the door get louder and louder, and you hear deep, masculine shouting for the crowd to back away. You and Kylie both stand up.
“Thanks for being cool about this. I would really, really appreciate if all of this could stay . . . here.” She waves around the bathroom, sincerity in her words.
“Of course, I wouldn’t do that.” You’re honest with her.
She nods as if she’s so quick to know you’re telling the truth. “What’s your handle?”
“Handle?”
“Username, Twitter handle.”
“Oh.” You chuckle, promising yourself that you will brush up on the terms you should apparently know at your age. You tell her your username and she types it into her phone. Within seconds, your phone starts chirping.
Chirp after chirp, vibration after vibration, your phone is going crazy, and you try to swipe across the screen to see what is happening. The notifications are moving down your screen so quickly that you can’t read them. All you can see through the digital madness is Kylie’s name.
“Turn it on airplane mode and then turn your notifs off.”
You wouldn’t have thought of that. “I’m impressed by you, Kylie Jenner.”
She smiles and chews on her lip again. The door crashes open as she says, “I’m impressed by you, Edsheeranscat44,” then laughs a little at your ridiculous name.
It does sound pretty funny when said out loud.
Kylie waves to you as three men who had to be Vikings in their past lives sweep her out of the bathroom even quicker than they broke the door. You go back into the last stall and finally pee.
When you get to the car, your friend is lounging with her feet on the dashboard. “What the hell? Did someone get caught stealing or something?”
You don’t even know how to begin to answer her question. So you decide to get straight to the point. “I was locked in the bathroom with Kylie Jenner.”
Your friend doesn’t look amused as she looks out the window to the flashing lights of two police cruisers. “Yeah, okay,” she groans.
“Check her Twitter,” you tell her with a smug smile.
Presidential Kimergency
Kate J. Squires
Imagine . . .
The Oval Office is bubbling with tense energy, like a cappuccino machine about to explode. Chiefs of Staff and other insanely important people cower in the corners as the vice president meekly says, “Mr. President . . . we’re all out of ideas. We’re sorry.”
You grimace, knowing that the commander in chief doesn’t lose his shit often, but when he does, it’s like a thermonuclear detonation.
The president spins slowly on his heels and faces the VP. “You’re sorry?” he says softly, dark eyes glittering. “This situation is of dire national importance, and you’re sorry?”
The secretary of defense crosses her long, elegant legs and waves an unconcerned hand. “I’m afraid I don’t see how this is a national issue, Mr. President.”
The entire room draws a gulp of air. You know the defense secretary was appointed because of her fearless nature and calm demeanor under fire, but still . . .
POTUS leans forward on his desk, knuckles pressing into the mahogany. His suit is edgier than anything worn by the forty-five men who have served before him, but the long black jacket and crisp white shirt are his trademark. The sharp lines of the suit give him an almost mythic appearance as he says, “It’s a national issue, all right. I’m gonna prove that to you, right now.” He looks at you. “Righty?”
That’s your title; it’s short for “right hand.” Once upon a time, you’d have been called a secretary or assistant or gofer. But your boss believes in empowering his staff. He’s often told you he couldn’t make it through his workday without you, that you are his right hand, and the moniker stuck. You’re proud of it. “Yes, Mr. President?”
“Where was I October twenty-first last year?”
Your clear glass tablet rests on your knees and you swipe at the screen, already knowing the answer before you look at his calendar. “You were in New York, announcing the closure of the one thousandth prison and increasing the funds going into public schooling, which was approximately fifteen billion dollars at the time.”
He nods regally. It was a huge double victory; by decriminalizing possession and removing mandatory minimums, he not only reduced the prison population by a quarter, but funneled all the excess spending into education.
“What about the year before that?” he asks.
“October twenty-first, 2021, you were in transit between Australia and DC, after meetings to discuss gun control legislation.” You glance up and beam at him. “As soon as you landed, you began to implement the new regulations.”
You don’t have to add what everyone knows already: that despite huge resistance from the gun lobby, your boss charmed and coerced the bills through the Senate. A buyback scheme was initiated, with millions of guns purchased and destroyed, and mass shootings had dropped by 80 percent. It’s a topic you’re passionate about, having lost your little nephew in a school shooting during the previous administration.
The president’s eyes crease kindly, as he knows how much gun laws mean to you. “And how about my first October in office, Righty? Where was I then?”
It’s a rhetorical question—everyone in the country remembers the date, October 21, 2020, as clearly as people remember the date of Pearl Harbor or the year Columbus landed. Your voice is low and husky with the memory of those dark days. “You were in Switzerland, signing the international peace treaty to end the World War Trump.”
Everyone in the office freezes, petrified by the horrors of what had almost come to pass. When former president Trump had been elected, most of the country found it humorous. The reality star with the ridiculous hair and his promises to “make America great again” was looked upon as a mildly entertaining change to the bland presidents who’d come before him, and the world watched with interest as he took office. But that interest soon turned to terror as Trump immediately expanded military forces in the Middle East, then rounded up every Muslim in the United States and detained them in inhumane internment camps. The prison population swelled to the breaking point as every undocumented migrant and minor offender was incarcerated, and the health-care budget was slashed to fund a giant, chrome-and-gold wall between the United States and Mexico.
The real terror began when Trump declared war with countries around the world on various whims: China, England, Russia—Canada? He launched missiles with the attitude of a bored schoolboy playing with his water pistol, randomly targeting countries that held little to no threat unless riled, and in only months America was at war with over 80 percent of the world.
Hope began to fade, law had failed in many major US cities, looting and rioting were daily occurrences. People lived in fear for their lives. Canada generously opened its border to allow US refugees to escape—until Trump declared defection to Canada high treason and shut the border, trapping everyone inside the mess he’d created.
But out of the darkness came the light.
Presidential candidate West.
When Kanye West first announced his intention to run for office, he was treated a
s a joke, just another celeb trying to get political—but you saw things differently. You’d read his policy paper, entitled “Run This Country,” a play on a song title from one of his early albums. You’d opened the document, expecting obnoxious grandstanding and uninformed ramblings, and had been stunned to find a logical, ordered policy focusing on equality and education. Son of a Gold Digger, you’d sworn silently. You realized he was the one man who could change the fate of the United States before there wasn’t a country left to save.
You still remember the day your phone rang. It was an unlisted number, and you answered cautiously, “Hello?”
“Hey, this is Kanye West. I got your number. We’re gonna meet.”
Sure, you’d reached out to his campaign office to offer your services, but you never expected a response. You’d laughed, thinking it was one of your friends pranking you. “Oh, sure. Nice to speak with you, Mr. West. I’d love to meet you too!”
“Good, good. Listen, I’ve sent a Maybach to pick you up.”
“Mm-hmm, yeah, yeah,” you’d said sarcastically, until you were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was a suited driver, with the nicest car you’d ever seen waiting behind him. You’d gulped, suddenly realizing this call was for real.
Kanye had noted your silence and said, “I need people on my team who wanna help me save our country. Is that you?”
It was. You’ve been by his side as he won the election in a landslide, supported his every move in the chess game of international politics, and made sure that he had everything he needed before he had to ask.
And now President West is standing in a room full of the country’s best and brightest, with no one able to solve the mammoth problem he faces. And you know he needs your help again.
He lets the enormity of the last three years of change sink in to everyone in the room, then says, “You wonder why I view this as a national problem, henh? Can’t none of you guess?”
The secretary of state says cautiously, “Well, obviously, your wife’s birthday has been overshadowed for several years by your political duties, but surely you realize that the fate of our great nation is far more important than personal celeb—”