by Anna Todd
“Ummm, I would rather die,” you say.
“WHAT!” Kim says. “Come on!”
“I mean, I probably shouldn’t? They’re illegal?” you say, mortified at how dumb the words sound as they’re coming out of your mouth.
“Selfies are not illegal,” Kim says, very seriously, very patiently.
“Yes, they are. Do you not remember my boyfriend and his task force shooting at us? Selfies are very illegal.”
“Nope,” Kim says, shaking her head. “Look. Take this phone. Go into the bathroom and take a selfie. We won’t watch, and we won’t look at it afterward. Just go do it. Just take one picture of yourself.”
“I can’t,” you say.
Kim nods understandingly. “Exactly. Because why? Share what you’re feeling right now.”
Kendall and Kim are both watching you, and you feel like you’re about to die under their scrutiny.
“Embarrassment?” you say. “Like I would look dumb. Like it would remind me how ugly I am.”
“That is exactly how they want you to feel,” Kendall says.
“It was never really about selfies,” Kim says. “Selfies aren’t illegal. Your self-esteem is.” Kim comes to you and puts her hands on your arms, gently but firmly. She looks into your eyes. “It is okay to look at yourself. It is okay to think you are beautiful. It is okay to think that you have flaws, but you also have to be mindful that flaws are a construct. It is okay for you to form your own independent feelings about your appearance. And it is not only okay but right, and important, and good, to feel good about yourself.”
“They tried to shame us for taking selfies,” Kendall says. “They tried to make us feel like we were wrong for having positive opinions about ourselves. And when they couldn’t stop us, when they couldn’t change the way we thought about our bodies, our appearances, our selves, they made selfies illegal. So they could keep trying to control us.”
“They do not want us to see how amazing and powerful we are,” Kim says. “They know what we’re capable of, and it terrifies them. They can make it the law that you have to hate yourself, but they can’t prevent you from loving yourself. But it’s okay if you’re not ready. I’m not going to pressure you into anything you don’t want to do. Except change out of that uniform. No offense, but come on.”
Kim picks up a top from the chair and holds it against your body. She crinkles her nose, then chooses another. “Hmm!” she says, nodding, looking to Kendall for confirmation, who nods approvingly, impressed.
You take the clothes into the bathroom and undress. You wash up and put on the new clothes that Kendall and Kim picked out for you. It’s just jeans and a T-shirt, but they fit, and maybe it’s just the relief of knowing you’ll never have to put on the uniform again, but you feel amazing. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and you don’t flinch. You don’t stand there staring at yourself or anything, but you don’t immediately look away either. You throw your uniform in the trash, grab your bag from the bedroom, and start walking back to the front room. Suddenly you hear a helicopter overhead, like right overhead, impossibly close, its rotors whirring loudly.
“What’s going on?” you say, racing back to the front room.
Kim is standing to the side of a window, peering cautiously up. Kendall is hurriedly packing up the laptop in the kitchen.
Kim turns to you. “Your boyfriend is driving me up a freaking wall.”
“He’s here?”
“Well, his friends are, at least. He must have bugged your bag,” Kim says, slipping the bag off your shoulder. “Kendall?” she calls, and instantly Kendall throws a device at Kim, which Kim smoothly catches. She uses it to scan your bag, and it bleeps around one of the pockets. Kim reaches inside, finds a small metal object, and crushes it beneath her Balmain boots.
“What do we do now?” you ask.
“We run,” Kim says.
“Is that it? Should I, like, I don’t know . . . talk to my boyfriend?”
“Talk to him? About what?”
“I don’t know. . . . He’s my boyfriend—shouldn’t I try to reason with him or something?”
“Your boyfriend works for the people who made selfies illegal, and you want to try to reason with him? Tell you what: let’s run for now, and that can be a backup plan later. Kendall, are we all set?”
“All set,” Kendall says. She kicks over the kitchen table, slides back a small area rug, and lifts a hidden hinge in the floor that opens a trapdoor. Inside there’s a ladder leading down to a tunnel that runs underneath the house. Kendall shoulders her laptop bag, starts climbing down, and disappears.
“Come on,” Kim says, ushering you toward the ladder. “Stick to the plan.”
“There’s a plan?” you ask as you start descending the ladder.
“Of course there’s a plan,” she says, climbing down after you and then sliding the trapdoor shut. Just as it closes, you hear the front door being smashed in, booted footsteps tromping into the house, and Kim saying, “Overthrow the patriarchy.”
LATE THE NEXT AFTERNOON you’re sitting in a black Mercedes SUV in a parking lot a block away from the psychiatric hospital where Kylie is being kept. This SUV doesn’t have satellite radio either, but it does have an aux cord, so Kim is happy. Not that she’s playing DJ, anyway. It’s the golden hour, the sun will soon set, and the light is gentle, warm, and soft. Kim is taking full advantage of it, sitting in the backseat next to you, tilting her face so that it catches and absorbs the best light possible, taking selfie after selfie.
Kendall turns to you from the driver’s seat. “This is new; normally she only gets to take selfies when we’re dropping our sisters off at prison.”
It’s so weird to just be sitting here, doing nothing, in a car with Kendall Jenner and Kim Kardashian. Everything is weird. Not just the last twenty-four hours, the running from the government, barely escaping from the house, running through the tunnel that led out away from the house to a backup car Kendall had waiting. And now possibly being at least somehow tangentially complicit in breaking a known felon out of a psychiatric hospital. Everything about life is very weird. You tap your fingers anxiously on the door to keep from freaking out.
“You okay?” Kim asks, putting away her phone.
“So what do we have to do to break Kylie out of the hospital? What’s involved? Is this super illegal?”
“We’re not doing anything,” Kim says. “We’re just sitting here. We have some friends on the inside. Women who are sympathetic to our cause. They’ll make sure Kylie gets out safely without anyone knowing until we’re far away from here.”
“We’re part of a whole network of women who are working on this plan with us,” Kendall says. “It’s how we survive. It’s where our safe houses and vehicles come from. There’s no way we would be able to do what we do without the support of other brave women.”
Kim nods in agreement. “We’re much better organized than the government gives us credit for. It’s part of why we’re going to win, in the long run.” She checks the time on her phone and then looks out the window, scanning the quiet street. “Should be any minute now.”
You think back to the video of Kylie being sentenced. It had taken ten men to hold her down, to control her, to subdue her enough to get her out of the courtroom. She’d looked like she was in the full throes of a complete demonic possession. Like she would have torn down the entire courtroom with her bare hands if she could have.
“So, when we see Kylie,” you begin, not totally sure how to phrase your concern delicately, “is she going be, like . . .”
“Completely batshit insane?” Kendall says, laughing.
Kim joins in laughing, shaking her head no. “That whole thing about her being driven insane by not being able to take selfies anymore—that was just her cover story.” She looks at you sympathetically. “You know that can’t really happen, right?”
“We needed to get Kylie into the psych ward because there are other people in there who have information
we need,” Kendall says.
“Information about what?”
“About the software the government uses to find and delete selfies. The systems they use to prevent us from expressing ourselves.”
“We’re going to take their software offline and post tons and tons of selfies,” Kim says. “Not just us. Women everywhere. All at once. Flood the internet with positive validations of our selves.”
“That’s the plan?” you say. “But what will that even accomplish? It’s not really going to change anything, is it? They’ll just get their software online again and start deleting selfies again.”
“Probably,” Kim says. “And we’ll take it offline again. But in the meantime we’re sending a clear message. Not just to the government, but to women everywhere. We’re here, we matter, and we are allowed to think that we are awesome, because we are awesome. And we are incredibly, incredibly powerful.” She watches you closely, trying to gauge your reaction. “You’re getting there. I can tell you’re almost there. You’re still thinking of selfies as inconsequential because they want you to think they’re inconsequential. But nothing could be further from the truth. Self-love is incredibly, incredibly powerful. And every selfie out there in the world sends a stronger and stronger message. Every selfie scares them more and more.”
“Oh, hey,” Kendall says abruptly. She turns the engine over and the car hums to life just as a woman in hospital scrubs and a hoodie pulled low over her face opens the passenger-side door and quickly slides into the front seat. Kendall pulls away from the curb as soon as the door shuts, easing the SUV out into the road. The car has gone eerily silent, a delicate bubble of hope encasing us for the next few minutes.
“Hi, everyone,” Kylie whispers from beneath her hood.
“Hiiii,” Kendall and Kim whisper in return. They both reach out and put their hands on Kylie. Kendall reaches over and touches her leg. Kim reaches up from the backseat and places her hand on Kylie’s shoulder. They both hold their hands on their sister for a moment, silently acknowledging her presence with physical contact.
The mood in the car remains tense and quiet as Kendall executes a few more turns, and then you’re on the highway, speeding away. No one followed you, no car chase, nothing bad happened. It’s done. Kylie removes her hood, and everyone instantly relaxes.
“We did it, yay, wooo!” Kendall says, laughing.
“OMG, that suuuuuuuuuucked,” Kylie says, slumping down into her seat.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Kim says cheerfully. “But we reeeeally appreciate you!”
Kylie lightly punches Kendall in the leg. “Next time I get to fake my death and you have to eat hospital food and have group therapy about your egotism.”
“Hmm, we’ll see,” Kendall replies.
“That sounds awful,” Kim says. “We missed you so much; are you okay?”
Kylie sighs. “Yeah, just tired, hungry. I’m so relieved you got the message my contacts sent you. I was worried you wouldn’t be able to decrypt it.”
“Nope, no problem!” Kim says brightly, giving you a look like She doesn’t need to know how close we were to not decrypting it in time. “So did you get the info we needed?”
Kylie nods. “Yeah. Our contacts were correct. There was a very helpful woman who’d worked for the government in there. I got all kinds of information about how to bypass their system and take it offline. A lot of it was over my head, though. I took serious notes, but we’re going to need someone who’s pretty awesome at networks and electronics hacking to pull this off.”
“WELLLLL, it just so happens . . .” Kim says happily, leaning over to nudge you with her elbow.
Kylie turns and sees you in the car for the first time.
“Hi there,” you say, waving and introducing yourself. Kylie just stares at you for a moment. Even just out of prison, in her drab hospital scrubs and her messy hair going everywhere, she’s amazing to look at. So comfortable in her own skin. Kylie is looking at you like she recognizes you from somewhere. Like you’re painfully familiar to her, but she can’t quite place you.
“Is that my shirt?” she asks finally.
“Yyyyeah, sorry, Kendall loaned it to me.”
Kylie turns to Kendall. “And do you have clothes for me to change into?”
“Well, we did, but then we were under attack and kind of in a hurry at the last safe house, and they miiiight have gotten left behind.”
“Kenny!” Kylie says, making a fist.
“Sorry, sorry! We’ll get you clothes at the next stop, I promise.”
You feel horrified that you have Kylie’s clothes on, and she’s stuck with nothing to wear. These are very unideal circumstances for you to be meeting Kylie Jenner.
“I’m really sorry,” you offer. “We could trade?” You say the words, but honestly, the idea of wearing her hospital scrubs turns your stomach.
Kylie shakes her head and smiles. “It’s okay. The shirt looks good on you. And if you’re riding with these two, then we must be family. It’s really fine. If that’s the only thing that goes wrong today, it’s really fine.” She turns around to face the road, and smiles, relaxed.
“Oh, sure, you let her borrow your clothes,” Kendall says.
This is insane. How is this happening to you? You’re hanging out with Kim and Kylie and Kendall and they, like, want you to be there. They’re not getting bored with you. They’re not going to ditch you by the side of the road when they realize how boring you are. They seem to actually want you here. You belong in a way that you have not felt like you belong anywhere, ever—not at home, not with your boyfriend, and definitely not at your job. You are somehow exactly where you’re supposed to be, and it’s here, with them.
Why does your face suddenly ache? You reach up to touch your face and realize you’re smiling. You’re smiling for, like, the first time in forever.
You look over and notice Kim noticing you smiling. “Not how you thought this week was going to go, is it?” she says.
“Definitely not,” you say, blushing.
“You’re hacking the government, you’re on the run with some of the coolest chicks ever, you’re single . . .”
“Wow, I guess I am single,” you say. “I never had any real closure about it with my boyfriend, though.”
“You ditched him—that’s better closure than he deserves,” Kim says.
“You should send him a selfie!” Kendall calls from the front. “Like, ‘Bye, hater.’ ”
The car erupts in laughter, the sisters agreeing that this is, in fact, exactly what you should do.
You laugh too, but more nervously. “I don’t know about that.”
“Come on, what do you say, electronics expert?” Kim asks. “You ready to change the world?”
“Um, I’m not really sure,” you say. “This plan sounds much bigger and more complicated than anything I could ever accomplish.”
“Listen, come here,” Kim says. She slides across the seat, sitting right next to you. “I need to show you something really amazing.”
She puts one arm around you, pulling you in close. With her other arm she holds her phone out, with the camera on, so your faces appear together on the screen.
“What?” you ask.
And Kim says, “You.”
Standby Superhero
Annelie Lange
Imagine . . .
On your flight home for Christmas, the pilot comes over the loudspeaker: “Folks, unfortunately it looks like we’ll be landing a little bit earlier than planned. This weather turned faster than anyone expected, and for your safety we’re being rerouted. I’ll update you as soon as I know more.”
Not exactly the kind of message you want to hear halfway through a cross-country flight. Still, at least no oxygen alerts are involved, which, you know from experience, induce the kind of panic necessitating assistance from a neighbor to successfully don your (potentially) lifesaving mask. And seeing as your current seatmate is a sorority girl in snowflake-covered leggings and s
equined fluffy boots—who has spent the better part of eight hundred miles sighing dramatically every time your elbow so much as touches hers on the armrest—your chances of dying from oxygen deprivation are fairly substantial should the flight go pear-shaped.
A flight attendant with a company-approved smile appears at the front of the cabin to direct passengers on connecting flights, and you try to remember whether the pilot mentioned where you’re being diverted to; she’s awfully chipper for it to be someplace good. You glance at sorority girl and wonder if it’s worth interrupting what appears to be an entertaining read (if the heaving bosom on the paperback’s cover is anything to go by), but decide self-reliance is a noble endeavor and peek out the tiny window instead. Unfortunately, it’s dark, the edge of the glass is etched with a crystalline layer of frost, and geography never really was your strong suit.
Maybe I can finish up my Christmas shopping in the airport, you think. There’s absolutely no shame in buying gifts at the airport when it’s your only option. Never mind all the procrastinating you did before you left—you were too distraught over losing Agatha the Cat.
Gosh, you miss her. It doesn’t even matter that technically she was never your cat. You’re the one who fed her and bought her catnip toys and a halter and took her for walks so she could jump in the leaves and bully the prissy little dogs you met in the park. You’re the one who knit her tiny sweaters when the weather turned chilly. Cheating Slimeball (also known as Jeremy) would never knit her sweaters. Hell, he left all of her toys and her little blue leash on the kitchen counter when he left, right beside her monogrammed porcelain dish. Scumbag.
It’s occurred to you more than once since he left that you don’t miss Cheating Slimeball at all. That’s probably significant.
Poor kitty. It wasn’t her fault she wound up a casualty of your latest failed attempt at a grown-up relationship.