Imagines

by Anna Todd

  You follow Kim, running through the aisles toward the back of the room.

  “West side, three minutes, one passenger,” Kim says into her phone, then hangs up. At the back of the storeroom, she pauses. She’s looking at a map of the mall on her phone. “The back door leads to the loading dock, right?”

  You nod.

  “They’ll have that blocked off by now. We’ll escape through the food court. Let’s go.”

  “Wait,” you say, not moving. “What’s happening? Why are they shooting at us?”

  “Because you told your boyfriend I’d be here.”

  “I didn’t, though! I didn’t say anything about you! I said I made the phone myself. I swear I didn’t say one thing about you.”

  Kim looks heartbroken. “Well, that’s worse. That means your boyfriend just really doesn’t trust you, like, at all. Come on, you’re coming with me now. Let’s go.”

  “You’re kidnapping me?”

  “What?” Kim looks at you like you’re completely insane. “I’m not kidnapping you. I’m saving you.”

  “But my boyfriend . . .” you say, looking back in the direction of the store.

  “Your boyfriend is complete garbage and he’s shooting at you, and I’m sorry, but you have to come with me now. Let’s GO!” Kim grabs your arm and pulls you along, leading you away from the loading dock.

  “Stay right behind me,” she says, and you are too much in shock to do anything else. She shoves open the side exit door and leaps across the hallway, pulling you along behind her, through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. You find yourself in the Taco Bell kitchen. Stainless-steel surfaces everywhere, hot ovens, a sweet, spicy smell filling the air almost oppressively, and some extremely confused-looking teenagers staring at you and Kim.

  Kim has a pained look on her face as she continues walking. “Ohhh, I love Taco Bell! I wish we had time to grab something—I’m starving! Cool Ranch Doritos Locos Tacossss!” she exclaims sadly, reaching out toward a tray of empty taco shells as she passes, as though she’s being forcibly taken away from the love of her life.

  Kim jumps over the front counter, and you follow right behind her, crossing the food court, rushing out through the doors, racing across the courtyard past the water fountain with the colored lights and around the corner, into an alley. There’s a jet-black Range Rover waiting there, and Kim opens the back door and pushes you inside and jumps in after you and yells “GO!” The truck immediately peels off, jumping down off the sidewalk, screeching out across the oncoming traffic, and away into the night.

  YOU GET JOUNCED AROUND in the backseat as the SUV quickly screams across two lanes of traffic, brakes squealing and horns honking in its wake, and just barely makes an exit at the last minute. The car whips around the cloverleaf ramp, throwing you against the door. Once you’re on the highway, the driver floors it and the car takes off at top speed.

  “Anyone following us?” Kim asks the driver.

  “We lost them,” a voice, female, replies.

  “Is the phone in here?” Kim asks, tugging at your bag.

  “Oh, yeah, here.” You start to remove the backpack from your shoulder and then realize that in your panic about your rapidly approaching death when the SUV had started moving, you had pulled the seat belt down and locked it while you were still wearing the bag. Which makes removing the bag impossible. Further panic sets in.

  “Here, let me—” Kim starts.

  “I got it! I can do it!” you say, your voice sounding more upset and worried than you intended. You stop trying to untangle yourself and calmly undo the safety belt and slide it back, freeing the straps of the bag, which you hand to Kim. You lock yourself back in. Your hands are shaking.

  “Thanks,” Kim says, eyeing you carefully.

  This is mortifying. You’re sitting in an SUV next to Kim Kardashian and acting like an idiot who’s never been in a car before. Kim searches around inside your bag, pulling out random, irrelevant things. Your laptop cord. Your wallet. A half-empty Dasani. A bag of gummy worms that you didn’t realize was still in there. A magazine featuring an article you’ve been meaning to read about “The Top 10 Things You’re Doing That Turn Him Off.”

  “Hmm, should I dump this whole thing out or should I . . . ?” Kim wonders aloud.

  “Here, I’ll help,” you say, reaching over into the bag where it sits on Kim’s lap. You find the inner mesh pocket where you’d stashed the phone, slide it out, and hand it to her.

  “Thanks,” Kim says, taking it delicately from you. “I’m glad to have it back. It’s not as easy for me to get phones as it once was. I have to hang on to them.”

  You don’t really have a response to that, or to anything, really. You are not sure what’s happening in your brain. It’s kind of a mess of feelings and emotions and things you don’t totally understand, and honestly you can’t even really breathe, like at all; it’s like someone very heavy is suddenly sitting on your chest.

  Oh, you’re having a panic attack.

  “Whoa, hey,” Kim says. She undoes her seat belt and slides across the seat to you. She places her hand gently but firmly on your back. “Just breathe slowly. Close your eyes. It’s okay. You’re not dying. I promise.” You close your eyes and breathe and focus on Kim’s touch, her voice. She feels real. It helps you feel like you’re not completely disconnected from reality.

  “That was pretty intense back there,” she says. “I’m sorry. I’ve gotten used to it, but I’m sure that was, like, a lot.”

  You nod and turn to look out the window. You’re being driven away from the city. It’s just a mass of yellow lights receding into the darkness.

  “Where are we going?” you ask.

  “Somewhere safe,” Kim says.

  “Are you dropping me off somewhere? A train station or something? I don’t mind. I’m not sure I have enough money for a ticket, but I’ll figure it out. I’ll be okay. I promise.” You nod at Kim, trying to reassure her. What are you reassuring her about? Why are you crying? Why do you feel like the thing inside your heart is about to claw its way out of your chest?

  Kim keeps rubbing your back. “So. Your boyfriend has figured out by now that you know me. Which means: (a) he’s not your boyfriend anymore, and (b) you can’t really go home. And, well, (c) upside, they are definitely not expecting you back at work tomorrow. You’re safer with us now.”

  “But I need to go back,” you say. “I need to explain.”

  “What do you need to explain? Your boyfriend’s task force was shooting at you. They’re the ones who need to explain. I’m really sorry that I got you involved in this, but like, honestly, you kind of already were, whether or not you realized it.”

  You keep running over the events at the mall in your mind. Had your boyfriend known you were with Kim? He’d known you were working, but the rest was just coincidence, right? He wouldn’t blame you. It would be okay. He was your boyfriend. He was just trying to do the right thing. And what were you doing? How were you repaying him? By hanging out with criminals.

  At some point after dusk, the Range Rover exits the highway and is driving through a town now. Sleepy blue TV lights glow out from the windows on houses set far back from the street, far from each other.

  You all keep driving until the town falls away and everything becomes empty woodland and farmland. Then the car turns off onto a dirt road that you definitely would never have found on your own, even with Google Maps.

  “We’re just switching cars,” Kim says. “Then we’ll get to the house.”

  “We’re going to your house?” you ask.

  Kim shakes her head. “Just a house. I can’t risk staying anywhere too long.”

  The car pulls to a stop. Kim opens her door, and you slide out on your side. The driver is already out of the car, and as you exit, she goes around to the back, lifts the tailgate, and pulls out a red plastic gas container, which she proceeds to dump all over the car.

  Watching her, you see that the driver is tall and thin. Her hair
is as dark as Kim’s, but her skin is paler, almost translucent in the moonlight. She’s wearing black boots, leather pants and jacket. There’s a gracefulness to every move she makes. Like a dancer. It’s hard to take your eyes off her.

  Kim comes over and stands by you, holding your bag out to you. “Don’t forget this,” she says.

  “Thanks,” you say, just as the driver flicks a match, and in the flame you see her face for the first time. “OH MY GOD,” you say as the driver throws the match and the SUV bursts into flames. “That’s Kendall Jenner,” you say to Kim.

  Kim nods excitedly at you, like Good job figuring that out!

  “That’s your sister!” you add stupidly.

  Kim nods again politely, then says, “Come on,” pulling you along.

  Kendall is already a good distance away from the burning SUV, her long legs taking her down a shallow ditch to what looks like just a weird brown shape in the night. She pulls a sheet back, revealing a small car underneath. A Honda Fit.

  In the firelight you can see Kim’s upper lip curling. Kendall sees it too.

  “Gotta play it low-key in the suburbs, Kim.”

  “I didn’t say anything!” Kim protests.

  Kendall lowers her eyes at Kim, then opens the front door and swings into the driver’s seat. Kim gets into the front passenger seat, and you climb in behind her. Kendall turns the engine over and starts easing the car down the bumpy dirt path, back toward the main road.

  Kim is already fiddling with the radio. “No aux cord; not even, like, satellite,” she murmurs to herself.

  “KIM!” Kendall says. It’s a very stern warning.

  “I’m not complaining! I’m just stating a fact!” Kim says, sitting back.

  The car continues in silence for a moment. “So I have a question,” you say when that moment has run its course. Kim turns back and nods expectantly for you to proceed.

  “Kendall is alive?”

  Kim narrows her eyes suspiciously at Kendall, then reaches over and pokes her firmly, once, in the arm.

  “Are you alive?” Kim is smiling evilly; she knows she’s irritating not just her sister but everyone in the car.

  Kendall lifts her chin and finds your eyes in the rearview mirror. “Faking my death just freed us up, gave us a little more room to move while we work on our plan. Don’t worry, I won’t be dead for much longer. And in fact, soon I’ll be more famous and popular than I ever was before. I mean, talk about a second act. Coming back from the dead beats being hospitalized for exhaustion any old day. I’ll probably be more famous than the amazing Kim Kardashian.”

  “If that happened, I would kill you for real,” Kim says. She tries to poke Kendall again, but Kendall slaps her hand away, and there’s a brief slap fight before silence once again descends upon the car.

  You have a million follow-up questions and you’re having trouble picking just one.

  “So where are we going?” you ask.

  Kim turns toward you and waggles her eyebrows. “Well, Miss File Decrypter, that’s what you’re going to tell us.”

  YOU WAKE UP the next morning, calmly, easily. You are in a small twin bed in a room that’s otherwise empty. The shades are drawn, but you can tell from the color of the light that it’s late morning.

  There are no other noises in the house, and for a brief moment you panic that you’ve been left here. That Kim and Kendall have ditched you in this random house in the middle of nowhere. They’ve realized that you are boring and dumb and useless and you’re on your own, forever. But then you hear voices, kitchen noises, Kendall yelling at Kim about something, and you relax.

  You push back the covers and see you’re still in your Best Buy uniform. Gross. And you don’t even really want to know about your hair situation. You quietly wander out of the bedroom and down the hall toward the kitchen. You smell something heavy and oppressive. Is it gunpowder? Is gunpowder even still a thing people use? The smell is burny and metallic, anyway.

  You arrive at the kitchen/eating area and find Kendall and Kim hunched over a laptop. You watch them for a moment. It’s so weird to see them together, just being themselves. They’re looking at something on the screen, and you can’t hear what they’re saying, but there’s a casual gracefulness to their interaction. A comfort. Kendall says something and Kim points to something on the screen, and then Kim starts to say something and Kendall is already tapping away, bringing up another screen, and Kim’s saying something else.

  Kim looks up, her eyes instantly finding yours. “Hey, you. Good morning,” she says, smiling.

  “Is everything okay?” you ask. “I smelled something burning.”

  “FINE. OKAY, I AM NOT THE BEST COOK!” Kim says in mock outrage.

  Oops. Whatever you smelled, it definitely had not occurred to you that it might be food.

  “Sorry!” you say.

  Kendall waves your concern away as unnecessary. “Kim has other skills. Like eating.”

  “I heard that!” Kim says. “And I completely agree.”

  Kendall motions for you to sit on a stool at the counter and puts a plate of something that looks vaguely breakfast-y in front of you. “Maybe scrape off the black parts?” she suggests.

  “So, like, all of it?” you say.

  Kendall smiles.

  “We’re looking at the file again,” Kim says. “Can you show us what you figured out?”

  You nod and push away the alleged plate of breakfast. You lean in over the computer, and Kim moves away, staying close enough to be right next to you but not get in your way. You can feel her hair just barely grazing your skin. Which is distracting. But you give the sisters a quick tutorial, going back over the steps you took to decrypt the file.

  “See? So it’s a time and a location. And if we put it into Google Maps . . .” You pause, waiting for the internet to do its thing. The map comes up, and the location pin indicates a psychiatric hospital.

  “That’s only a few hours from here,” Kendall says.

  Kim nods. “And the time on the encrypted file was like . . .”

  “Tomorrow night,” Kendall answers.

  “Whoa,” Kim says, a look passing between them. “Okay. It’s all happening.”

  “What’s all happening?” you ask. “Why is the location a secure hospital? What’s happening tomorrow night?”

  “That’s when Kylie is breaking out of jail.”

  “Um,” you say. You have questions about this. But Kendall interrupts you before you can start expressing them.

  “Hey, speaking of,” she says to me, “I think we can find some clothes that fit you in the stuff we brought for Kylie, unless you want to continue to demonstrate your fierce brand loyalty to Best Buy. I have been thinking of investing in a new microwave oven, if you want to help with that.”

  “Ugh, yeah, no,” you say, horrified about your appearance. “Please, different clothes.”

  Kendall nods understandingly and walks back toward the bedrooms.

  Kim is still hunched over the computer, clicking around. “Awww!” she says, looking disappointed. “You didn’t take any selfies while you had the phone. I thought you would have at least tried it. Weren’t you tempted at all?”

  “No, I don’t know. I didn’t really think about it.”

  Kim shrugs. “You’re so beautiful, though. If I looked like you, I’d be taking selfies all the time.”

  “Um, you are taking selfies all the time?” Kendall says, sailing back into the room with a pile of clothes in her arms. She arranges them on the back of a chair for you to look through.

  “Shut it, Kendall,” Kim says. Then she turns to you. “Selfies are important. And you’ve got plenty of access to cameras now.” She unplugs the phone and holds it out to you. “You should take a selfie!”

  You can feel your cheeks flushing. You’re wearing your smelly and gross chain-store uniform, standing next to two of the most beautiful women of all time. You are not about to embarrass yourself by trying to take a selfie in front of them.


  “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.”