IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (22 page)

The kiss turns more passionate and your breath turns
heavy, your body heating up. His hand releases yours and you rush to entangle your fingers in his hair to pull him closer. He presses you against the door, kissing you harder, making it impossible for you to breathe properly.

He breaks the kiss and presses his forehead against yours. “You are mine, little coward.” Then, through ragged breaths: “No more running.”

You smile against his lips. “No more running.”

Y
ou are awesome.

At least that’s what you tell yourself as you stare into the mirror, rubbing the orange splotch from your neck. The truth is you don’t feel awesome. The lady at the salon convinced you that spray tans were a good idea. She said, “The darker your skin, the skinnier you look,” and you believed her, so you got sprayed.

Twice.

You can be so gullible sometimes.

Impersonating a pumpkin isn’t even your biggest worry. You’re exhausted, and the last time you were this tired you completely froze midset. You’ve only had two hours of sleep because you spent the night staring at the ceiling, stressing about your reunion. You haven’t seen Eve Winters in ten years, long before her famous talk show, back in the days when she took it upon herself to remind you of your excess baby fat and that gap in your teeth.

The same gap you can’t help noticing now. It seems bigger than you last remembered.

Lack of sleep. Orange skin. Gap teeth. Baby fat—which is being poorly camouflaged with the spray tan and tamed with Spanx—now if only you could breathe.

Heavy footsteps echo off the rickety plywood of the backstage area. When the dusty velvet curtains flap open, you turn
from the mirror to the large figure of Tony—Showbiz Tony, as he likes to call himself.

“Hey, kid.” He stares at his reflection and buffs his bald head with his fingerless gloves. His Australian accent is inflected with the LA drawl—that lazy, relaxed surfer vibe. It sounds out of place with his biker-gang look. You’ve often wondered how a tough man like him came to spend his entire savings on this hovel of a comedy club. But you never ask because he’s taken a liking to you, he’s given you a chance to pursue your dream of stand-up, supporting you, even—he was the first to tell you that you could be like your comedy hero, Rebel Wilson—but mostly you don’t ask because he’s Hulk-angry when he’s mad.

“So we got some blow-ins,” he says. In Tony-talk that means there’s actually a crowd. Suddenly the air in the small space backstage feels too thick to breathe, and you’re worried your well-rehearsed (i.e., practiced in the shower to your half-empty bottle of body wash and an old loofah sponge—
who thought you were hilarious
) material won’t stand up.

He looks up, his deep brown eyes locking on you, his smile turning into a frown. “What’s wrong with your face?”

“Nothing.” You add under your breath, “It’s a tan.”

“A tan? I’m from the outback, I know
tan
. You look like a carrot.”

You cross your arms and mumble, “Thanks.”

“Listen, I pulled some favors and brought a mate in the biz to see you tonight. You’re funny, and I want to help you out.” He leans in, putting his large, calloused hand on your shoulder. It’s cold, wet, and shocking. His hands are normally wet from handing out dewy beer bottles. The shocking part is he touched you. He hates touching—his friend must be important.

“Though you’ve got me worried with your . . . your . . .” He pauses, waving his hand around your face like he thinks the action
will conjure a spell to remove the pumpkin hue, and for a moment you hope he can. He clears his throat, adding in a gruff voice, the voice he gives drunk customers when he kicks them out, “I don’t want to see any of that crikey stage-freeze bullshit you pulled last week. Got it?”

You nod and force a polite smile—lips closed, always closed, to hide the gap. In your mind you see Eve Winters’s judging stare telling you,
You aren’t good enough, you’re going to let Tony down in front of his industry friend.

Ten years and she’s still in your brain, making you feel like shit.

“It’s time,” he says, smiling before slipping back through the curtains. The old dusty-velvet smell hits you, then the sound of crackling speakers. Tony begins, his voice muffled behind the thick fabric. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Showbiz . . .”

You pinch your eyelashes—you do that when you’re nervous—and give yourself a preshow pep talk.
You can do it. There’s probably no more than twenty people there. It’s a little hole-in-the-wall comedy stage. You can be funny. You
are
funny. Please be funny.

Then you glance at the picture of Rebel that you taped to the mirror your very first show two months ago: her hanging upside down from the ceiling in a spandex costume from
Pitch Perfect 2
. Her fear of heights didn’t keep her from doing her own stunts. If you want to be like her, you’ll have to find a way to overcome your fear—stage fright, the most ironic fear for a comedian, ever. At least your phobia has a sense of humor.

You squeeze your cheeks and smooth down your unruly hair. Backstage is cold, and you rub your arms to keep warm, regretting wearing a cap-sleeved navy dress. But your reunion is in an hour and you wanted to look nice. The dress, though simple, is the nicest thing you own.

The motion brings your attention to the folded picture shoved in your bodice, scratching against your skin. You smirk, thinking of
him
, your “boyfriend.”

“. . . put your hands together.” Tony pulls back the velvet curtains, welcoming you to the crowd’s off-sync, less-than-enthusiastic applause.

Striding onstage, you take the mic, say, “Hello,” and make your way to the front. Stage lights flash in your eyes, and the unnerving rattle of people talking over you fills the room. You clear your throat, try to breathe through the Spanx squeezing your gut.

“So, uh, you know how cats . . . cats poo . . .” You spot a blond woman stage front and pause. The woman looks
a lot
like Rebel Wilson. In fact, you’re almost certain it is her—you’d know that big smile and golden hair anywhere. It can’t be her, though. Why would she be here, in this dump?
Unless
 . . .

Could she be Tony’s friend?

You take a step back into the protection of the bright lights, where you can’t see as much. The room becomes deafening: tinkling glassware, creaking chairs, and the crumbling of Tony’s faith in you.
Think fast, you have to think fast.

“So there’s these people who feed”—you glance at your feet, thankful you didn’t wear heels in case you have to make a break for it—“they feed cats coffee beans. And they try to get the cats to, well, poo. So the cats poo and—”

“Boo!” someone shouts.

“Don’t quit your day job,” another adds.

You feel your throat clamp, your heart race; your hands are too clammy to hold the mic. So you do the only thing you can. You turn and run, slipping behind the curtain and sneaking out the side exit, hoping to avoid Tony.

You know your performance was worse than mediocre. You don’t need to hear him say it.

As cold as the club was, it’s colder outside; you hug your body to keep warm, regretting not bringing a coat. Glancing to the street, you notice the limo you hired to take you to your reunion. It’s early. You check your watch and see you still have ten minutes to hide from Tony until your hot model boyfriend, who happens to be a doctor, arrives. You’ve imagined this meeting so many times that you’re beginning to believe he really
is
your boyfriend and a doctor, and not just someone you paid an exorbitant amount to a model agency to hire for the night. You were embarrassed to cash in your savings for a date, but you decided it was necessary. You didn’t want to show up to your high school reunion alone and have no one to dance with. Only losers did that. And you are not a loser—or so you want to believe.

More specifically, you want Eve to believe. She spent enough of your life telling you no one would ever want to be with a loser like you. You can’t prove her right; you won’t. You walk to the limo, glancing down the graffiti-littered alley, half expecting Tony to come barging out the exit. But he doesn’t; no doubt he’s onstage telling some fanciful story in your absence, trying to entertain the customers long enough that they’ll stick around for the next performer.

Tonight did not go as planned. You wanted to nail your performance, hoping it would help loosen you up for the reunion. Now you feel even more inside yourself than normal.

That’s when you notice your fingers, swiping up and down your copper arms—they’re worse than your splotchy neck. A dark line frames them as though you’ve recently traced your hand with a thick orange Sharpie. The stupid tan is starting to make you feel a certain camaraderie with the Cat in the Hat and his damn pink spot. You lick your thumb and set to rubbing the line, too focused to see the man walking toward you until he speaks.

“Is this your limo, ma’am?”

You look up, recognize his face, though it’s different from what you expected. You pull the folded picture from your bodice, suddenly aware of every food smear and coffee stain on its surface. You’re certain your desperation can be read through every blemish and scratch on the printout. You’ve looked at this picture a lot, wished it were your real boyfriend even, and now . . .

You hold it out, comparing it to the person before you. Rude, yes, but you need to be sure they’re the same person. Maybe the agency had a mix-up and sent the wrong model. But when you see them side by side, you realize the stubble jaw and the deep, knowledge-filled eyes from the magazine are merely a well-concocted Photoshop edit. He’s teenager-smooth.
Can he even grow facial hair?
He’s supposed to be older, traveled, educated. You’re supposed to tell tales of his adventures in Africa giving medical care to villagers, and saving babies—not tell stories of how he
is
a baby.

“How old
are
you?” you say, a little aggressively.

“I’m twenty.” He snaps his gum and leans into the brick wall.

“Twenty! You can’t even drink.” Your heart starts to flutter and you feel a panic attack coming on. Your fingers hover by your eye. How will you face Eve with a doctor boyfriend that’s really a college dropout/underwear model? What were you thinking? What will she think? You groan and pinch your eyelashes.

“Are you feeling okay? You look . . . off.” The boy takes a step back, like he’s afraid to catch whatever it is you have.

He can’t catch a spray tan. Although, technically, you did.

You sigh, realizing you’ve become the type of person you make fun of from stage. It’s time to go home and tuck yourself in bed with your real boyfriends, Ben and Jerry. Tonight deserves a full quart of Peanut Butter Half Baked.

“Ma’am?”

“There’s been a mistake. You won’t be needed anymore.
Thank you for your time.” You slip into the limo because you already paid for it, and you might as well have it take you to the store for ice cream and then home.

You watch the boy walk away from the warmth of the car, but then you hear someone clear their throat.

You’re not alone.

Slowly, cautiously, you turn toward the stranger.

It couldn’t be!

When she gets tired of your gawking, the blonde next to you says, “You know who I am, right? I’m not Meryl Streep.” She flips a curl over her shoulder, showing off her necklace, the word
BITCH
in a thick gold bejeweled chain. “People often confuse us because of our mutual refined elegance, but, no, I’m not her.”

Oh, you know who she is; you’d know that accent anywhere, and you’ve seen almost every show and movie she’s been in. You even watched her back on
Fat Pizza
, when she played the girl from the pussy gang.

“R-Reb-el,” you manage.

“In the flesh. Now, why are you in my limo?”

“Your limo? I hired it to take me to my reunion—” You stop, realizing it was early because it wasn’t your limo, and also realizing that it
was
Rebel in the crowd. She was there, at Tony’s, watching you choke. “Sorry. For everything, for Tony for—”

You start to unbuckle yourself and reach for the door.

“Wait.” She makes you turn back. “The cat poo, what was the punch line?”

“Oh, uh . . .” Something about her warm smile and cheerful big eyes puts you at ease. You want to tell your joke, no matter how bad it is, to your comedy hero. “People make coffee with the beans that the cats poo out.”

She nods and your excitement grows.

“It goes for hundreds of dollars a cup. My punch line was,
what if they made human-poo-ccinos? Fed it to a Chinese man for a Chinese blend, or maybe an Italian man; it would bring a whole new meaning to Italian roast.”

She blinks slow, presses her lips into a thin line. You’re worried she hates it, you, that you’re the worst comedian ever.

Then she laughs, really laughs, and her chest bobs with the motion. “I could charge a sweet, sweet dime for Rebel roast.”

You laugh too, so hard that your eyes tear up. There are so many things you want to say (you
are
sitting next to your hero after all), and she just made a bad situation something you can find funny. You want to thank her for all those times you pushed through your fears and insecurities because of her influence, but before you get the chance, she speaks.

“So what’s with licking your fingers?”

You were hoping that she didn’t see that—that no one saw it. “I got a stupid tan. I thought it would make me look skinnier.”

“Skinnier? Why skinnier?” She crosses her arms and sits back.

You hope you didn’t offend her. How do you explain about Eve, and about feeling stupid for showing up to your reunion chubby and alone? “For one night, I just wanted to feel pretty enough that someone would want to dance with me.”

“You are pretty,” she says, which makes you smile. “Not as pretty as me, but, I mean, not many are.” She winks and nudges your arm and you know she’s joking, but her confidence is so refreshing, so unexpected, that you wish you could borrow one tiny bit of it. With her confidence you could take on the world. “You don’t need to be a supermodel to get a boy. You just need to use your talents.” She nods to your chest. “Like your brains and stuff.”