IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (23 page)

“I wouldn’t mind being a supermodel though.”

“Supermodels are mutants. Less than one percent of women
have those bodies. Why would you want a man who digs mutant freaks when he can have a goddess?” She rolls her arms over her breasts, finishing with an air karate chop above her lady bits.

You fight back a giggle.

Just then the window behind the driver lowers, and he catches your eye in the rearview mirror. “I like supermodels,” he says in a thick European accent, “those freaks I can get behind.”

“Shut up, Alfred,” Rebel snaps. “No one asked you.”

“My name is Frank.”

“Do you want me to fire you, is that what you want?”

“You fired me yesterday.”

She inspects her nails and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well, if you keep at it, I’ll fire you again.”

He raises the partition, but he’s not mad; you see his smile in the mirror.

“Men.” She turns to you. “That one you were talking to, who was he?”

“Oh, uh . . .” Before you can formulate an answer, she pulls the crumpled picture from your fingers. You fight the urge to dive across the seat and grab it back and instead rest one hand on the door handle in case you need to run.

Rebel unfolds it and studies the image, her hazel eyes darting over the page to you in question.

What’s a little more humiliation?
“I hired him to pretend to be my boyfriend.”

She laughs, and when you don’t join her, she sets the picture on the empty seat between you. “Seriously?”

You ache to grab the paper, to hide it back in your bodice. But you let it stay there, taunting you, unraveling all your biggest secrets to your hero.

“That’s sad,” she says. “It reminds me of the time my mom forced a Kiwi stud on one of her bitches.”

Your mouth dangles open, you don’t know what to say.

“That poor bitch had six pups. They’ll probably grow to be sheep humpers.”

Your mouth dangles even wider.

“Have you seen my movie
How to Be Single
?”

The topic change catches you off guard. “N-not yet.” You feel bad for not seeing her latest release, but you haven’t had a chance with all the reunion planning—it wasn’t easy finding an imaginary boyfriend.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to teach you myself.” She claps and turns to the front. “Alfred—”

“Frank,” he corrects.

“Take us to the warehouse.” She glances over you, her eyes rolling up your dress. “We have to get a better single-and-ready-to-mingle outfit.” She leans over and whispers, “
Mingle
means ‘screw.’ ”

“Oh, that’s okay.” Your cheeks heat at the thought. “I wasn’t going to go anymore.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to be awesome today, then I thought, ‘That’s ridiculous, you can’t
not
be awesome.’ ”

You smile, covering your mouth to hide the gap, and you go along with Rebel’s plan. Besides, you don’t want this moment to end. You’ve always dreamed of hanging out with your hero, and it’s actually happening.

After a few minutes, Frank pulls up to a building on the nicer side of town, and Rebel escorts you in. It’s filled wall-to-wall with racks of her new clothing line, Rebel Wilson for Torrid. You try on almost everything and agree on a cute red-and-black lace peplum dress that accentuates your curves in all the right places. Rebel even does your makeup, using her own supply, and pulls your hair back in a bun—somehow managing to tame it all into one elastic without any bumps. She brings you to a mirror, where you
inspect yourself. You look younger, bolder, beautiful. The orange glow’s hardly noticeable under her pale foundation. But most of all, you look confident.

“How do you feel about your reunion now?”

The thought of Eve Winters comes flooding back, and you doubt that a nice dress and well-styled hair will be enough to face her.

Rebel’s smile drops as she reads your expression. “I don’t normally get serious, but you need to hear this.” She plops onto the stool beside the mirror, adjusts her bra, straightens her gold chain necklace, and pats down her hair. When she’s done settling, she grabs your hand and holds you in front of the mirror.

“Confidence doesn’t come from clothing or makeup; it doesn’t come from hot model boyfriends or limos or even from comedy. Confidence comes from inside, from knowing you matter, and that you have value. You are funny. You are pretty. And you do matter. But nothing I say will ever make a difference unless you start believing in yourself.” She gives your hand a squeeze. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I wasn’t always this secure. Sometimes people say or do hurtful things. But you have to try. Try to find your strengths”—she points to her right boob—“and gifts”—she points to her left—“and focus on the positives.”

You laugh, choking back tears. Rebel is so much more than you ever thought her to be: she is funny, sure, confident even, but more than anything else she is brave. Not many people would open up to a stranger like that. You look back at the mirror and smile, testing that gap. Maybe Rebel is right, maybe you can embrace it as a unique beautiful flaw.

YOU WATCH REBEL AND FRANK
pull away and you wish you didn’t get out, especially here, at the reunion. Where a giant blue- and
white-balloon archway—your school colors—squeaks with the wind in an awkward latex conversation.

But you’re here now, and you got dressed up, so you might as well make the most of it. Nerves flood you as you walk under the arch and enter a large gaudy lobby. You follow the signs with your school crest, down a set of paisley-covered corridors, to a large conference room where your fellow graduates gather around a stage listening to Eve Winters speak. She’s wearing a perfect blue dress, looking like she just walked out of hair and makeup, and you debate whether it was a mistake coming. Maybe you should turn and hail a cab.

But something draws you to walk closer.

“I’m sure you’ve all seen my show,” you hear her say. “We won a daytime-TV award this year.”

The crowd cheers and her smile is so big and fake it makes your head hurt.
You could probably be home in ten minutes if you hurry.

“Thank you, thank you.” She nods to each person. “I am so honored to host the talent portion of our reunion. Thank you again for asking me.” Her Southern-belle inflection seems different, softer. You remember it being high-pitched and cutting. “Should I start us off with a song?”

Singing is her shtick; it’s how she opens every episode of
Good Eve’ning America
. You hate that you know this because you’ve watched it. The audience seems to love the idea—they clap and cheer, encouraging her to serenade them. After all, they did go to school with a celebrity. She walks to the front, scanning the crowd; her eyes come to rest on you.

“I just can’t get over how some of you look the
exact
same,” she says all sweet, but you know better; that was her first attack.

You’re not sticking around for another, so you slink toward the exit, but before you leave, you hear Rebel’s words replay in your mind:
Try to find your strengths, and gifts, and focus on the positives.
The last thing you want is the insecurity you feel around Eve overshadowing what you shared with Rebel. So instead of leaving, you find a hiding place at the back, beside a large plant, and you watch her sing an a cappella version of Taylor Swift’s “Today Was a Fairytale.” The crowd sways; some hold up lighters. She’s a good singer—even you have to admit it.

“Thank you, my darlings. Thank you,” she says as the music finishes, her eyes scanning to where she last saw you. “I hear we have a comedian in the crowd. Why don’t you come on up and do a set for us? Now where did she go?”

Your heart pounds, you scout out the quickest exit, then some tall dude you vaguely recognize points to you. “There she is.”

Eve steps offstage and glides to the back of the crowd, to your hiding place beside the plant. She holds out the mic.

You grab for it with one shaky hand, ignoring the smirk on her face. Hundreds of eyes train on you, watching your every move, but you only see one pair: Eve’s ice-blue stare as she holds the handle, refusing to let you fully take it.

You fight the urge to run—you’re done running. You’re done letting Eve intimidate you with her success. It’s time you listened to Rebel and realized you have value.
You can do it. You can be funny. You
are
funny. Please be funny.

“I’d love to,” you lie.

She looks you over from head to toe, cringes, and lets go. As she does, the crowd parts, giving you a path to the stage. Before you make it to the stairs, you hear excited murmuring. You hope they aren’t expecting greatness from you; you’d be happy to even get through your whole routine without stuttering.

Then someone grabs your arm. “Let’s show that bitch how it’s done.”

You stop midstep, turn. Your eyes widen when you see her. “Rebel?”

Dressed head to toe in a black Catwoman costume, there she is. “I’m here for your backup.” Her smile is so big you could hug her.

“How did you know—”

“Well, I sort of called ahead and said you’d perform.”

“You didn’t!”

“I really wanted to hear the punch line. Also, I’ve been dying to find somewhere I can wear this.” She pinches the leather and pulls it out, letting it slap back into her stomach. “You ready?”

You glance behind her to see Eve, standing in a circle of handsome men—the old football team, you think. Then you glance ahead at the stage, bigger than you’re used to, with a much bigger crowd to perform to. Deep inside you know that of all the stages in the world, this one, with Eve Winters watching, is the one you need to conquer.

“Ready,” you say, and together Rebel and you skip up the steps. With Rebel beside you, you feel invincible. “Hello, everyone, I’d like to introduce you to my friend Rebel Wilson.”

The crowd gasps, you can hear someone whisper that they thought it was her, and you’re certain it’s Eve’s voice asking what in the world Rebel is doing with you. You ignore the jab, take a deep breath, and walk to stage front.

“So have you heard of these cat-poo-ccinos? Tried one even?” you ask the crowd.

Rebel dances behind you in her cat costume, meowing as she turns and squats, pretending to poo. You bite your lip to hide your smile. But confidence fills you.

“I’m sensing by your silence you think I’m crazy, but people pay a lot to drink it.”

Rebel nuzzles into your leg, then drops to the floor and bends in awkward places, pretending to groom herself. You can’t help chuckling; neither can the crowd. The next few minutes are a glorious blur. You speak loudly, confidently, you’re uninhibited.
You walk around the stage, hop over Rebel, shake her off your leg like someone would a naughty kitten. It’s a bad routine, the kind of jokes a grandpa would tell his grandkids. But Rebel gives your ankle a squeeze, you know she’s proud of how you’re delivering your show, and the crowd giggles too; some listeners even snort-laugh. It doesn’t matter whether they’re laughing with or at you, your heart soars—you’re doing it, you’re finally doing it.

“—brings a whole new meaning to Italian roast! Am I right?”

As you finish your set, there isn’t a dry eye in the house, and you catch Eve’s pouty face, arms crossed, that ice-cold glare. When she notices you watching her, she smiles like you’re old BFFs. But seeing that look on her face makes you realize she’s just like you: insecure, neurotic, human. Suddenly she has no more hold on you.

You smile big, showing your teeth, that gap you’ve spent years hiding, and you turn to Rebel.

She playfully scratches the air. “Meow.”

“Thank you, Rebel. That was awesome. You were awesome!”

“I know.” She brushes a blond curl over her shoulder with a paw-shaped glove. “And so were you.”

She nods to the line of people waiting to talk to you, Eve among them, and in that moment you know Rebel’s right. You
are
awesome—quirks and all!

You hug her, and she stands limp, awkwardly patting your arm. “Do you maybe want to get out of here?” you ask. “We can go back to Tony’s and make up for my lackluster performance.”

“Meow.” She licks her paw glove and wags her hips so that the pinned-on black tail follows. “That’s kitty for
yes
. But first, there are too many beautiful people waiting for their chance with me. So . . . let’s make them jealous, shall we?”

And she grabs your hand and pulls you through the crowd, onto the dance floor.

Y
ou’re sitting across from your friend at a local coffee shop. It’s crowded; the two of you are sitting at a small table that is leaning to one side and shakes every time you touch it. You love this shop, no matter how crowded it is; you enjoy the vibe here and you stop in at least three times a week. You work all week waiting tables to spend your money on coffee and makeup, and then some of it actually goes toward your bills. Your friend lives with you in a small apartment. She’s great and you love the friendship that you two have, but she hasn’t spoken a word to you in at least five minutes. Her routine has been this:

Scroll, scroll. Tap. Scroll.

Take a drink of her cold latte. (She’s been neglecting that too.)

Scroll. Tap. Tap.

You love her, but you can’t stand the way she constantly has her face buried in her iPhone. You enjoy social media yourself, of course. You’re not the savviest, but you enjoy swiping through filtered Instagram posts of food, friends’ pets, and, best of all, the endless makeup tutorials that you can’t seem to master no matter how easy the models make it look. Still, you’re slightly frustrated by your friend’s robotlike behavior—she’s just a little too connected to the internet for you.

You hear loud rap music coming from her phone as she taps, taps, taps the screen. She smiles at her screen, and her eyes
soften in such a way you figure she
must
be looking at a litter of newborn puppies or something.

“Care to share what has you so enthralled?” you tease.

She looks up at you, making eye contact for the first time since you can remember. “Kylie’s snap,” she says briefly, then her eyes dart back to the screen.