IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (45 page)

He laughs, which does interesting things to his face. His light brown eyes sparkle and his lips curve in the most kissable way imaginable. You realize you’re holding your breath; you should definitely breathe instead of fainting. Being a girl who faints when she meets her idol is definitely not part of the cool vibe you’re going for.

“Have a seat,” you say, leading him toward the booth where you were sitting. You close the books and stack the loose papers as he slides in, his leather jacket squeaking against the red vinyl banquette.

You run into the kitchen, gulping garlic-scented air. You forgot to breathe despite your intentions.

Your mom looks up from a stainless spaghetti pot she’s scrubbing. “Are you ill?” she says, drying her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m pushing you too hard, aren’t I?”

“No, Mom. I’m fine. Do we have leftover Bolognese?”

“You’re hungry—I forgot to give you dinner!”

“No, it’s not for me. It’s for . . . someone.”

Your mom stops panicking over you and just smiles. “Someone, hmm? A
boy
?”

How does she know?

“I’m old, not stupid,” she answers your unspoken question. How do moms do this? It’s disconcerting. “We have some in the fridge.”

You quickly heat the sauce and pasta and switch on the broiler to toast the garlic bread.

“I’ll stay in here,” your mom says. “You go be alone with your young man.”

If only he were your young man. You kiss her check and give her a hug. “I love you, Mom.”

In a few minutes, you have the basket of bread and steaming platter of Bolognese sitting in front of Zayn.

“Smells all right, this,” he says. He twirls the noodles onto his fork, as you imagined he would, and takes a bite. “Mmmmmm.”

“Glad you like it,” you say. “It’s Mom’s secret recipe.”

He nods. “You’re studyin’ chemistry? Wondered what you were working on. You didn’t say in the chapter you posted tonight.”

“I have to admit, I’m pretty mortified that you’ve been reading my fanfiction.”

“Who
hasn’t
read it?” he says, taking a piece of garlic bread and swirling it in the dark mahogany sauce.

“I guess lots of people like the story. But I never dreamed
you
would read it.”

“Couldn’t not, really. Find out in advance what’ll happen to me? Yeah, it was a bit weird at first, that someone could predict my future. But mostly what you’ve wrote turned out pretty good. You’ve made my life better. Matter of fact, I’m a bit worried about what’ll happen now that you ain’t predicting stuff. Things might fall apart. At least that’s what the internet is saying.”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you looked online?”

“No. I’ve been studying.”

“Half the internet thinks I’ll disappear. Other half thinks I’ll come to this ’ere restaurant tonight and find the love of my life.”

You’re so embarrassed you wish you could hide under the table. That would be a bad idea . . . right?

“Really?” you say.

“Yeah. Why’d you stop writing?”

“I had to,” you try to say firmly, but your voice cracks, betraying you.

He arches an eyebrow and places his hand on yours. It’s
warm. You stare at it and try to absorb the fact that Zayn Malik is touching you!

You gulp. “Because I couldn’t stop myself from writing. I’ve been neglecting my studies. I’m not doing great in chemistry. And if I don’t improve, I won’t be able to do premed at Yale.” You gesture toward your admission letter on the wall. He turns to look.

“That what you want? To be a doctor?”

“No,” you say.

“Then why do it?”

“It’s complicated.” You glance at the kitchen. “People are counting on me.”

“If you love to write, then write,” he says, removing his hand to take a bite of garlic bread. His lips glisten from the butter, and you imagine what they would taste like. He wipes his mouth with the napkin. “Take your own advice. ‘Remember to always follow your own direction.’ ”

“You wouldn’t understand,” you say.

His face falls. “Maybe I should go.”

What an idiot you are. Of all the people in the world, Zayn Malik would understand what it’s like to disappoint everyone in your life in order to follow your own dreams.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” you say.

“It’s okay. But I want you to know, it’s worth it. No matter what, you
should
live your own life. People will get the hump, but they’ll get over it. I promise.”

“I’m not as strong as you are, Zayn. I wish I was.”

“That’s daft. You’re stronger than y’think, and your writing is magic.”

He lifts your hand and brings it to his lips. He kisses your knuckles. You bite your lip to keep from crying out with excitement.

You squeeze Zayn’s hand. You love writing. It’s what you’ve always wanted to do. You make a decision, and it’s like a lead blanket has been lifted from your shoulders.

“I’m going to be a writer,” you say. “But first, I’m going to pass chemistry.”

“Glad that’s solved. Now, could you do me a wee favor, Crystal Ball?” says Zayn, staring into your eyes and smiling seductively.

“Of course. Anything.”

“Nix that nasty jellyfish in the last chapter?”

Y
ou stared at yourself in the full-length mirror, tying on your apron, already able to hear the orchestra of fryers, exhaust fans, refrigerators, and grills that would be on your playlist for the next six hours.

UtoPia: heaven on earth for most people; worst-case scenario for you. Basically it was like any other fast-food joint in the world—cheap and chaotic and quite popular. The “legendary” Pia Jackson had started it all out of the trunk of her car, and sixty-seven years later, her legacy still lived on in the form of adolescents and twentysomethings who had worked here too long.

You were in the midst of questioning why you had taken the graveyard shift on a Friday night when a company-issued visor cap smacked the side of your face. It landed with a sad plonk on your feet, where it really did look more fashionable than it did on your head.

“ ’Ello, ’ello,” Alex greeted, looking a little smug at his aim.

Alexander Lee was one of those people who were perpetually happy no matter what DystoPia this place threw at him. You sighed to yourself, remembering the time he voluntarily came in an hour and a half early before his eight-hour shift to supervise a two-year-old’s birthday party—a toddler and all of her friends in the age bracket infamously known as the Terrible Twos. Yet,
he emerged from his shift grinning like the Cheshire cat while you crawled to the backseat of your car and napped like you had never napped before. Still, despite your many differences, you two got on like a house on fire.

“So, what have you been doing all day?” he asked as he clipped on his name tag. It had three gold stars next to it.

“Marathoning the
Harry Potter
films on Netflix and chilling with bae, aka my dog, and food. It was great.” You paused, as if lost in thought. “Oh, it was. And then just as I was cleaning my room, I found the most comfortable position on my bed—like I just sat down and I just sunk into it perfectly—like it molded to the shape of my ass, so I took a nap, and now here I am.”

Alex snorted. “It’s a wonder you’re single.”

You shrugged. “It’s the bed; I’m too selfish to share it with anyone else but Ben and Jerry.”

“. . . The ice cream?”

“It’s not just ice cream, Alex,” you scolded as you picked up your visor. “It’s
cookie dough
ice cream.”

Alex snorted again, then shook his head at you. “All right, all right, now c’mon, you better go sign in before you come up late on the system . . . again.”

You gave Alex what you thought would be a heartfelt smile but probably looked a little murderous. “Always looking out for me,” you cooed.

“Just sign in,” Alex muttered, before nodding to the trainee trying to take on a man who by the sounds of it wanted a cheeseburger without too much cheese.

Five seconds in and you already knew it was going to be a long night.

AS THE HOURS DESCENDED
into the very early morning, the type of customers evolved from the occasional night owl to groups
of partygoers in need of some greasy food before they crashed. However, this evening was unique in that numerous clusters of them came dressed in peculiar outfits. And by peculiar, you meant
Kinky
with a capital
K
.

One young chap was dressed in leather pants and had on nipple clamps and a police hat. “Morning!” he greeted when you reached the cash register.

“Hi there.” You tried not to laugh, but it was just so hard. “Fun night out?”

“Oh, yes.” He leaned in close. “Sex-themed party,” he explained . . . as if that weren’t obvious.

You stared briefly at his nipple clamps, questioning his decision very much. “Doesn’t that hurt?” you asked, shifting your gaze to his eyes, noticing just how glassy they were.

“Well, to be honest, mate, I can’t really feel them anymore.”

You cringed and slowly nodded. Somewhere behind you, you could hear Alex laughing.

“Well, all right then, what can I get you?”

The jittery fellow snapped his fingers a couple of times before wiggling them at you. “I’ll take some nuggets—the ones that come in that little box—not the little, little one—like the medium one. And some fries—medium fries—
ooOOoo
, and a chocolate sundae, because I like dipping the fries into the ice cream and then eating it. Have you tried that? It’s actually quite great despite what everyone says—I first saw it on
Kim Possible
with my sister and thought, ‘Why not—’ ”

“Okay, so six nuggets, medium fries, and a chocolate sundae?” you quickly said.

The dude flashed a thumbs-up at you. “Right on the money, my friend, right on the money.”

“Brilliant. That’s seven dollars and fifty cents.”

You watched, more than a little amused, as he pulled out his wallet and attempted to differentiate between the coins he
found inside. You could have watched him all night, but a soft thunk to your head told you otherwise. Looking down, you saw a scrunched-up burger wrapper at your feet, evidence of Alex’s throw-things-first communication style.

“Want some help there, mate?” you asked.

“Nah, nah.” The dude ran a hand through his greasy hair, scooped up all his loose change, and deposited it in the charity box. “I hate coins. . . . Is that enough?” he asked sloppily.

You were at loss for words because that was about $10 in coins he’d stuffed in the cancer donation box. “Yeah,” you said, giving up, and handed him his receipt. He walked off to the side spluttering a thank-you.

“And who’s going to pay for that?” Kim, the on-duty manager, asked.

“Me,” you answered with a hopeful smile. “You can deduct it out of my pay.”

Kim looked at you with raised brows and a ghost of a smile before pushing off the edge of the bench and inspecting the trainee a register away from you. You gave yourself a mental fist-pump for escaping a long, pointless scolding.

As you carried out the drunken fellow’s order and handed it to him, you couldn’t help but think that tonight’s shift was turning out to be quite good. The only headache had been the cheeseburger man at the very beginning; apart from that, you had actually enjoyed yourself. And now, you only had about two hours left.

But, of course, you had spoken too quickly.

“Can someone cover me on drive-thru?” Alex shouted. “It’s time for my break!”

That only left you, the trainee doing her first graveyard shift, and Kim, and both of them were occupied.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Kim called just as
you were veering toward the bathroom. You skidded to a stop and looked back innocently at her. But her only response was to stare at you and nod toward the drive-thru window.

Sighing, you dejectedly made your way toward Alex, who was standing there looking all pleased with himself. “Sucker,” he teased as he handed you the headset.

Drive-thru was your least favorite station, not because you had to talk into the microphone, which made your voice sound horrible, but because a ton of people from your neighborhood loved coming to this one. So many awkward interactions and not one pleasant one, unless you counted your old art teacher, Mrs. McKenzie, who drove through with her grandkids and complimented you on your lack of braces and how straight your teeth looked after three years of orthodontics. No wait, that was just painfully awkward.

“Don’t worry”—Alex sensed your annoyance—“it’s been a pretty quiet night at this end.”

“I swear to all the gods in the world, if you just jinxed it, I’m going to throw a not-so-cheesy-cheeseburger at you.”

But he only sniggered and walked into the comforts of the staff room. And just as he did, a car came into the view on the monitor.

“Perfect,” you muttered as you fiddled with the microphone. “Hi, welcome to UtoPia. What can I get you?” you eagerly greeted in the chirpiest voice you could muster at two o’clock in the morning.

After a brief pause, a female voice said, “Hello, can I get a large, twelve-nugget meal and a caramel sundae too, please—oh, and Coke for the drink?”

You clicked your tongue and punched in the girl’s order with a seed of thought sprouting at the back of your mind. Damn, did she sound familiar? All you could do was pray that it wasn’t someone
from school—
please don’t be someone from school
. You peered at the screen, but with her hoodie drawn low over her head you couldn’t determine anything.

As you read out her total price, you couldn’t help but mentally sift through all the people you knew that lived in this area.

“Pull up to the second window, please,” you instructed, dreading this immensely.

As you filled a cup with Coke and ice, you still couldn’t match her voice to anyone you knew. You sighed. You always hated the whole fake “Oh, wow, I didn’t know you worked here—what a surprise. Oh, we should catch up soon! It was great seeing you, byyyeeeeee” routine. You shivered, thrusting her drink and then her sundae a little too roughly into the carrying tray.