IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (44 page)

You lie back on your bed and let your fingers move over your phone’s touchscreen, and a chapter pours out of you almost without thinking:

Zayn was in line at Pavilions supermarket buying a roasted chicken for himself and Fancy Feast cat food for Lion. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Zayn flinched and turned around to see a tall man with a trolley full of pancake mix and energy drinks.

“Sorry to bother you, dude, but aren’t you Zayn Malik?”

Zayn hesitated, then nodded.

“Wow! My name’s
Michael Phelps.” Michael held out his hand.

“The Olympic swimmer?” said Zayn, suddenly recognizing him. He shook Michael’s hand, which completely engulfed his own.

“That’s me,” said Michael. “Hey, is it really true you can’t swim?”

“Yeah.” Zayn looked away, catching a glance at a tabloid headline. When would they stop writing about him leaving 1D?

“You know, I’m a huge fan of yours. How ’bout I give you a couple of lessons?”

“Swimming lessons?” Zayn said, as if he’d been asked to dive into the caldera of an active volcano. But how could he say no? To
Michael Phelps.
“I guess so
. . . 
.”

A month later, Zayn was in Santa Barbara, celebrating. He had learned to swim!

One night while there, he walked along the sand and suddenly heard screaming from the ocean. A young girl was flailing in the water. Zayn looked up and down the beach, but no one was close by, so he dove into the surf to get her.

He was scared. Even if he could do a basic freestyle, what kind of an idiot was he to think he could swim well enough to rescue someone? Most likely they were both going to drown.

You end the chapter there. Minutes after posting, the comments pour in—mostly worried about how you’ve left Zayn in peril.
Update! Update! Update!
come the pleas.

You start responding to your readers’ comments. You tell yourself it will only be for a few minutes, but the next thing you know, the sun is glaring through your window, lighting up cutout Zayn, who continues to smile down at you.

Your mom opens the door, letting in the smell of bacon and coffee. She practically dances into your room. She’s
such
a morning person.

“You’re still in bed? Get up. Breakfast is ready. Today’s the big test.” She smiles because she knows how much you enjoy the challenge of tests.

Your heart sinks. You fell asleep and didn’t read a thing in the textbook. Normally you don’t have to study much in order to do well, but chemistry is different. Molecules dance in your head, the electrons refusing to spin in the right direction.

“Be right down,” you say, tossing off your fraying patchwork quilt, trying to sound confident and well rested.

The bed creaks as you drag yourself from beneath the covers. You know this day won’t end well.

The question is: Who put you in this position?

You don’t like the answer your brain gives you.

FRIDAY AT LAST.
Once you get home from school, you lay out the outfit you bought especially for the concert—a black lace crop top, a black bolero jacket, and high-waisted black pants topped with a wide leather belt. You picked this ensemble because Perrie Edwards once wore something similar when she was engaged to Zayn.

Your mom comes into your room without knocking, clenching the cordless phone in a death grip. You already know why she’s angry. You flunked the chem midterm. You were going to tell her . . . tomorrow. After the concert.

“Mom, I—”

“Your teacher called. What happened?” she whispers. It would be better if she shouted. You can see the disappointment in her eyes.

“I . . . well, chemistry . . .” You want to tell her you hate chemistry. That you don’t want to be a doctor. You want to be a writer. But you know this would destroy her. You’re her only child, and when you got word from Yale, she threw a party at the restaurant. She framed your acceptance letter, hanging it on the wall next to the cash register. You consider yourself lucky that she didn’t rent billboard space or hire a skywriter to announce it.

“Your teacher said you’re flunking the class. What about Yale, your future?”

“I’ll do better on the final. I promise,” you say, standing in front of your bed, trying to hide the outfit.

“Well, I have great news for you,” she says. You have the feeling the news won’t be at all good. “Your teacher agreed to let you take a makeup test Monday morning. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Sure, Mom,” you say, knowing there’s going to be more.

“You are going to spend the weekend studying.”

“Starting tomorrow,” you agree quickly, trying for reasonable.

“No, darling. You’ll start tonight.” She looks at your outfit on the bed. “There will be other concerts.”

Your heart drops. “Mom, no! I have to go!”

“Not happening. Tonight you are coming to the restaurant with me. You’re going to study there, where I can keep an eye on you. No Wattpad. No concert. No friends. Not until you bring up your grade.”

Tears stream down your face. You want to shout about how unfair it is. You’ve worked hard your whole life. You have a 4.3 GPA. You’re the class valedictorian. One failure and you’re a slacker? Plus, you’re eighteen. She’s treating you like a child. You could walk right out of this house, and there’s nothing she could do about it.

But you answer, “Okay, Mom,” because you can’t stand to hurt her.

She exhales with relief. “There will be other concerts,” she repeats, happy that you’re not putting up more of a fight.

“Sure, Mom.”

THE RESTAURANT
has barely changed since your grandparents opened the place in the fifties. Worn oak floors, straw-wrapped Chianti bottles coated with decades of pastel candle wax, black-and-white photos of your family on the walls. You’re in the back booth right next to the kitchen, your textbook and notes strewn across the tablecloth next to a basket of warm rolls and a dish of chilled butter.

The auditorium where Zayn’s performing is only three blocks away. You swear you can hear the crowd cheering, and a lump forms in your throat.

You’re miserable. So’s the weather. It’s pouring outside, and even though it’s Friday night, many of the tables are empty. The scent of garlic, oregano, basil, and rosemary wafts in from the kitchen. Pots of sauce bubble on the stove. Your mom is taking an order from an elderly couple, regulars. They never smile or talk to one another. Mom wipes a stray salt-and-pepper hair from her brow as she finishes with them. You pretend to read something about chemical equilibrium and stifle a yawn.

“How’s it going?” Mom asks as she glides past your booth into the kitchen. Not that she waits for an answer.

You nibble the corner of a roll. There’s a crash of thunder and a splinter of lightning outside, then rain pelts the windows. You glance at your acceptance letter from Yale, still hanging on the wall next to the cash register. And then it hits you. Your mom has worked seven days a week for years, proud she will be able to put her only daughter through college. Everything she’s done, she’s done for you. And how have you repaid her? By probably flunking chemistry.

There’s only one responsible thing left to do. You reach for your phone, open the Wattpad app, and start typing what will be the closing chapter of
Redirection
. Your writing days are over.

First you write a few paragraphs about how Zayn saved the girl from drowning in the ocean. It wasn’t easy. He had to swim through giant waves, got stung by a jellyfish, and swallowed a gallon of seawater, but he persevered. Then you get to the ending. It’s how you knew you’d conclude
Redirection
from the moment you started posting the story on Wattpad:

Two weeks after Zayn’s heroics, the red bumps from the jellyfish venom had mostly disappeared. This was good, because he had a sold-out solo concert that night. Zayn gave such an epic performance the audience refused to leave. He was forced to do one encore after another. By the time he finished, he realized he’d missed his flight home and would have to spend another night in town.

Starved after the concert, Zayn snuck out and drove a motorbike to an Italian restaurant he’d noticed earlier. It was only three blocks north of the auditorium. The rain was coming down hard. He was instantly drenched, but after the intensity of the concert, the rain cooled him down. He parked the bike, snapped down the kickstand, and strode to the entrance in three long steps. The wet sidewalk glowed green, reflecting the neon
OPEN
sign. As he entered, the door jingled a welcome. He removed his helmet.

“Sit anywhere you like,” a woman called from the kitchen. “I’ll be right with you.”

Zayn scanned the restaurant. He noticed a girl sitting in the booth in the back. She wore all black. She was pretty in a studious kind of way. The sort of girl he liked. He wondered if he should talk to her. She was hidden behind a
mountain of textbooks and paper. Zayn slid into the booth opposite her. Her head jerked up, and her eyes grew wide.

“You’re . . .” she said.

“Yeah, I know. How’s it going, lass?”

“I think my day just got better,” she said, closing her book and smiling.

“Aye,” he admitted. He flicked his bleached-blond hair back. “How’s the Bolognese here?”

“You’ll never want to eat anyone else’s after you eat ours,” she said. “You like garlic bread?”

Zayn nods. “ ’Course.”

“Here, take this to dry off.” She handed him her white cloth napkin before scooting out of the booth and disappearing into the kitchen. Minutes later, she returned with a mountain of steaming Bolognese on a platter and a basket of garlic bread.

“I think I already love you,” Zayn said, twirling strands of spaghetti on his fork. He took a bite. “Yep, it’s love. True love.”

The girl chuckled. “That was easy.” Her eyes crinkled in the most adorable way when she laughed.

When Zayn finished his meal, he held his hand out to the girl. “Best Bolognese I ever had. Marry me?”

“Like, right now? Because I kind of have a test to study for,” she deadpanned.

“How ’bout next week? It’ll give you time to pick out a dress. It’ll be a beach ceremony.”

“Of course,” she said, and winked. “I know how much you like beaches.”

“Aye,” he said. “Anyway, I might be stuck in town for a few more days. Interested in hanging out? Get to know the man of your dreams?”

“Um, well, yeah. Okay. Sure.”

“Don’t act too enthusiastic,” he said.

“I won’t. As your fiancée, I think one of my jobs is to keep you grounded. Make you throw out the trash. That sort of thing.”

And that is how Zayn Malik met the love of his life. Over a plate of Bolognese in an Italian restaurant in the rain.

The End

At the end of the chapter you add:
Hey, guys, that is the end of
Redirection
. I’m sorry, but I have other responsibilities I have to take care of right now. Remember to always follow your own direction!

You hold your breath and click publish. The chapter is live.

You turn off your phone. You don’t want to be distracted by what is going to happen on the internet.

You open your book and read about catalysts.

SEVERAL HOURS PASS
as you bury yourself in your chemistry textbook. No one is left in the restaurant. It’s almost closing time. Your eyelids are heavy, and your body aches from sitting for so long. The water is running in the kitchen and pots and pans clang together. You should help Mom with the dishes or at least get up, switch the sign to
CLOSED
, and lock the door, but you don’t have the energy.

For the first time since you posted that last chapter, you think about what might be happening on Wattpad. On Twitter. On Facebook. But you won’t check. You’ve made your decision.

You lay your head on your books and close your eyes. You remind yourself you’re doing the right thing. You
will
become a
doctor and your mom
will
be able to retire from this hard life. You’ll help people. Maybe volunteer for Doctors Without Borders. It’ll be great.

The door jingles.
Darn!
Why didn’t you lock it?

You force your head up from your books. “Sorry, we’re closed,” you mutter, standing.

The customer, dressed in a black leather jacket and dark jeans, removes his motorcycle helmet . . .

And it’s Zayn! This can’t be. You must’ve fallen asleep on your books, and you’re still sleeping.

“You’re a dream,” you accuse the apparition before you.

“Been called worse,” he says, smirking. “Read this was the place to come for Bolognese. . . . But wait . . .
you’re
the lass. The writer. Yeah?”

It sinks in. Zayn Malik, your idol, has been reading your fanfiction. You’re mortified. Your brain scans back through everything you’ve written about him. His bare chest! His six-pack abs! His dreamy voice. Yeah, you used the word
dreamy

He must think you’re a crazed fan.

But of course, you are . . . a crazed fan. You try to speak, but nothing comes out.

“Am I wrong?” he says, arching one of those famous dark eyebrows. You melt and lean in a smidge closer. He smells like the rain.

“No . . . I mean . . . yes,” you manage to say, backing up a step. Giving him space. You’re nothing like the smooth character you wrote in that last chapter. It’s easier for you to write than speak. “I’ll see what I can do Bolognese-wise. Oh, and I’ll get you a towel. You’re soaked.”

You grab a clean towel from beneath the hostess stand and hand it to him.

He waves it away. “Nah, I’m not that nesh. Bit a rain never hurt nowt.”

You realize you have no idea what he just said. And you’ve been staring at the small bird tattoo on his right hand. Putting the towel back on the shelf, you stammer, “R-right, Bolognese.”