IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (65 page)

@Michael5SOS: Need to find a suit first.

@Michael5SOS: See you there (:

When you set your phone down in the cup holder, you bring your hands to your face. Leaning into the steering wheel, you let the horn ring out as you scream with happiness. It’s a good thing nobody’s in the house, else they might’ve barged into the garage and yelled for you to cut it out and leave already. But it’s just you—you and the car horn, squealing high-pitched and deafening over Michael Gordon Clifford.

When you finally gain your composure, you decide it’s time to get a move on. You’re about to put the car in reverse, but don’t know what’s worse—driving barefoot or with your massive heels. Feeling suddenly short on time, you rush up to your room for another
pair of shoes, tossing the heels in a backpack with your boutonniere. (Which, as of now, isn’t just for you anymore!)

Feeling rejuvenated in sneakers, you back out of the garage with jittering hands. The radio is playing something upbeat and techno, which you turn up to screeching volume to distract yourself. Despite your best efforts to sing along to the song, it’s nearly impossible to keep your mind on anything other than what Michael might be doing. Maybe he’s asking one of his band members for a suit. Maybe he’s looking for the right tie to wear. Maybe he’s already on his way.

The possibilities are enough to fill up the entire drive to school. Only when you’re pulling into a parking spot do you remember you were supposed to go to the restaurant. You have a multitude of new questioning texts from your friends, wondering where you are. For a moment, it makes you grin. They think you’re not going to prom anymore because you don’t have a date.

This will blow their minds.

Simply for dramatic flair, you choose to ignore their texts. All of them neglected to mention Michael’s tweet, so you assume they haven’t checked Twitter yet. You’re almost glad it’s this way—now, they’ll be
very
surprised when they see the two of you together. It’s not every day your friend skips dinner and shows up at prom with a member of one of the most popular bands in the world.

It’s only 7:00 p.m. and most everyone is still at their dinners, so you’re one of the first attendees here. The poor volunteer mom outside the front doors of your school gives you a weird look as she takes your ticket, ripping it in half mostly for show. She puts both pieces in a wastebasket, notifying you that everywhere but the gym is off-limits tonight, and that you should
Have a great time
. Her tone is strangely accusatory, and you get unnecessarily offended by it. Only when you walk away from her does the
strangeness of your situation occur to you. You’re entering prom at least an hour earlier than most everybody else and completely alone. She had every right to be weirded out by you.

The gym is completely decked out for prom, but only a few couples are inside, dancing awkwardly to a DJ’s terrible remix of Top 40 pop. You hesitate by the doors. Entering the gym would feel like walking in on some intimate moment of pubescent affection. You decide to wander around for a while, even though the volunteer mom said everywhere else was “off-limits.”

You didn’t like her tone, anyway. Serves her right.

Going to the end of the hall, you take a seat on the floor against a locker, making sure you’re positioned where you can still see the gym. You DM Michael, reminding him to send you a message when he arrives so you can meet him by the door. He doesn’t answer, but a part of you expects it. So long as he shows up, you’ll survive.

Somewhere around a half an hour passes. Other people start arriving in small trickles until, finally, they’re shuffling into the gym by the dozens. They pass right by you in their bright taffeta gowns, their generic black tuxes, laughing together like there’s something to laugh about.

You recognize almost all the faces, but it’s sort of strange to see them all dressed up. Formality is quite the change from the shorts and T-shirts you all wear regularly. Your friends pass in the gowns you assured them were perfect, dates on their arms like cologne-scented candy. A football player struts by in a dark blue tuxedo, and it takes you by surprise. Some people you simply never see in a suit.

Your breathing, quick as it already is, speeds up a little faster.

Michael Clifford has
always
been one of those people.

As students make their way into the gym, you check your phone at least a thousand times in one minute. Still nothing from Michael. You contain your mild panic as best as you can, but
when the flow of people coming in deteriorates to almost nothing, you can barely take it.
Where is he?

As you’re beginning to think you’ve been stood up, your phone pings with a new notification.

Suddenly, you can exhale. It’s Michael.

@Michael5SOS: Where are you?

You scramble to your feet, nearly jogging down the hall as you remind him to wait by the front.
I’ll be right there,
you write, and your stomach flutters just typing it out.

The mom stationed outside the entrance looks surprised to see you again when you push open the front doors. You can almost feel the judgment oozing from her pastel cardigan.

“I’m
meeting someone
,” you tell her.

“Really?” She gestures to the front of the school, which is deserted. “Where?”

You feel your pulse start to race. “He’s coming. I swear he is.”

Moving down the sidewalk, you look around in the darkness. Feeling helpless, you check your phone. Two new DMs, sent only a minute apart.

@Michael5SOS: Where was the school again?

@Michael5SOS: I can’t find you.

Your heart sinks. He can’t find your school. He’s never going to—

Suddenly, a voice comes up from behind you, close to your ear. “Just messing with you.”

You jump, whirling around with a yelp.

And here he is.
Michael Clifford’s grin is bright, and crooked, and even better than in any picture you’ve ever seen. His suit is a size too big, but somehow it makes him look all the more charming.
It’s a stark contrast from what you’re used to seeing of Michael in onstage pictures, guitar in hand, wearing black jeans and a band T. To see him so blatantly out of his element—suit, tie, and all—is almost more shocking than that he’s
here
, standing right before you. In his hands he holds a bouquet of lavender flowers, which are wrapped in a grocery-store bag. He must’ve just bought them.

For you.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Michael laughs, stepping close to give you a hug. He’s tall—so much taller than you imagined he’d be. You can barely wrap your mind around it.
He’s actually here.

“You scared me to death!” you tell him.

“That was the plan!” He holds out the flowers, nose crinkling. “Uh, these are for you. They didn’t have any corsages, so . . .” When he notices you pulling the plastic box containing your boutonniere out of your backpack, his eyes light up. “Whoa, you actually have one? You work fast!”

“My friends told me to get one for myself,” you explain. “They were getting them for their dates, so they didn’t want me to feel left out or anything.”

He takes the boutonniere with a look. “Wow. Some friends.”

“I don’t think they meant for it to be insulting. But still.”

He lets you fasten the flower on his suit jacket. When you’re done, he points to it with gusto. “Look at that. It’s absolutely perfect! Here, let me just . . .” He seizes the bouquet from your hands, ripping a rose from its stem.

“Whoa,
dark
. I didn’t know you were so violent, Michael.”

He chuckles, tying the stub of a stem around an elastic bracelet. When he’s finished, he presents it like a waiter would show a platter of hors d’oeuvres. “One makeshift corsage. I hope you like it.”

“Absolutely perfect,” you say.

“Good. I had it made just for you.” He gestures to the school entrance. “Shall we?”

You lead Michael to the front doors, giving the volunteer mom a semicondescending look as you pass by. The first battle of today that you’ve won.

When the two of you step inside the gym, it’s nothing like a movie. The mediocre music doesn’t come to a screeching halt. Heads don’t turn in unison in your direction. Jaws don’t drop at how hot you look next to a—ahem—
celebrity
. In fact, prom carries on its merry course, barely acknowledging your entrance at all.

“It’s not much,” you point out to him, fidgeting. The lavender, slightly wrinkled papier-mâché decorations and modest strings of lights around the basketball court can only pale in comparison to the grandeur of all the concerts he puts on and award shows he attends. You get a wave of inadequacy imagining what he thinks of it.

But Michael turns to you and smiles, pleased as ever. His green eyes glint with the kind of amusement a child would have in the line for a roller coaster. “I think it’s great! I mean, what prom
isn’t
a little lame, right? That’s the best part.”

Not until you start walking through the crowd of your classmates do the double takes start coming. At first you try to tell yourself that maybe it’s just his colorful hair catching their eye, but the expressions you start catching in your peripheral view tell you that it must be a little more than bright hair dye.

If Michael notices the stares, he gives little indication. He’s cheerful as ever as you move to the other end of the gym, never once letting go of your hand. If anything, he grips it tighter. Somewhere around every other second you have to remind your heart to be still. Even then, it won’t comply.

You make a stop by the refreshments table, which boasts a slim selection of pretzels, homemade cookies, and a cooler of
lemonade. By now it’s all been picked over—a sorry display of crumbs and lemonade diluted with melted ice.

Michael scoffs sarcastically, pointing at the soggy mess with pseudo-disdain. His Australian accent turns into that of a snobby British aristocrat, and it is so forced that it’s comical. “God, what is this? No
caviar
?”

You laugh, playing along. “Our deepest apologies, Mr. Clifford. We were informed of your attendance far too late to properly prepare.”

“Pishposh! You should
always
be prepared for me!”

As the two of you laugh together, you can feel the eyes of at least a dozen people on you. You can’t tell if they’re staring because it
is
Michael Clifford, or because they think it’s a guy who looks
a lot
like him. Probably a mixture of both.

“What’s the matter?” Michael asks.

You lean in to whisper, “Everybody’s looking at us.”

“Are they?” He turns away from you to look at everybody. At least five jaws drop in unison. Their eyes dart from Michael to you with envy—perhaps even a hint of hatred. You’re about to get upset, but you consider the situation for yourself. If someone else from your school showed up to prom with Michael Clifford, you’d be a little (a
lot
) jealous.

As Michael examines the dance floor, there’s a tap on your shoulder. You’ve barely looked over in their direction before you’re flooded with weak hurrahs from your friends and their dates.

“Oh my God, you’re
here
!” one exclaims.

“It’s
so
good that you decided to come.” Another pats your back consolingly, frowning like you’ve suffered a loss and she needs to help you in your grieving. “We were so worried when you didn’t show up to dinner.”

You can’t help but laugh, which confuses them. As deprecated
as their pitying makes you feel, you’re thankful that they care enough to pity you at all in the first place.

“I’m really sorry about missing dinner,” you say. “I didn’t mean to, but I . . . I sort of got a little distracted.”

“Why? What happened?”

Michael steps up beside you. “What did I miss?”

Your friends’ expressions are absolutely priceless.

“Um, this is Michael,” you tell them, as if they actually need an introduction. “He’s in a band. Michael, these are my friends.”

Michael waves and smiles big. “Nice to meet you guys!”

He holds his hand out, but no one budges, still a little in shock. Even after a few seconds of complete speechlessness, they can barely manage audible greetings. You watch one friend glance at her own date with a sudden sense of disappointment. Nothing like a rock star to remind you how average your prom date is.

Michael hands you a cup of lemonade. “Sort of tastes like water, but it’s okay. Also, the pretzels are stale. Wouldn’t recommend.”

“Not pizza, huh?”

“Definitely not pizza!”

When a good song
finally
switches on, you and your friends take to the dance floor. This was a moment you’d been dreading all day, fearing having to embarrassingly stand around your friends as they dance with their dates. But right now, you feel none of that dread. You’re not alone anymore.

You have somebody to dance with.

If people weren’t already staring at you because you’re with Michael Clifford, they’re certainly staring while you dance. Instead of the regular jumping and fist-bumping in place that everyone else has taken to, Michael insists on making this a “real, old-school prom.” This involves everything from swing dancing to
headbanging to even some eighties disco moves. Half of it doesn’t feel too “old-school” to you, but with Michael laughing by your side, everything feels eclectic.

You’re in the middle of a tango when a slow song comes on. Michael quickly stops you in the middle of your spin, putting his hands on your waist.

“Awkward couples’ dance,
now
!” he proclaims. “Wouldn’t be prom without one.”

The song’s lyrics are a little lame, but sweet. The look on his face is even sweeter. You stumble a bit on each other’s feet. Your pulse is racing a hundred miles a minute.

You couldn’t imagine anything better.

Techno beats start booming before the slow song has a chance to get to its final chorus. You glance over at the DJ with a hint of disdain as he pumps his fist and decrees that everybody needs to
“GO CRAZY!”