Imagines

It’s times like these when you’re reminded why you love her. You thank her and set your GPS app to the nearest Target. When you arrive a few minutes later, you tell her that you’re just going to run into the store quickly, grab the film, and leave. If she goes inside with you, there’s no way in hell that you will get out of that store in under an hour, and you have to get some studying done tonight.

When you walk into Target, you go to the bathroom first. After fluffing your flat hair, you go into the very last stall. Right as you finally get the wonky lock clicked into place, chaos ensues.

“Kylie!”

“Oh my God! Kylie Jenner!”

You’re immediately confused because the voice—no, voices—aren’t your friend’s. What the hell is going on?

To eavesdrop without revealing yourself, you lean against the stall door . . . and it immediately falls open, launching you toward the sinks of the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror is a girl with long blond hair wearing a baseball cap. She turns around to look at you, and you make a weird little noise. Really, you can’t even describe the noise because you’ve never before heard it come out of your mouth.

You cover your mouth just as you realize she’s pushing against the main door to keep it closed. She’s wearing an oversize black sweater, black leggings, and spotless white sneakers. It couldn’t really be her. You live hours away from Los Angeles.

Kylie Jenner is standing in front of you.

In Target.

In a Target bathroom.

What the . . . ?

“Kylie!” another female voice screams. The door pushes open a few inches and Kylie panics and repositions her body to force it back.

She waves her hands at you. “Help me!”

Without thinking, you rush over and lean your back against the door too. The people on the other side must be strong—or crazy—to be pushing so hard to get in.

Crazy and strong, you decide.

“I knew I shouldn’t have gone out without security. My mom is going to fucking kill me.”

Her voice is softer than you imagined, and when you look over at her face again, you notice that she’s not wearing any makeup. Not a single drop. Her skin is much paler than when she’s fully done up, and she looks much younger. Her skin is so clear; not a pore in sight. You’re thinking to yourself that she’s actually really pretty without makeup. Admittedly, you thought she was pretty before, just in a different way. The girl in front of you looks nothing like the girl whose Snapchat you watched earlier. You want to laugh at the irony of the situation.

Briefly you begin to wonder if Kris Jenner has spies in every corner of the country who just wait for people to say something rude about her family, and then she sends one of them in, just to fuck with the naysayers. It’s possible. The woman built an empire from people’s obsession with her beautiful family.

Kylie pulls out an iPhone, and you note the giant crack across her screen. You have one on yours too. This is about the only thing you could possibly have in common with an eighteen-year-old millionaire, you’re sure of it.

“Khloé—don’t freak out, but I’m stuck in a Target bathroom and I—”

You can hear Khloé Kardashian yelling through the phone when Kylie frowns and moves the phone from her ear.

“I know, but I need help,” Kylie says into the phone after her sister says something about not ever, ever, ever going out in public alone.

The door pushes open a few inches and you try to shove it closed. It’s so heavy. There has to be a lock somewhere. . . . Flailing blindly, your fingers find a latch and you quickly turn it left. A bolt clicks into place and you breathe a little sigh of relief.

“Oh my God, how did you get the door to lock? I tried it, but it was stuck.” Kylie reaches up and takes the baseball cap off her head and walks over to the sink. The long blond wig is next; her short black hair, pulled into a small ponytail at her neck, makes her look so different to you yet again.

The pushing on the door has turned to pounding on the door, and you begin to wonder how the hell you’re going to get out of this bathroom without being mobbed.

“Is it always like this everywhere you go?” You feel a little guilty that you made your friend stay in the car; she would have given her left arm to be locked in a room, even a bathroom, with Kylie Jenner.

Kylie sighs. “Yeah, pretty much.”

You look toward the door that people are still pounding on and feel a little bad for her. She’s eighteen and can’t even go into Target without being mobbed? “Yikes.” You shake your head. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Her phone begins to ring.

You aren’t convinced that she thinks it’s “fine,” but you stay quiet.

She looks down at the screen and tilts her head back. “Thank God! We will be out of here as soon as my security, and most likely the police, get here.”

“Kylie! Please open the door! I love you!” a girl screams.

Kylie’s face twists into a sympathetic frown and she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth.

“You have so many fans,” you say.

She sighs again and sits down on the floor and crosses her legs. She looks odd there, so pretty and rich and sitting on the dirty floor. “The sad thing is”—she pauses to look at the door, and you admire how long her eyelashes are—“most of them aren’t my fans. Half of them think they know me and my family from TV, and half hate me for that same reason.”

“Hate? I think that’s a pretty strong word to use.” You walk a little closer to her and sit down, leaning your back against a long mirror that goes from floor to ceiling.

“Have you seen the stuff people say to me? Teenagers, adults, even grown-ass men, send me death threats daily. I’ve been attacked while leaving a concert, I’ve had my car egged, been booed in front of thousands of people. The list goes on and on.”

Death threats? Grown men? What the hell is wrong with the world that anyone would send death threats to a celebrity for no reason at all? You have to ask. “I don’t get it. What do these people say you did, like, why do they hate you?” You’re positive that she doesn’t know because more than likely there’s no reason at all. You aren’t completely naïve to the nasty side of social media.

“Because they say I didn’t work for my money, that my family is trash, annoying, spoiled.”

You have seen comments like this everywhere. You’ve even rolled your eyes at pictures of the Kardashians on their lavish vacations.

“You have a hair-extension brand or something, right?” You wish you would have paid more attention when your friend was talking about her all day, every day.

“Yeah, and lipsticks, and endorsements, and a book, and photo shoots almost every day.” She closes her eyes when the screaming outside the door gets louder. “I’m not complaining at all—I have an incredibly blessed life, and I’m so lucky to have the life I do. It’s just that I wish people would pay more attention to what I do workwise or for my charity donations, or something positive. Instead they say hurtful things about my body, my face, my family. They don’t know anything about us; our personalities on our show and online are only what we choose them to be, you know? I just don’t understand why it’s okay for male models and celebrities to post shirtless pictures, but when I wear a tight dress and get my makeup done, I get spammed by people telling me to kill myself.”

You stay silent for a moment, taking in everything she said. She’s right: you don’t know her at all. You have no particular reason to think negatively about her or her family. Why should anyone care what she’s posting or doing? She’s not hurting anyone.

“I used to ignore it, but it gets hard sometimes.” Kylie looks into your eyes and you look down at the floor. “Sorry, I probably sound ridiculous: a spoiled Jenner girl whining about her fabulous life.” Her cheeks redden.

You shake your head. “No, no. It’s fine. I don’t know how you even deal with all of that. I mean, you were born into a family who became famous

and you’re using your resources.” You roll your eyes in frustration. “All of those people online are just hateful.” Who even has the time and energy to send rude messages to strangers?

“I have many more blessings than curses.” She smiles, picking at her long fingernails.

“That would be a cool tattoo. That quote, it’s cool.”

Her brown eyes light up. “It so would be! It would be so lit.”

“Lit?”

Kylie laughs and shakes her head. “Like dope, cool, happening—you know, lit?”