“Sure?” You decide it’s easier to agree than to delve any deeper into her language.
She laughs and you join her. When sirens break up your laughter, you turn to her. “I almost forgot that I was locked in a bathroom,” you say, then laugh again.
The voices outside the door get louder and louder, and you hear deep, masculine shouting for the crowd to back away. You and Kylie both stand up.
“Thanks for being cool about this. I would really, really appreciate if all of this could stay . . . here.” She waves around the bathroom, sincerity in her words.
“Of course, I wouldn’t do that.” You’re honest with her.
She nods as if she’s so quick to know you’re telling the truth. “What’s your handle?”
“Handle?”
“Username, Twitter handle.”
“Oh.” You chuckle, promising yourself that you will brush up on the terms you should apparently know at your age. You tell her your username and she types it into her phone. Within seconds, your phone starts chirping.
Chirp after chirp, vibration after vibration, your phone is going crazy, and you try to swipe across the screen to see what is happening. The notifications are moving down your screen so quickly that you can’t read them. All you can see through the digital madness is Kylie’s name.
“Turn it on airplane mode and then turn your notifs off.”
You wouldn’t have thought of that. “I’m impressed by you, Kylie Jenner.”
She smiles and chews on her lip again. The door crashes open as she says, “I’m impressed by you, Edsheeranscat44,” then laughs a little at your ridiculous name.
It does sound pretty funny when said out loud.
Kylie waves to you as three men who had to be Vikings in their past lives sweep her out of the bathroom even quicker than they broke the door. You go back into the last stall and finally pee.
When you get to the car, your friend is lounging with her feet on the dashboard. “What the hell? Did someone get caught stealing or something?”
You don’t even know how to begin to answer her question. So you decide to get straight to the point. “I was locked in the bathroom with Kylie Jenner.”
Your friend doesn’t look amused as she looks out the window to the flashing lights of two police cruisers. “Yeah, okay,” she groans.
“Check her Twitter,” you tell her with a smug smile.
Presidential Kimergency
Kate J. Squires
Imagine . . .
The Oval Office is bubbling with tense energy, like a cappuccino machine about to explode. Chiefs of Staff and other insanely important people cower in the corners as the vice president meekly says, “Mr. President . . . we’re all out of ideas. We’re sorry.”
You grimace, knowing that the commander in chief doesn’t lose his shit often, but when he does, it’s like a thermonuclear detonation.
The president spins slowly on his heels and faces the VP. “You’re sorry?” he says softly, dark eyes glittering. “This situation is of dire national importance, and you’re sorry?”
The secretary of defense crosses her long, elegant legs and waves an unconcerned hand. “I’m afraid I don’t see how this is a national issue, Mr. President.”
The entire room draws a gulp of air. You know the defense secretary was appointed because of her fearless nature and calm demeanor under fire, but still . . .
POTUS leans forward on his desk, knuckles pressing into the mahogany. His suit is edgier than anything worn by the forty-five men who have served before him, but the long black jacket and crisp white shirt are his trademark. The sharp lines of the suit give him an almost mythic appearance as he says, “It’s a national issue, all right. I’m gonna prove that to you, right now.” He looks at you. “Righty?”
That’s your title; it’s short for “right hand.” Once upon a time, you’d have been called a secretary or assistant or gofer. But your boss believes in empowering his staff. He’s often told you he couldn’t make it through his workday without you, that you are his right hand, and the moniker stuck. You’re proud of it. “Yes, Mr. President?”
“Where was I October twenty-first last year?”
Your clear glass tablet rests on your knees and you swipe at the screen, already knowing the answer before you look at his calendar. “You were in New York, announcing the closure of the one thousandth prison and increasing the funds going into public schooling, which was approximately fifteen billion dollars at the time.”
He nods regally. It was a huge double victory; by decriminalizing possession and removing mandatory minimums, he not only reduced the prison population by a quarter, but funneled all the excess spending into education.
“What about the year before that?” he asks.
“October twenty-first, 2021, you were in transit between Australia and DC, after meetings to discuss gun control legislation.” You glance up and beam at him. “As soon as you landed, you began to implement the new regulations.”
You don’t have to add what everyone knows already: that despite huge resistance from the gun lobby, your boss charmed and coerced the bills through the Senate. A buyback scheme was initiated, with millions of guns purchased and destroyed, and mass shootings had dropped by 80 percent. It’s a topic you’re passionate about, having lost your little nephew in a school shooting during the previous administration.
The president’s eyes crease kindly, as he knows how much gun laws mean to you. “And how about my first October in office, Righty? Where was I then?”
It’s a rhetorical question—everyone in the country remembers the date, October 21, 2020, as clearly as people remember the date of Pearl Harbor or the year Columbus landed. Your voice is low and husky with the memory of those dark days. “You were in Switzerland, signing the international peace treaty to end the World War Trump.”
Everyone in the office freezes, petrified by the horrors of what had almost come to pass. When former president Trump had been elected, most of the country found it humorous. The reality star with the ridiculous hair and his promises to “make America great again” was looked upon as a mildly entertaining change to the bland presidents who’d come before him, and the world watched with interest as he took office. But that interest soon turned to terror as Trump immediately expanded military forces in the Middle East, then rounded up every Muslim in the United States and detained them in inhumane internment camps. The prison population swelled to the breaking point as every undocumented migrant and minor offender was incarcerated, and the health-care budget was slashed to fund a giant, chrome-and-gold wall between the United States and Mexico.
The real terror began when Trump declared war with countries around the world on various whims: China, England, Russia—Canada? He launched missiles with the attitude of a bored schoolboy playing with his water pistol, randomly targeting countries that held little to no threat unless riled, and in only months America was at war with over 80 percent of the world.
Hope began to fade, law had failed in many major US cities, looting and rioting were daily occurrences. People lived in fear for their lives. Canada generously opened its border to allow US refugees to escape—until Trump declared defection to Canada high treason and shut the border, trapping everyone inside the mess he’d created.
But out of the darkness came the light.
Presidential candidate West.
When Kanye West first announced his intention to run for office, he was treated a
s a joke, just another celeb trying to get political—but you saw things differently. You’d read his policy paper, entitled “Run This Country,” a play on a song title from one of his early albums. You’d opened the document, expecting obnoxious grandstanding and uninformed ramblings, and had been stunned to find a logical, ordered policy focusing on equality and education. Son of a Gold Digger, you’d sworn silently. You realized he was the one man who could change the fate of the United States before there wasn’t a country left to save.
You still remember the day your phone rang. It was an unlisted number, and you answered cautiously, “Hello?”
“Hey, this is Kanye West. I got your number. We’re gonna meet.”
Sure, you’d reached out to his campaign office to offer your services, but you never expected a response. You’d laughed, thinking it was one of your friends pranking you. “Oh, sure. Nice to speak with you, Mr. West. I’d love to meet you too!”
“Good, good. Listen, I’ve sent a Maybach to pick you up.”
“Mm-hmm, yeah, yeah,” you’d said sarcastically, until you were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was a suited driver, with the nicest car you’d ever seen waiting behind him. You’d gulped, suddenly realizing this call was for real.
Kanye had noted your silence and said, “I need people on my team who wanna help me save our country. Is that you?”
It was. You’ve been by his side as he won the election in a landslide, supported his every move in the chess game of international politics, and made sure that he had everything he needed before he had to ask.
And now President West is standing in a room full of the country’s best and brightest, with no one able to solve the mammoth problem he faces. And you know he needs your help again.
He lets the enormity of the last three years of change sink in to everyone in the room, then says, “You wonder why I view this as a national problem, henh? Can’t none of you guess?”
The secretary of state says cautiously, “Well, obviously, your wife’s birthday has been overshadowed for several years by your political duties, but surely you realize that the fate of our great nation is far more important than personal celeb—”