Chapter 1
It was all wrong.
The faces were wrong, the hair was wrong, the clothes were wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I couldn't draw a picture to save my life, but I had never been more embarrassed. It was a picture of my favorite guys: the twins from Tokio Hotel, lying in my sketchbook outlined heavily in pencil. Age had smeared some of said outline around the page, but I was always armed with an eraser to fix it. I didn't know why, though, because it was completely wrong. Sure, their signatures were there, appearing as huge wavy lines across their corresponding shirts. But being written with pen, it was there to stay. The moving, smearing paper didn't stand a chance. I could've very well just let the horrid pictures be blotched out into a pool of graphite with nothing left but my guys' autographs standing out against the mess.
But they liked it.
That's all that kept me from letting the drawing die. Their real-life counterparts gave it so much positive feedback that I just had to keep it in good shape. That, and it was my strongest memory of the one time I actually got to meet Bill Kaulitz.
It happened two years ago when the band were on tour in the US. They were performing just a few miles away from my college, so my Tokio Hotel-crazy dorm partner Christie dragged me over. I wasn't a fan of the band's music back then; I had just found a picture of the two hottest members on the internet and drawn it out. When there was a news leak that Tokio Hotel was performing close by, Christie convinced me to take the drawing so they could sign it. I wasn't fully in on the idea, but I went anyway.
The stadium was roaring with screaming fans when four guys had appeared onstage. A guy playing the bass had long brown hair, while another guy playing drums had short blond hair. I thought the boy with the brown dreadlocks playing the guitar was kind of cute, but my heart skipped a beat when I saw the lead singer at the front. He wore all black: black shirt, black jacket, black skinny jeans, black shoes…and his long hair stuck outward like a giant black pompom.
Christie pointed toward the black beauty and shouted: "See, Holly? That's Bill Kaulitz, the one I told you about. Isn't he hot?"
"Very," I admitted. "I can't wait for him to sign this drawing." I clutched my sketchpad tighter and tighter in my hand, as if I were suddenly worried that it would slip away from me.
I stared in awe at Bill the entire rest of the concert. I didn't know if it was just my imagination, but I could have sworn Bill was looking at me. I couldn't be sure since his head was forward most of the time, but the black hottie seemed to be eyeing me. My heart started fluttering when he twitched his eyes. Was he winking at me? Even if he was, how was I so sure that it was me and not Christie or some girl behind us?
The concert was over. The songs were finished. The music had died and allowed the screaming crowd to take over. The band made their way across the red carpet, glancing warily from side to side as their loud, unruly fans shrieked excitedly at them, contained only by a metal fence like the wild animals they were.
They obliged when it came to signing autographs, so I quickly flipped my sketchpad open to the drawing of Bill and Tom and held it out as far as I could reach. Bill caught sight of it and took it in his hands.
"Whahs dis?" The man spoke with a thick German accent, but it was the most beautiful sound I had heard in a long time.
"It's a drawing of you and Tom," I replied.
Bill smiled, but I could tell it wasn't just a polite smile; it was one of compassion and interest. He turned to Tom, who was being swallowed by the arms of about seven excited fangirls. "Tom!"
Bill's brother eventually managed to pull away from the girls and make his way over. When he saw the picture, he nodded in approval. "Nice."
"Ca' we sign it?" Bill asked.
"Yeah," I replied. "That's kinda why I brought it."
The hot singer took out a pen and waved it around on my sketchpad, then passed it to Tom who did the same. When the boy with the dreadlocks handed me back my drawing, signatures had been scribbled over the shirts of the guys in my picture.
A large man that looked like a security guard yelled something at the band members, but I didn't quite catch it. Bill yelled something back in German, then turned back to me. "Vell, ve huv to leave soon. Vut's your name?"
"Holly," I replied.
Bill's smile widened. "I 'ope to see you again, Holly. Vill you be at our next concert?"
I sighed doubtfully. "Well, school's been getting in the way, unfortunately. I'll come see you guys if I can, but I don't know how long till then."
Bill leaned in close to me. "Vell, I promise you I'll find eh way to see you again. Someday, ve'll meet again. I svear by it."
My heart was thudding as if it were trying to escape my chest. What was he talking about? He planned to see me again? I had to say something, but all I could think of was: "I'm not sure what my schedule is like, but I promise I'll try to see you again."
The singer was smiling so big it looked like it was trying to rip his face open. He touched my hand, which rested on the metal railing, and muttered: "It's a promise. Ve'll meet again."
Which brings me to today, two years later, sitting in a stuffy airplane on my way to Germany. My picture of the twins stared back at me as I touched up some unneeded gray splotches around Bill's hair. It had been so long since that promise had been made, and Bill couldn't possibly have remembered me. But I was going to their next concert anyway, because I promised I would.
I promised, I told myself. I promised we'd meet again.
