I'll Jump for You Bill Kaulitz

Bea was jumping on my bed at six thirty the next morning.

“Please, another half hour,” I pulled my Bill pillow closer to my chest, trying to pretend it was really him.

“YOU HAVE TO TRY THIS AMAZING ESPRESSO!!” she screamed. Oh no, not good. Bea was naturally hyper. She didn’t need shots of espresso to help her at all. She’d be up for three days now.

“Ahh gimme some and I’ll get up,” I groaned, pulling the covers over my head. My stomach was fluttering insanely.

“And room service is bringing up breakfast for us. American breakfast,” Bea called from the living room.

“I wanted Italian food,” I whined and threw the covers off myself, trying to wake up. I looked in the huge mirror above the vanity. Ugh, my hair was naturally curly, but now it looked like Hermione from the first Harry Potter movie, you know, the one where they were adorable and not paid millions. Yeah, she had no hairstylist back then.

“So what are you gonna wear?” Bea asked, giving me my coffee.

“Um…what I always where to concerts. Jeans, flip flops, and probably my Bill shirt. Yeah, I’ll where that.”

“I’ve never been in an Italian mosh pit before, so I don’t know how easy it is to lose flip flops.”

“Bea, I’m an expert at keeping my flip flops on in mosh pits.”

“That’s right, the Panic concert,” she stuck her tongue out at me. Oh, I remembered it well. My first concert and I almost died in a mosh pit. My friends were all crying and scared but when they found me I didn’t wanna come out. I sorta liked it. And they had to know there was gonna be a mosh pit. Jeez we weren’t going to see Aaron Carter or something. But even if I almost died I still managed to keep my flip flops.

“Why don’t we like Panic anymore?” I asked.

“Cause they sound nothing like they used to be. No more emo lyrics and synthetic beats,” she pouted. “They sound like the Beatles now.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the Beatles. And besides, I think their lyrics have more meaning now,” I replied.

“Whatever Tara! Why are we even talking about Panic, we should be talking about Tokio Hotel!”

“Hey bring your junk in here and we can get ready.”

“Kay.”

When she came back I had all my stuff laid out, makeup and all.

“Is it gonna rain?” I asked her.

“Eh I don’t know. Everything is in Italian and metric system. It doesn’t look like it’s supposed to though,” Bea explained, looking outside.

It was a nicer day than yesterday, barely a cloud in the sky.

Bea turned on the TV. “Last night I couldn’t get to sleep, so I was flippin’ channels and found this one totally dedicated to Italian soap operas. I think these rot your brain more than American ones!”

“Is that even possible?” I laughed.

“You wanna watch?” she asked.

“Hell yes!”

I knew Bea had a thing for soap operas. Maybe that was why she wasn’t as smart, they stunted her brain development or something.

There was all this corny junk going on, and we didn’t get much out of it cause there were no subtitles.

Soon our food came-eggs, bacon, ham, and some of this awesome pomegranate juice.

“Why did you order the American breakfast?”

Bea shrugged. “Cause the Italian probably has this weird crap on it that would scare me.”

I changed the channel, bored of all the corny Italian crap, to Showtime!

“Ahh!! The Tudors is on!” and Jonathan Rhys Meyers did look quite sexy on our huge flat screen TV in the living room.

“Oh Anne Boleyn, I want you now,” Bea mocked him, and I hit her with a pillow.

We finished our food and left the trays on the counter for the maids to get later and went into my room to get ready.

By eleven we were perfectly perfect. Bea had convinced me to put on extra extra eyeliner, and I looked a lot like Bill after she was done. And my hair was perfectly straight for once, Bea always knew how to keep it straight too.

“What should we do now?” I asked.

“We’ve got like three hours,” Bea reminded.

“ICE CREAM!” I cried.

“Wait! Before we do that let’s draw the TH symbol on our wrist with a Sharpie!” Bea exclaimed.

“Great idea, we will look like hardcore fangirls then.”

“And we’ll tell everyone they’re real,” Bea and I high-fived.

After that was over we threw on our new matching Dior sunglasses and went to the gelato place that was just down the street.

“Pistachio per favore,” I said when I reached the counter.

It was a small bowl of ice cream, and it was almost six euros, but I didn’t care.

All of a sudden came, “Hey, I like your shirt,” in a heavy German accent.

It was a guy in a baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants, his long black hair down and under a beanie and his eyes covered by sunglasses. But I had seen him way too many times.

“Bill Kaulitz?” I called to him as he was standing in line.

He turned around and smiled. “Shh…” he put his finger to his lips. Quite seductive if you ask me. And he was talking to me of all people, saying I had a nice shirt. Damn I was smooth…

When he was done ordering (same thing as me by the way, a medium pistachio) he leaned over and whispered to me, “Thanks for not yelling out my name like a fangirl. All I wanted was some gelato in piece.”

“You’re welcome,” I smiled as he walked out of the shop.

I was surprised I had kept cool for this long. “OH MEIN GOTT!” Bea and I screamed as soon as he left.

“You talked to Bill Kaulitz!” Bea cried.

“He likes my shirt!”

“He should, he’s on it! That vain little creature!”

“I KNOW!” I squealed and started laughing.

Everyone in the shop was looking at us American fangirls. This was going to be the best night ever!!!!