My name is Kevin. Call me that and you’ll die. I go by Kev. Plain and simple. I’m eighteen. You’d think I’d at least be a senior, but you’d be wrong. I moved here when I was fifteen from French-land. Yeah, I’m French. I hated Paris. America is much better, although I do miss the young drinking age – the smoking age too. The drug laws, the hookers, the strip clubs. . .Anyways, America is better. Why? Because that’s where I met William. Don’t call him that either or you’ll die. He goes by Wil, one ‘L’, not two. We like three letter names, and will most likely call you by the first three letters of yours. Oh yes, William (I can call him that). He’s seventeen, a youngin. You might think I’m taking advantage of a poor little minor. Wrong. Why? Because he’s a Jap. Well, half. Yeah, I’m aware ethnicity doesn’t affect age, but that’s the best excuse I’ve got. He moved here at age fourteen. Same time as me. We were put in the same grade because he’s Asian – therefore smart. Weird coincidence, huh? Wrong again. It was fate. So Wil. . . He’s my honey-bunny, my snuggle bear, my sugar pie, AKA you look, you touch, smell, lick, whatever, you die. I have a lot of conditions, especially when it comes to Wil. Yes, I love him. I’m protective, like a mother bear. But I’m not a furry, nor am I a mother. But enough mushy.

What? What do I look like? Like everything you envision when you touch yourself at night. Just kidding. I look like a white boy. A French boy. A tall, white, French boy. Strong enough to hold you to that “you’ll die” thing, and probably intimidating enough to keep you from trying. And what does Wil look like? Like everything I envision when I touch myself at night. Not kidding. He’s short, like five-five. But it’s not bad. He’s also really skinny, like ninety- five pounds. Again, not bad. I can pick him up easily, and I do-often. He looks relatively Asian, but like one of those adorable Asians you can’t help but hug. Not one of those nerdy ones, all into anime and shit. He has curly, dark brown hair, like his white father. He has his mother’s. . .well, her face. He’s a very pretty boy. Been mistaken for a girl more than once, but I made sure the mistaken never make that mistake again. He has the most amazing brown eyes that happen to be staring in my direction right now.

Jump back three years. I’m sitting on a plane, a fucking plane of doom, bitching to my sister about how much I hate America. Bitching about how much Paris rocks, about how it's a hell of a lot better than America. Bitching about how America has no young drinking age, no young smoking age, harsh drug laws, no hookers, limited strip clubs – Paris is so much better.

“Are we there yet?” Brenna whines, her stupid high pitched voice doing nothing for my pounding headache.

“No, shut up, just shut the fuck up!” I pound a fist down on the little collapsible tray thing, getting a disgruntled look from the lady in front of me. “Whatchoo lookin’ at?" She turns around immediately. I love it.

“Are we there yet?” I turn around in my seat to ask pop. He’s asleep on some woman’s shoulder, someone that’s not mom. Not that it could be her anyways, she’s dead. Oh, didn’t I tell you? Yeah, she died in a car crash. I was three. It was tragic. I don’t really remember.

I throw my fork at him and it hits him in the eye. He wakes, waking the woman as well. “What the hell!”

“Pop! Oh good, you’re awake. I was afraid you’d had a heart attack and died!” It wasn’t completely untrue. He had a heart attack once. Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’ll get into that later. “Ow!” Pop threw the fork back. I am sad. Here comes the flight attendant.

“Bonjour.” Eww at her fake cheery voice. “Est-ce que vous voulons quelque chose?”

No bitch. I do not want your nasty cheerios. No sour milk for me. “Non. Oh hey, aren’t we overseas? Speak some American!” Cue Kev cowering in seat at her scary glare. Jesus lady, perhaps you should get those eyes checked, they’re fucking gigantic. I wonder what would happen if I just. . .reached out and poke. Like a mother-fucking Chihuahua, I just wanna poke and poke and poke until it bleeds.

“Non.”

Yeah, that’s right. Wheel away on your little cart. You can’t touch this. Cue M.C. Hammer. Dun-dun-dun-dun.

“Attention passengers. We will be arriving at Des Moines International Airport in approximately two hours. Thank you for flying with TAT European Airlines. Enjoy the rest of your flight.”

“Oh my god-d-d, why corn-land? Of all the places in America you could have dragged me to, why here?!” Whine-whine, bitch-bitch, moan-moan. I do this in bed too.

Pop swats me on the head. Gah! Don’t touch me bitch.

I fucking do not like corn. It’s gross and yellow. I don’t like yellow. Yellow and green, corn comes in those stalky things and they’re green. It looks like a hanky. I don’t like snot. I had this cold once, and I was so sick I sneezed and snot just went everywhere. Ever since then, I don’t like corn, err. . .

Whoa, turbulence. Zoom-zoom. Oh my god, we’re going to crash. Crash to our doom. No, no, okay, steady now, good pilot.

“Are we there yet?”

Translations:
Bonjour: Hello
Est-ce que vous voulons quelque chose: Would you like anything?
Non: No

I'm starting up a new story. Once again, Faith is my beta. I wouldn't choose any other. My inspiration for this story comes from two of my bestest friends - Amanda and Lindsey, their alteregos being Wil and Kev. Fucking spastic they is. I love them, and hope I portray them well. Enjoy.