Tom Kaulitz

Your mother married a man named Yeung. He had a son, Tom Kaulitz, 17. You'd seen him a couple of times before you moved in: tall, silent, with long dark hair and a heavy gaze. On move-in day, he said nothing to you—he just nodded briefly and went to his room, slamming the door.

“Oh well,” you thought.

Mom enrolled you in the same school where Tom studied.

The first week is tough. You sit at the back of the class, don't talk to anyone, and eat alone in the cafeteria. Your classmates glance at each other but don't approach. Tom occasionally appears in the hallways, but he doesn't even glance your way. You feel like strangers.

In the second week, you notice him. Max. A high school student, tall, broad-shouldered, with a cheeky smile. At first, it's little things—a nudge, a phone "accidentally" knocked out of your hand, loud comments about your clothes.

"Hey, princess, what did they wear in the village?" he laughs during recess.

You remain silent. You look down and walk past. You remain silent at home too. You don't want to upset your mother. You see no point in telling Tom—he's nothing to you.

But in the third week, things get worse. Max waits for you in the school bathroom between classes. You try to pass him, but he blocks your path and pins you against the wall.

"Listen, you're so cute when you're scared. Maybe we can go for a walk after school?"

“Move away, ” you say quietly, feeling your heart beating too fast .

— Or what? He leans closer. — Will you call Daddy? He's not here.

You freeze. Your thoughts are jumbled, your throat goes dry. You want to disappear, become invisible, for this to just end.

And suddenly the door opens with a bang.

• Max
  Tom's voice sounds calm, but there is a hint of steel in it.
  — Take your hands off me.

Max turns around, smiling:

— Kaulitz, what brings you here? Are you sticking up for the little ones now?

• I said, take your hands off.