Scott Moffatt Beside me, Clint sighed and shifted. Someone who shall remain nameless (DAVE MOFFATT) whapped him over the head with rolled-up Teen People.

"I'm going to kill you, Dave," threatened Clint, whipping off his sunglasses and beating Dave with them. Dave just giggled.

"Bored, Dave?" I grinned at him.

"You're next, Scott." Dave crinkled his eyes and waved the Teen People menacingly.

"Shut up, guys." Bob lifted his head from my shoulder and shook his scraggly brown ponytail. He had a craggy look on his face. "You have disturbed my slumber," he said majestically. WHAP! Dave shut Bob up with the Teen People whose cover boasted a smiling Jennifer Love Hewitt.

"Okay, guys, quiet down. The plane gets here in fifteen minutes, just settle down," I said.

"Who died and made you Dad?" muttered Clint.

"That's a stupid question," Dave replied from behind me, where he had commenced in flipping through his magazine. "Obviously, if someone has made him Dad, it must have been Dad that has died."

"You want a whapping or something?" Clint turned around, snatched Dave's Teen People, and whacked him over the head with it in turn.

"Just shut up you guys!! GOD!" Bob whined, got up from where he was sitting on my right, and went around to my left all the way to the other side of the row of seats in the airport terminal.

"Language," remarked Clint, reminding us all about our mother obsessed with thinking that "God" was a cuss word. At least she let us get away with that one every once in a while - no hells or damns, though, and definitely no s-words, b-words, a-words, let alone f-words. "FORK!" we'd say instead of that, then laugh at ourselves for actually saying "fork."

"Tired from the show this morning," I replied. That's pretty much how all of us felt. We were restless to leave New York on a non-stop flight to Los Angeles. After doing a circuit of shows at various locations in New York, we were eager for the balmy city scenery of California, and also the variety of talk shows that were filmed there that we could grace.

"Hey, Scott, wanna get a Hawaiian Ice?" Dave asked me, catching sight of a store across the hallway of the terminal.

"No," I sighed, laying my head on Clint's other shoulder, the one Bob wasn't occupying.

"Am I your personal pillow?" Clint didn't pause for an answer. "No. No, I am not-" Dave snared my sunglasses from my nose.

"Hey!! Those are my God damn Armanis, you-"

"Language," said Bob peacefully.

"Sweet little boy," I muttered, leaping over the row of seats to where Dave was standing in his black jeans, white T-shirt, and dark blue denim jacket. His own rather goggle-like red sunglasses were on his nose, and my thick-framed, yellow-lensed Armanis were dangling from his fingers. A devious grin was stuck on his face.

"Let's go get a Hawaiian Ice," he said, and started off across the hallway. I sighed, adjusting my disheveled v-necked black T-shirt and beige button-up, seventies-style sweater, pulling them down over my dark-blue carpenter jeans, and went after him.

"Whatever bug crawled up your ass and -"

"Oooh, language," Dave pointed out. "We ought to get you one of those chips that electrocutes you every time you cuss and implant it in your skull somewhere."

"Color me Cartman," I replied, catching up with him.

"Those two are driving me insane. Bob has only slept sixteen hours in the past day. And Clint is really snappy lately." Dave and I dodged an old couple and entered the store that held the hallowed Hawaiian Ice machine.

"We've all been set on edge," I told Dave, the youngest of my brothers. "All this tour stuff is being really tiring lately. We haven't heard anything good from the critics."

"They can't seem to forget about our Christmas album," Dave said, embarrassing us both with the reminder of our high little happy voices belting out country Christmas tunes.

"Don't remind me. Oh God, don't remind me."

"At least we're not alone," Dave said, trying to make up for it. "'N Sync, Hanson, they've got Christmas albums."

"We were first," I moaned, and ordered a raspberry blue Hawaiian Ice.

"Copiers," agreed Dave. "And I'll have a grape one, please."

"It wasn't the wisest thing to copy," I said. Dave nodded and gave me my sunglasses back. I slid them back on my nose and over my ears quickly. Most of my bleached blond, shorter wisps of hair had fallen out of my low ponytail, catching on my cheeks and falling over my nose. Dave slid a five-dollar bill across the counter, got change, and suggested that we go look at the magazines to see if we were featured in any of them.

So we headed over to a little bookstand a couple stores away and racked through the teeny-boppers, finding a couple of repetitive articles with information I didn't even remember giving to anyone.

"God, this information is like three years old," Dave giggled.

"Oh my God, we're on the back of a Hanson picture," I groaned, shoving the three teenaged blondes into Dave's face and laughing.

"Yeah, hehehe, you're about as blond as them, now, Scott," he told me.

"Shut up," I ordered. "Before I smack you with a -" (I had to pause and check the name of the magazine) " - a BIG BOPPER! How appropriate!"

"I think the blondness has seeped in through your roots and gotten ahold of your brain. Yes, the bleach is killing those brain cells by the minute. There's a mass murder going on inside your head right now, Scott," he teased relentlessly. "Or should I say, Mr. 'MMMBop.'"

"I hate you. I hate you so much! I'm going to kill you, Dave!" I giggled, truly hating him that moment but finding him so funny that all I could do was stand there and laugh stupidly.

"Gee, that's the second time my life has been threatened in the last ten minutes," Dave remarked innocently, stuffing the magazine he was holding back where he found it and licking the top of his cup of Hawaiian Ice as if it were a Sno Cone . . . well, I guess in a way it sort of was . . . oh, never mind.

I stopped.

"Ten minutes? Shit - oh, shit, Dave, our plane," I gasped.

"Language!" said Dave. Then: "Oh, shit!"

We both took off at the same time, racing out of the bookstore and down the terminal hallway. People started shouting at us, and we began to grin and laugh as we ran. There's nothing more fun than causing mischief in places like this.

"Oh - shit, watch where you're running, Scott!" Dave shrieked. I looked back at him, running and trying to eat his Hawaiian Ice at the same time, and before I could look ahead of me again, it was too late. I collided full-on with someone ahead of me, sending us both sprawling across the cold floor of the airport terminal.

"Scott!" I heard Dave scream. "FORK!"

I giggled relentlessly, and began apologizing to the person beneath me, someone with long blond hair and a red Jansport backpack.

"Taylor!" I then heard someone say.