And we're back. This is an alternative-universe story, meaning it's not much like what you read in the Meg Cabot tales. Michael's a movie star slated to play Josh in the movie about Mia's life. He and Mia haven't met and Lilly isn't a part of her life either.

Just read. It gets mighty good.

Oh, and the title of the story comes froma Rilo Kiley song, though the lyrics don't match, I don't believe.

Mia's POV

Oh.

My.

God.

WHAT IS HER PROBLEM?

When someone says, "Amelia, I have a treat for you", I'm expecting, like, a gift certificate to the GAP or maybe some pop-rocks.

But I probably should have learned by now what to expect from my grandmother. And it's so not candy.

Just imagine poor, innocent me, strolling into princess lessons as usual. But what do I find? Not just Clarisse Renaldo with a tray of scones and a lifetime's worth of anal retention.

No, my grandmother was perched primly in one of the armchairs, and at her side was this middle-aged guy in all black with an expensive-looking haircut and Italian boots.

"Um," I greeted them brilliantly.

"Amelia," said Grandmere, forcing a smile. "This is Jacques Dulles, a film-maker from the Holly Wood."

Pssh. Only she would call it that.

And what is JACQUES DULLES doing here? He made 'Death and Destruction'! And…and 'Devotion'!

Both of which star only the CUTEST guy ever. You must know who I'm talking about. EVERYBODY knows him.

Michael Wilson.

God….those eyes! What lips! And that BODY.

Ahem, I'm getting a tad off-topic. What was I saying?

"You remember that surprise I told you about?" said Grandmere, now glaring at my open mouth and wide eyes. I quickly straightened.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I have enlisted Jacques' help!" she said and Jacques smiled widely, nodding at me.

At first I thought maybe I was going to be in a movie. Like Dirty Dancing or something.

Maybe Michael Wilson could play my love interest! Oh, that'd be SO HOT.

Except the fact that I can't act. I have a hard time getting out "Yes, I did my homework" or "Of course I like crumpets, Grandmere" while keeping a straight face. How am I supposed to do this?

"He'll be directing the movie of your life!" she proclaimed, clapping her hands together in glee.

Well.

What else can I say, but…

AHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

Michael's POV

You'd think after 26 films and a three freaking Teen Choice awards that I'd get a little more respect. Like, maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't have to do these stupid teenybopper movies. Perhaps I'd be allowed to do something with SUBSTANCE.

No offense, but 'Love Signals' didn't exactly sweep the Oscars. Even though I took off my shirt and made the puppy eyes and proclaimed my love for the girl in a grand gesture, as usual.

Where's bad?

Let me tell you where bad is…bad is when I can't have any sort of stubble on my chin. Bad is when I have to shave my chest. Bad is when I have to be hustled out of the mall in a laundry cart.

The truth is, I like to act. I love it even! And frankly, I'm great at it.

But when every movie I do is the same filth recycled over and over again, I'm not getting anywhere. Or at least the places I want to be. Which isn't the cover of Tiger Beat, surprisingly.

But I'm successful. And wanted. Needed, really, or else the girlies would be stuck with Justin Timberlake as their main leading man.

I can't do that to them, can I? At least, that's what my agent tells me.

"You don't look cool like that," her assistant said, pulling the cigarette out of my mouth. We're sitting in my trailer, discussing some sort of business or another. I find myself not really caring any more.

When I first got into this, I was a wide-eyed, enthusiastic idiot. I did what I was told and got damn rich off of it.

Now, five years later, I want out. I want to freaking grow up. It's like Neverland around here…but with no Michael Jackson, thank God.

"We dealt with your little stalker," said Beverly, my agent, as her assistant tossed my cigarette in the trashcan. Little wanker.

"Which one?" I asked nonchalantly. Believe me, this is no extraordinary occurrence.

"The one who found your parents' phone number and keeps leaving messages about That Movie."

Ah. That Movie. I know what she's talking about, of course. It's the one we don't discuss because it's worse than all my stupid teen romantic comedies all put together.

Extraterrestrials in the Outback.

There, I said it. And it's absolutely TERRIBLE. Bad effects, bad acting, and horrible plot. But all my hardcore fans like to find copies and bug me about it incessantly.

"Well, that's good," I said, stretching out on the couch. "Lilly, get me a beer."

The assistant nodded and bustled over to the mini-fridge. But then the little brat came back with a Coke. "We can't have you getting a nasty protruding belly," she told me with a sickly sweet smile. "The fans wouldn't like that, now would they?"

I scowled and popped open the soda anyway. God, I hate her.

Oh, back to what I was saying earlier…Beverly told me this morning that Jacques called with a film proposition. And apparently, you don't say no to Jacques Dulles.

But why can't I say no to Jacques Dulles when he wants me to star in the lamest movie of the year—if not the decade?

You heard it here first. I'm going to be playing 'Josh Bryant' in some lame-ass movie about the life of Princess Amelia of Genovia.

What in God's name is a Genovia anyway?

Seriously. I'd stop acting, but then I'd have to…stop acting. And I don't want that. I just want something better.

"Beverly, can I get a massage?" I mumbled, closing my eyes and sprawling out on the couch.

She ordered Lilly to call the therapist and I grinned sleepily. I must admit, being pampered is a definite perk.