DISCLAIMER: MEG CABOT OWNS ALL CHARACTERS, WEEZER OWN 'ONLY IN DREAMS'

Note: Due to the policy of not using song lyrics we have not written ourselves, we are removing the lyrics to 'Only in Dreams' from the start of the chapter. If you would like to see how the lyrics fit with the story, please Google them.

Two superpowers have come together to bring you this story. We shan't reveal our names (though we've both written other PD fan fics) just know that we're alternating writing chapters for this story. Weezer owns the song 'Only in Dreams'.


I really hate my life.

Seriously.

It's not bad enough that I'm flunking freshman Algebra, I'm a human skyscraper, and my feet look like built-in snowshoes. Oh, and I'm princess of a whole country (the only good thing is, it's across the ocean. Which means I don't have to walk around in a tiara knighting things with my scepter at school. Ew, how weird would that be?)

My best friend Lilly says I exaggerate way too much. And that I need to stop writing in my diary all the time and maybe tell my feelings to a real person, like her, for instance.

And, okay, it's so not a diary. It's a journal. Or a lengthy log of my pathetic life. Whatever. And it is like a real person. I even have a name for it: Bernina. I haven't told Lilly this, which I guess lends to her argument.

But there are a lot of things that I cannot, under any circumstances, reveal to Lilly, even if we have been best friends since first grade. Because even life-long friends can't understand my predicament. God, I ask for the thousandth time, WHY ME!

Michael Moscovitz doesn't believe in God. He told me that the other day. Or at least, he put it in his webzine, Crackhead. I think Michael thinks it below him to talk to freshmen, even though he does discuss the latest episode of Buffy with me sometimes. I guess Crackhead is to Michael like my journal is to me. Except a ton of people read it. I would totally die of mortification if anyone ever laid a hand on my journal. Then they would all know the truth.

I didn't rob a bank or shoot someone, if that's what you're thinking. But it feels even worse than that. Like…like my grandmother ran over me multiple times with a bulldozer whilst lecturing me on how to say, "Waiter, this soup is unsatisfactory" in seven different languages. In her code, that means "God, this tastes like crap!" I have a feeling if I said it that way, though, she would be inclined to actually pull out the old bulldozer.

Grandmere might just hate my guts. I'm her only granddaughter and all, but you can totally tell that she'd bury me alive if I weren't destined to rule her country. Which, by the way, I think scares her to death. If only.

God, I have a knack for getting off-topic. Which is about the only thing I have a knack for. Lilly's, like, this brilliant public speaker. Michael is…well, perfect. I mean, he has major skills with the computer and even plays the guitar. Writes his own songs and everything. I probably shouldn't have written that. He swore me to secrecy.

But me? I've got nothing. Nada. Zip. "Poor Mia," everyone probably says, when I stroll past (probably tripping over something), "She's just so…blah."

At least that's what they used to say about me, before the whole princess thing happened. Now they're considerate enough to lower their voices while gossiping about me. I guess that's a perk in their somewhere.

Back to my secret. There's this guy. And he's got the most beautiful eyes ever, with those gorgeous smoky lashes and a sexy pout.

It's obvious, isn't it? I mean, you've probably already figured out who it was. There's no point in trying to hide it, is there? Well, in Lilly's case, yeah. Because if she knew…oh, God. I don't even want to think about it.

Lilly knows what happened last time I totally fell for a senior. I got completely humiliated in front of the entire student population of Albert Einstein High School. Thank God for Michael. He showed up and spent the rest of the night dancing with me. I guess Michael can be a pretty nice guy when he wants to be. I went from total mortification that night to having a cute boy's arms around me. The fact that I find Michael attractive is another thing I can't tell Lilly, as she is Michael's little sister. Unfortunately, she didn't inherit the 'total babe' gene. But she's pretty in her own way. And…she has a boyfriend. Which is a lot more than I can say. But Lilly has boobs. Oh, and she's really cool and talented.

The Moscovitzes really cleaned up, didn't they? If only God (yeah, I believe. Who else do you think I pray to every night for Justin Baxendale's affections?) had been a little kinder when dishing out the old traits. I got…height and the whole royalty thing. Neither of which are very awesome. But maybe He thought so. Urgh…whatever.

It's just…if there's one thing I want most in the world, it's not even an end to world hunger (which is totally important to me and all, but I'm kind of self-absorbed at times), it's for Justin to maybe look me straight in the eye one day (did I already mention that he has really great eyes? Michael has nice eyes too. Warm and soft and totally insightful. I've never mentioned this to Lilly, of course) and say something like, "My darling, my soul mate, my shining star! Be mine, sweet Mia, or I shall perish alone, never having witnessed the divine taste of your cherubic lips upon my own," or something like that.

But Justin would probably sooner flush his Gameboy down the toilet (He takes it everywhere. Seriously. It's like Michael and his laptop. I've seen Michael sing to his computer before. Quite scary, though his voice is super nice) than even think about making out with me. I say probably because I'm a hopeless dreamer. Unless, you know, he did find me the tiniest bit attractive. But that's impossible, of course, as Justin is already stalked by most of the female population of my high school.

School was hell, as usual, today. Mr. G gave some exhaustive lecture on just why algebra matters in real life, after some idiot complained about last night's hefty load of homework. You should see Mr. G, though. It's like an old grandfather trying to hook up two kids he knows are 'just meant for each other.' I tried to listen, but it all kind of jumbled together after a few minutes. So I doodled 'Princess Orlando Bloom' in my journal over and over again. I know, it's not technically correct or whatever, but God, he has a gorgeous name.

P.E. Why is it that students have to attend so many classes that have absolutely no point at all? All we do in physical education is dress out in the tacky uniform, walk around the gym for an hour (fearing for our lives all the while as the basketball team aims and misses far too many goals), and try to sneak back into the locker room, where we can talk or do our homework safely. But today, Coach Williams was ahead of us. Lilly and I made a run for the locker room door when he wasn't looking, only to find it locked. A cackling echoed across the gym and I turned to see Coach Williams clutching his side. Then he made the whole class go outside and run laps around the track. If looks could kill, Lilly and I would be dead in two seconds from some of the glares the other girls were shooting us. It's certainly not my fault that the coach had a mental breakdown. Geez.

Perfection arrived during fifth period, in the form of Michael Moscovitz. It was about time too, as I'd just spent all of lunch transfixed on the large piece of broccoli caught in Boris' retainer. Just, ew.

But Michael strolled into the room confidently (I'd be pretty damn sure of myself too, if I had all that going for me) and came to sit down by me. He just tutors me in Algebra, though. I've never seen anyone get so pissy about organization, especially not a guy. but it's totally worthwhile when his knee brushes up against mine. Not that I care that much. Now if it were Justin's knee…

But there are some definite perks in my life, not enough to make up for the general suckiness, but still. For one, Michael has a tendency for taking off his shirt. Not at school, of course (though how cool would that be? He and Josh Richter could totally compare in the middle of the commons), but in the privacy of his home (where I spend a ton of my time, having no other life really).

And believe me, it's a fantastic sight.

I wonder what Justin's chest looks like.

Argh. Must go, Michael's flipping out over integers. But he's strangely adorable when angry. Not that that matters to me at all.


Okay, the plot develops more next chapter. This was kind of opener that I got carried away with. You know what to do now. And no, it's not walk your dog or take out the trash or any crazy chore like that. Who would WANT to do chores? I mean, seriously.

Review, for the love of Michael.