I gazed out of the window with longing. We were just passing beautiful New York City and heading towards Westchester. I was going to be living there in a five-star hotel temporarily. The city was beautiful, and I could only wish that Westchester was too. I had been dozing calmly in my little corner of the tour bus while my daddy thumbed through the newspaper we'd picked up in Canada (after one of my concerts there).
"Dang flabbit!" my father shouted in frustration. "Half of this paper is in French! I don't speak French!" I rolled my eyes playfully at him. "Well, maybe, next time you want to read something in a country where French is a relatively main language, you should pick it up," I suggested. He pantomimed hitting me and smirked. I just love the close relationship I have with my father. Normally, as teens reach adulthood, they grow farther away from their parents, only to be reconnected when they mature fully. Then Jackson ruined our moment—"Has anybody seen my deodorant?" I rolled my eyes, annoyed. "No, Jackson. But trust me, if it was close, I'd smell it before I saw it. I swear, that scent is worse than Luanne after her mud bath." Jackson cocked his head in puzzlement. "But I just bought it—it's supposed to be odorless." I figured out what had happened (he'd transferred a good portion of his smell to the deodorant) and let out a moan: "That's disgusting, Jackson!" I chucked one of my down pillows at him angrily. He dodged it quickly and wagged a finger at me menacingly. "Watch it, little sis," he ordered, putting emphasis on "little." I smirked. "Whatever. Like I'd ever be afraid of you." He looked at me curiously and angrily. "I have lightning fast reflexes! Try me." I rolled my eyes for a third time. "Okay, then." I picked up his Joey Votolo autographed baseball (you don't even want to know the trouble I went through to get it) and pitched it right to his forehead. It connected and his arms flew up about two seconds late. "I thought people with good reflexes would be able to catch that," I commented with mock puzzlement, cocking my head innocently and batting my eyelashes. "I've got to go," Jackson mumbled angrily, disappearing into his "room."
My father chuckled heartily. I noticed he'd substituted a novel for the French newspaper. "Mr. Stewart," the driver called from the front seat. "We've reached our destination. Miss Stewart may want to become her 'other self' now, or they won't let her past the front doors." I smiled at the back of his head. "Good idea." I removed my wig from the table (where I had thrown it a few miles ago) and placed it on my head. After fixing it (I was a pro at it by then; I didn't even require a mirror), I said, "Check!" Just as I did, we pulled into the parking lot of a gorgeous resort. Jackson, the little weirdo, scampered eagerly inside. "Whoa!" he shrieked as he ran about the lobby. I was embarrassed. "Dad, if anyone asks, he's not a Montana. He's a little hobo man we found lying on the side of the road and I am such a sympathetic person that I allowed him to stay in our tour bus momentarily and we are buying him a room to live in here, okay?" My dad tried to maintain a straight face. "Now, Miles, don't be embarrassed by your brother. He's just being...Jackson." I shrugged. "How else could you describe that?" I pointed to my brother who was bouncing around on the chairs, sticking his tongue out at the mature guests parading their puppies around. I smacked my hand to my forehead.
"Let's hurry and get to our room before we get kicked out." We checked in and hurried to our room. My father immediately commanded Jackson and me to get some rest. "It's only nine o'clock in our minds!" Jackson pointed out. "Jackson does have a valid point—whoa, that's something I never thought I'd say!" I admitted. Jackson smiled. "Thanks, Miles—wait…was that a compliment?" I stared at him. "My point exactly," I said exasperatedly. He shrugged. "Maybe it's only nine o'clock to your minds, but that means when you get up it will be four hours early than whenever. And you're going to have to get up very early for school. And you two have a big day tomorrow. You're both starting at a new school."
Jackson punched at the air. "Yes! Briarwood Academy! They have a huge soccer program," he informed. "Jackson, in case you don't remember, you can't play sports," I reminded him gently. He shrugged again. "So what? I heard chicks dig it! And we'll be right next door to your school, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, where there are a lot of chicks. Hot ones, too," he said excitedly. My jaw dropped. "Jackson, that's rude. It's not Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (which is totally derogatory, by the way), it's Octavian Country Day, or OCD," I explained forcefully. "Whatever," Jackson said, brushing away my condescending tone. "To bed," my dad instructed as soon as we'd finished. We quickly got to sleep (despite the messed up body clocks).
A/N: I am so into this, I'm (probably) going to add one (or maybe even TWO) more chapters right away! The next chapter will be in third-person view, since it will just be the Clique girls and the story is told from Miley's perspective.