"Just as we suspected," says the doctor distantly. "She's got a strong case of amnesia. She won't remember anything, not even her name. Be prepared for a struggle when you try to take her home with you." Why am I at the doctor? Who should be prepared for a struggle? Why would I struggle?
I am confused that it shouldn't be legal. You'd think they let a…wait, how old am I? I'm a girl, I know that, from my long hair and for other obvious reasons…but how old am I? And what's my name?
Who am I?
"Miley," a voice coos softly. "Miles? Are you alright? We're going home now." My eyes flutter open and I glare at the voice's owner. It's some man with obnoxiously long highlighted hair and a country accent. He's accompanied by a boy with greasy-looking hair that flops everywhere. Who are these hillbillies? They are definitely not associated with me, are they?
"Where's home? Who are you?" I demand. "I'm not going anywhere with either of you. Yeah, that's right, butterball." The boy's eyes bugs out and he looks mortified. "Did she seriously just say that to me?" he whispers from the corner of his mouth to Pa Hillbilly.
"Yeah, I did," I say stoutly. "You're probably just some psycho stalker hillbillies from down south who drove up here to wherever I live to pick up some cute, innocent little girl," I accuse angrily. The boy stifles a chuckle. "Miley, you don't know how little and not innocent you are, do you?" he asks me, rolling his eyes and heaving a sigh. "This is going to be difficult."
"I know exactly how old I am," I lie. "I'm…um…ten and a half?" It's a total guess; I can't remember a thing. "Try adding four and a half years," suggests Pa Hillbilly. Like I'm going to take advice from him…yet, he seems to know what he's talking about, so I tally up the number. Fifteen. I'm fifteen years old! Whoa, I must have missed a whole lot of birthdays.
"I was joking when I said ten and a half," I say indignantly. "I really meant fifteen. How foolish of you to think otherwise." Talk about air. I was just boosting myself up so that they'd be frightened. Maybe then the hillbillies would leave.
"Miley Ray Stewart, you had better cut this behavior out immediately, or there will be punishments when you return home. I promise you that," says Pa Hillbilly. "Stop calling me Miley!" I shriek. "I don't know who you are. Get out of here, you freaky hillbillies."
"Miley, get in the car, now." They yank me out of my nice, cozy hospital bed and pull me out the door and into their car. Amazingly, the doctors and nurses make no move to save me, even though I am yelping for help at the top of my lungs (which have an amazing amount of capacity). This must be some psycho facility where the doctors enjoy seeing their patients carried off by random strangers. As we drive off, I sit in the back and cry silently.
We pull into the driveway of a very nice beach house. Pa Hillbilly sits me down inside on a plush couch and says, "We need to talk, Miley." I shake my head. "No, you need to explain first!" I say importantly.
"That's what I mean," he answers tiredly. "Just let me talk, okay? Here we go. You are Miley Ray Stewart. I am your father, that is Jackson your brother. We live here in Malibu. You have a secret identity; Hannah Montana, pop sensation. You were performing as her when you suffered a bad fall and a blow to the head. Your memory was wiped out. Do you understand?"
I laugh to spite him. "Yeah, I understand that I'm definitely not the psycho in this situation. What have you been drinking, Pa Hillbilly?" I ask, still chortling to myself. He looks to my "brother" Jackson—or was it Joseph?—for assistance, but Jackson is on the phone, dialing somebody's number. He says hi to the person on the other line, and then presses a few buttons.
"I'm three-way-calling with Lily and Oliver," he explains to Pa Hillbilly. "They say they can come over and try to boost Miley's memory. I doubt that she can forget Lily and Oliver, her two best friends since we moved here. If she did, well, then we're out of luck."
The house is silent for a few minutes. Then there's a doorbell. Jackson lets two people into the house. They appear to be fifteen, just like me, but I can't put a name to their face. It sort of rings a bell, but a very far away and quiet bell, if you know what I mean.
"Miley? It's Lily Truscott. Remember me? Your best friend?" the girl asks softly and cautiously, all at once. "And remember me? Oliver? Your other best friend?"
"No," I admit independently. Why does everyone want me to know who they are? I don't get it. Next thing you know some jerk is going to burst in and declare that he's my boyfriend or something. Which probably wouldn't be a bad thing, you know, if he's cute.
"Miley!" gasps so-called Oliver. "How could you forget us?"
"How bad is her amnesia?" Lily asks nervously, fiddling with her long, braided blonde hair. "It seems to be overwhelmingly bad." Pa Hillbilly nods solemnly. "I believe it is, Lily. I'm sure there's something that will refresh her memory. We just have to find that."
"Maybe Jake will," suggests Jackson. "She definitely has some memories left in that department. It would take years to wipe all of those out. If we hack her cell phone and call his number, maybe we can get him to come over here, you know, for the better cause."
"Jake," spits Oliver, "does not need to be involved in this situation. Maybe I know a way to help Miles." He takes a deep breath. "Miley Stewart…————————!"
What does Oliver tell Miley? You can predict in the reviews, but you won't find out till the next chapter!!