It was morning and Mr. Stewart was already up and making breakfast. As he flipped some eggs with a spatula, he crooned to himself, “Cooking up some eggs, frying them up in a pan, going to add a little cheddar, ’cause I’m a cheesy omelet man.”
Miley Stewart and her brother, Jackson, came downstairs just in time to hear the end of their dad’s song.
“Good morning, Cheesy Omelet Man,” they said in unison.
“Good morning, my loving, beautiful family,” Mr. Stewart answered cheerfully.
Miley surveyed the feast he was preparing. “Eggs, bacon,” she pointed out. Her eyes brightened. “Either there was a Dukes of Hazzard marathon on last night or you just wrote a new Hannah song!”
“Aw, honey, you know me better than that,” her father said teasingly. “If I’d written a new song, there would be cinnamon toast.”
Just then, the toaster dinged and two slices of cinnamon toast popped up.
“New song!” Miley cheered, rushing over to give her dad a hug.
“Cinnamon toast!” Jackson shouted, equally happy.
“There’s nothing like finally cracking a new song,” their dad said with satisfaction.
“I can’t wait to hear it!” Miley exclaimed. “Let me go get Lucky Lulu,” she said, referring to her dad’s fondly nicknamed guitar. She headed for the living room where he usually kept it. Miley looked around. “Where’s Lucky Lulu?”
“Lulu’s like a lot of older California women,” Mr. Stewart said. “She’s having some work done on her neck.”
Miley shrugged. “That’s okay. We can just use, uh, Whammy-Bar Wally,” she suggested. She pointed to another guitar. “He’s wonesome,” Miley said, making a sad face.
But Mr. Stewart shook his head. “Now, honey, you know I never play you a new song without Lulu. Especially one that could be your biggest hit ever.”
“Biggest hit ever?” Miley gasped. She could hardly contain her excitement. “Okay, you at least have to tell me what it’s about. Breaking up? Making up?”
She stopped and gave her dad a warning look. “Please don’t let it be another song about my double life. I mean, you might as well tattoo ‘I’m really Miley Stewart’ on my forehead.”
Her dad laughed, but he shook his head. “Sorry, honey, you’ll just have to wait. Lulu won’t be back until Monday. And I won’t be back until after I jog five miles. Matter of fact”—he took a large bite of bacon— “make that five and a half.”
Miley smiled at her dad sweetly. “All right, Daddy, whatever you say. I’ll wait because you want me to.” As he headed out the door, she called after him, “I love you!”
As soon as she was sure he was safely out of earshot, she drew a breath. “All right, where’d that bacon-eating hillbilly hide my song?” She started rooting around the piano, hoping to find it.
Jackson, however, wasn’t interested in her new song. He was too focused on his dad’s upbeat mood—and, of course, on what that mood meant for him. “Did you see how happy he was?” Jackson asked his sister. “This is great! Now he’ll finally let me have another party at the house.”
Miley stopped searching for the song long enough to say, “Are you joking? Remember the last time you had a party?”
Of course Jackson remembered. Everyone in Malibu remembered! Although not necessarily for the right reasons.
“Hey, it was one little citywide power outage!” he protested.
“They had to land a jumbo jet on the freeway,” Miley reminded him.
“And now those passengers have a great story to tell,” Jackson countered.
Miley rolled her eyes and returned to her mission. She picked up her dad’s jacket from the piano bench and pulled a folded piece of sheet music from one of the pockets.
“Gotcha!” she cried in triumph.
Jackson was still making his case for why he should be allowed to have a party. As he dialed his cell phone, he said, “Look, I’ve been begging for months and all I’ve heard was”—he imitated his dad’s voice— “can’t talk, got to finish the song. Can’t talk, got to finish the song.”
As he waited for his call to be answered, Jackson switched back to his own voice. “Well, he’s finished the song, he’s in a great mood, which means—”
Suddenly, he spoke loudly into the phone. “Max, the party animal is back! Saturday night, my house!”
Having delivered the good news, Jackson hung up, grinning.
Miley’s smile, however, had vanished. She stared at the sheet music in shock. “This is awful,” she said.
“So, are we smelling a hit?” Jackson asked cheerfully.
Miley shook her head in dismay. “I’m smelling something, but I’m not sure it’s a hit. This song stinks!”
Jackson’s face fell as he thought about what effect this bad news might have on his party. “Oh, no,” he said seriously.
“Oh, yes.” Miley held the music under his nose. “Take a whiff.”