Disclaimer: I own nothing. Anything else...ask dancing with the stars. Or Stephenie Meyer. Whichever.

Huh. You'd think someone born with at least a thousand webbed left feet wouldn't be able to dance, right? That's what I thought. Here I am, without a clue what I'm doing, mind you, trying to figure out what in the hell I'm supposed to say on the season premiere, but still trying to locate my heat -fat burner -exercise contraption whatchamacallit that Rosalie bought for me. She said it's supposed to get rid of the fuckery women call a muffin top, but I don't think it works. I mean, how is some special cream and a fucking burrito wrap supposed to help my life? Really, 'as seen on tv' needs to get its' shit together.

You see, Rosalie is my personal trainer's girlfriend, and my manager slash best friend. Although the bitchy times may roll from both of us, I'd still take a bullet for her. Alright, the bitch fit rages don't always pass calmly with the storm, but it's as close as shit can get to being okay. We'd been best friends since Emmett introduced us, three years ago, and I guess he really values my opinion. Through all the years he's been my trainer, I've watched him fly after at least a few hundred girls. I guess he wanted to show me he's serious.

"Aha!" I yelled aloud, to no one, specifically. I found the dead wrap! It was behind the shoe rack in my closet. The third one, to be specific; I have seven. Because of my roles in multiple movies by the same wonderful author writing the same shit for years, I'm famous. Red carpets, award shows, everything. But, it's enough money to support Charlie since the accident. Nothing the Oscar winning Isabella Swan can't handle, right? But that's why people invented makeup. To cover up the scars you don't want anyone to see. Not that I have many, but it's still something I don't usually have daily pity parties about. Charlie's my dad, and he doesn't believe in show business. No acting, dancing, singing, any of it. Originally, my mother was, and still is, the drive behind my career. I started doing diaper commercials and baby food advertisements when I was around two, and it stuck. I've spent years in certain kids' TV shows and movies, and finally, when I turned eighteen, I found Emmett. Things in my career had just started to pick up, as I was playing in more adultishly roles than before. Charlie, being a devout serious Lutheran, doesn't believe in any women entertainers. I still think that's the cause of their divorce, which happened right after my first TV show, but it doesn't matter anymore. Nothing wants to go my way anymore. I know it's conceded and fucking stupid to complain about anything with the life I have, but I'm still in a pickle. Charlie's accident, which handicapped him from the waist down, happened four months ago. It costs thousands of dollars to pay for the in home nurses and medical equipment, which isn't a problem, but am I supposed to give my father what he sees as dirty money? Money earned from 'flaunting myself' out to the public.

"Bella?" Victoria calls. She's my evil bitch sent from hell dietitian trying to squeeze and torture me to fucking death. "I have your plans for next week. I'm thinking we can cut back the protein now..how do you feel about water crackers?"

Fucking crackers? Where did the fun go in life?

"Sure, whatever's necessary." I learned out of this line of work that it's best to go with the flow and not to question too much. She nodded and left the room.

What else goes in my suitcase? Socks, underwater...not much. Apparently the freakish fucking tight dresses all the beautiful celebrities wear on the show requires going commando. Peachy. I remove myself from my closet and drag my half full suitcase onto the carpet in front of my bed. I toss in a few things on my nightstand and call it quits.

Who the hell has time for packing? Oh, right. Insanely rich movie stars who have a whole band of bitchy stalkers preventing her from lifting a finger. I sigh and plop back onto the floor.

Two hours later, I try to find crazy bitch, ahem Victoria so I could eat. She hadn't been letting me eat more than 600 calories a day to make sure I fit into the insanely tight evening premiere dress. My stylist, Alice, would beat the shit out of me if I did. It's a handmade Cullen original, so I'd better watch my ass.

"Victoria," I call, but I'd really rather starve then deal with this.

"Yes, Isabella?" she says. Her voice is a sickly sweet, a voice that would match a child with pigtails and a gigantic pink lollipop. "Did you need something? I was just getting off the phone with James.."

"Lunch, please." Sweet and to the point.

"Oh!" she lurches from she spot like it's the fucking easiest thing to forget her client has to eat.

"I'll tell Angela to make you grilled chicken and steamed green beans, Does that sound ok?" she asks.

"Sure," I agree. It's not like I could so easily ask for chocolate cake.

Angela is my private chef I just recently hired, Rosalie hired her for me. She's a good chef, except she's gotten specific instructions not to make any dessert.

Fuckers.

I'm a little more calm after I've eaten. Rosalie comes into the kitchen and hands me my cell phone.

"It's for you," she mouths.

"No shit, sherlock. It's my phone." She rolls her eyes and holds the phone out farther. I take it and press it to my ear.

"Bella!"

"Hey, mom! How's New York going?"

"Just fine, sweetheart. How's L.A.? But you know, I met this handsome man named Phil at the movies, and he is hot! You know I haven't dated anybody since your father and I really think.."

"Mom," I interrupt. "Can we please not talk boys? I kinda have to focus on my handicapped left feet."

"I know, silly. That's why I called. I sent my leg warmers from dance school when I was your age in the mail. I hope you get them in time before you leave. Although it is in three days, right? Yes that's right. That's plently of time. I wanted to come to see you, but there's no time!"

"Yes, mom." I say. I love my mom more than anything, but if you kept age score, she's 19 and I'm 41. She still calls me her middle aged child.

We wrap up the conversation on the topic of the show.

"Are you sure you want to do this, honey? If you really don't want to maybe Rosalie can.."

"That's ok. I'll talk to you soon, alright? Rose is getting impatient to try out that fat burner. Did you know how low as seen on tv is going?"

She laughs. "Yes, I did, honey. Now go exercise with Rosalie. I love you."

"Love you too." I hang up and hand Rosalie the phone. Because of past Twitter mishaps, I'm not allowed to carry my phone.

"Thanks, B. Now let'

s go find Emmett and shake our asses in front of our men."

I scoff. "Felix, is not my man. He still gives me the creeps. Who requires to wear a gigantic ass black robe to tend to a pool?"

Rosalie laughs and shakes her head. "But seriously, go change."

Thirty minutes later, I'm sweating in places I didn't know sweat could reach before. Well, I knew, but-

"Push harder, B." Emmett coaches. I guess I'd slipped a little. I pump my arms harder than before to keep up pace.

Doing push ups somehow remind me that I hadn't had sex in a while, something celebrities have a hard time doing in secret. It's something I'd shied away from since Emmett and Rosalie started dating. You see, the first time I had sex was with Emmett, when we were eighteen and stupid, one, and desperate and rebellious, two. We had no feelings for each other what so ever, but both of our lives were to public to do it any other way. Enough said, it took a while to get over the awkwardness knowing you had sex with your best friend to get it out of the way.

"Can I stop now?" I ask him, huffing through my mouth.

"Yeah, sure," he says, barely listening. I don't bother to look and see what's got him so preoccupied, and get up from the ground and grab a water bottle out of the mini fridge.

That night I lie thinking about my life for the next 3 months. My dance partner, the judges...they don't decide to tell you anything until you get there. I just hope I get someone with two right feet to match it up.

The next morning I wake up to see Emmett jumping up and down on my bed.

"Belly boo! Wake up!"

"Shut up, Em." I throw my pillow at his head but he neatly dodges it. "Is there a reason you insist on being so irritatingly-..irritating?"

His ears turn pink after I finish.

"Oooh, do tell, Emmett. What's got your panties in a bunch?" I immediately sit up, and prop my head on my hand.

"Ok, look, B. I want to ask Rosalie to marry me."

"Holy shit seriously Em?! Oh my gosh when?"

He shushes me, even though there's no one there to hear us. Rosalie must still be in the guest house.

"Saturday night, after the premiere."

I nod, and try not to giggle. Emmett's serious face.. it's priceless. I can't help but feel my best friend is growing up. I sort of want to cry.

"Okay, Emmett. You have my blessing if that's what you're asking for."

"Shit, no. I was asking for your help with the ring."

"You haven't bought it yet?" Wasn't it customary for the guy to wait around scared shitless with a ring in his pocket? I'm not one to talk. My forever alone status isn't going to change.

"No, I plan on soldering a silly band to her finger. I already bought it, I just want you to look at it. It's a pretty big rock, and I'm not sure what she'd want. Or her ring size. Or..."

"Okay, Em. I got your back. Can I see it?"

He nodded and patted his pants pockets.

"Shit, I forgot it. Yikes!" he leaps off my bed and runs out the door. He must have left the ring in their room.

Rosalie and Emmett live in the guest house attached to my giant one. They used to be down the hall, but their constant ahem, romping kept me awake, and Alice would never pussyfoot around with my face. One purple bag and my housemates had to haul ass out to the guest house. It's a little smaller than mine with white walls and black shudders.

"Bella! Change of plans! Get up!" Rosalie yells.

"What happened?"

"We're leaving for the studio today. I think you'll need to have a while to scope the city before the show starts."

Well, here we go.

Well, there's chapter one. Do you guys think I should switch POVS between Edward and Bella? Review, please, to tell me how I'm doing, and if I get enough, I'll update again. Reviews are better than sweaty Emmett...!