ANTES DE USAR REBIF No use Rebif :

My new life didn’t affect just me. It affected my siblings, too. But they are troupers. My little brother, Braison, is two years younger than I am. He’s the sensitive one—he’s very careful with other people’s feelings. Brazz will come to me with anything, and we do our secret handshake over the most serious secrets. I’m not going to lie—I’m usually not good at keeping secrets. But when Brazz trusts me with something, nothing could make me break that trust. Someone could put a knife to me and I would not tell. Brazz and I became closer friends about a year ago. I don’t want to pin it all on fashion, but I think it was when he got a pair of Converse sneakers. I was like, okay, you’re not a wannabe preppy kid anymore.

Noah’s the baby of the family and the comedian. She’s a tough little cookie, and nothing gets past her. When Noah was four years old, a friend and I asked if we could do her makeup, and proceeded to paint her like a clown. We gave her bright pink circles on her cheeks and outlined a huge blue mouth. To this day she won’t let me forget it. If I ever ask to put makeup on her, she says, “You’re gonna make me look like a clown!” and refuses.

Noah wants her room to be like Noah’s Ark. She’s got a huge stuffed giraffe in one corner and a huge stuffed horse in another. She has fish, birds, and a dog. Noah wants as many animals around her as possible. That’s what she and I (and our mom) have most in common. Nobody loves animals as much as we do.

Last year my mom and dad and Brandi went to a concert, and I stayed home to babysit Noah. As soon as they left, Noah said, “You’re the fun one. I want to do something really fun.” Who was I to argue? So I got out a big bowl and dumped in maple syrup, Coke, ice cream, whipped cream, some waffles, and sprinkles on the top. I gave Noah a spoon and said, “Let’s see how much sugar we can get into you.” She ate until she felt like she was going to throw up.

Then, to give her digestive tract a little time to recover, I decided to indulge her senses with a gentle and soothing spa treatment. I concocted a special custom facial for her out of eggs, honey, bananas, and . . . pretty much anything else I could think of. When my parents walked in the door, my mom said, “What’s that smell?” The kitchen was a mess. There was food everywhere. And Mom was right, it didn’t smell quite right. But in the morning, the first thing Noah did was put her hands to her cheeks and say, “My pores are so clean! My skin is baby soft.” I was like, “That’s because you are a baby.” I am so glad I still get to experience moments like those. I would hate to miss them.

My older siblings are out of the house now, but they’re still around a lot, and when they are I drop everything (except school and work) to spend time with them. Brandi is the angel of the family.

She’s the most honest and trustworthy person you’ll ever meet. I mean, she’s edgy—but she’s also a really good girl. Trace is the carefree one. He doesn’t worry what anybody thinks of him. Trace is super rock ’n’ roll—I love his band, Metro Station. If I had to categorize our family, I’d say he’s the one who’s the most like me. Or, I guess I’m most like him, since he’s the older one.

Now that I’m so busy I’m very aware of exactly how much time I have with my family. I want to make sure I make the most of it. It’s not like we sat down and made rules like “Everyone has to be home for Tuesday pot roast dinner” or “Nobody talks on their cell phones in the living room.” Our house is a loud, busy place with family and friends and animals coming and going. But, just like most people, we try to keep the stress—and definitely the work—out of the house. At home, I’m not a celebrity. Everyone still knows my name, but instead of chanting it at a show, they’re shouting up the stairs for me to get my dirty laundry. At home, I’m just someone who has a job sooner than most kids do. The nice thing about our family is that everything I’m doing now is all stuff my dad has done for so long that when I started doing it, nobody paid much attention.

Homebodies

My dad has to travel for work, but when it comes down to it, both my parents are homebodies.

Maybe that’s why they get along so well. When my dad was touring with his mega-hit song, “Achy Breaky Heart,” my mom stayed home with the kids. Dad was gone a lot, but even when he was home for as long as six months, my parents never went out on group dinner dates or had parties; they never entertained celebrities or schmoozed. They liked to be with each other and us.

I’m pretty much the same way. I like going to small parties and over to friends’ houses, like ten people hanging out, maybe going for a swim. I’m always careful because of my heart. I guess my idea of a good party is someone getting their face smashed in a cake—not getting smashed. I don’t drink and I would never smoke. I always say that for me, smoking would be like smashing my guitar and expecting it to play. I’d never do that to my voice, not to mention the rest of my body. My mom wants us to be careful not just about smoking, but about second-hand smoke too. What Mom doesn’t? Both of my granddads died of lung cancer (even though Pappy’s cancer came from asbestos, not from smoking), so I get why Mom is extra worried.

Too bad we get invited to lots of cool parties, because it’s kind of wasted on us. After the Oscars last year, we were supposed to go to Elton John’s party. We were invited to Madonna’s party.

There was some other dinner party that was a big deal. We had every ticket in town. It was dazzling and flattering. But after the awards show was over, my mom and I looked at each other. I said,

“I’ll go if you want to go.” And she said to me, “I’ll go if you want to go.” There we were on Hollywood’s biggest night, all dressed up, with every hot invitation we could imagine. So what did we do?

We stopped by our favorite local diner, Mo’s, got barbecue chicken pizza, and went home to change into our pajamas. We were chowing down in the kitchen, talking about how much we like barbecue chicken pizza, when we paused for a moment and I said, “Should we have gone?” Then we shook our heads: Nah. When it comes down to it, we’d rather be home in our jammies.

It’s easy to be the same family we’ve always been when we’re hanging out at home. But it’s a little harder when we’re out and about. Then the fame thing gets in the way. We like to go to church on Sunday and then to lunch together afterward. People will sometimes come up to us while we’re eating. That’s when my mom will say, “It’s Sunday. We’re eating. She’s only sixteen years old, and she’s not allowed to do that right now.” I get embarrassed. Why can’t I just do one signature? It takes five seconds. It’s no big deal. But my mom says it’s family time, and signing autographs can wait. She wants to make sure there are times when I’m just Miley, hanging out with my family.

Another thing that happens is that sometimes we’ll go to Universal (the amusement park), and fans will gather, wanting to take a picture or to get an autograph. I don’t mind doing it, but my family doesn’t want to stand around for an hour waiting for me. They want to ride the rides. And suddenly I’m the sister who’s slowing us down, and they’re as annoyed as you’d be if your brother had a tantrum in the parking lot of a movie theater. Those moments, they remind me I’m still just Miley and I’d better get a move on.