52 Reasons to Hate My Father Page 16

  My eyebrows knit together as I try to follow his backward logic. “Huh?”

  “I mean, maybe you’ve only been giving them what you think they want.”

  I shake my head adamantly. “No way. I would never knowingly choose to give my father what he wants.”

  “Exactly,” he replies cryptically.

  “Okay, Rolando. You’re starting to get weird on me now.”

  “Sorry,” he says with a soft laugh. Then his face turns somewhat serious again. “I’m just saying, instead of constantly living up to everyone’s expectations, why not destroy them?”

  “Destroy them?” I repeat with uncertainty.

  He gives a small, unassuming shrug. “Yeah. If everyone expects you to fail, why not do exactly the opposite?”

  “Succeed?” I take a shot in the dark.

  “Not just succeed,” he amends. “Blow them away. Shock the heck out of them. Be awesome.”

  A horn honks behind me and I look up to see Luke glaring at me through the windshield of his Honda Civic.

  Rolando squints against the blinding headlights. “Boyfriend?” he guesses.

  I roll my eyes. “Worse. Babysitter.”

  “I’m not even going to ask.”

  “Thanks for everything,” I say.

  “You got it, girl.” He takes a step forward, opens his arms, and wraps me in a tight hug. I sink into him, feeling safe and warm there. Like he’s an extension of his tiny apartment.

  Luke honks again—this guy has got to think of a better way to get my attention—and I reluctantly pull away from Rolando’s embrace and reach for the door handle. I stop when I realize I’m still wearing his sweatshirt. “Oh, here.” I start to take it off.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Rolando says. “You can give it back to me tomorrow. Or better yet, just keep it.”

  I hesitate but he insists. “You’ll need it as part of your disguise if you ever want to come back here to visit.”

  “Well, I guess that’s true. Thanks.” I open the car door and drop into the passenger seat. “See you tomorrow at work!”

  Rolando watches us pull away from the curb before turning back to his apartment building.

  “New boyfriend?” Luke speculates snidely.

  I can’t help but laugh at his tone. It’s not playful and fun like Rolando’s was when he asked me the same question. It’s more spiteful.

  “No. Just a friend,” I answer, buckling my seat belt. “I am allowed to make friends, aren’t I? Or is that against the rules?”

  Luke grunts and shakes his head, evidently opting out of the argument. “Just tell me next time you wanna go home with some guy.”

  I snicker at how ridiculous and overprotective he sounds. Like a jealous boyfriend. “Yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

  * * *

  The house is quiet and empty when I get home. Most of the staff have retired for the evening and Horatio has the night off. I stand in the middle of the entry hall and marvel at the stark difference between the home I just left and the one I stand in now. The one I supposedly call my own.

  Like with all of our houses stashed around the globe, there’s a hollow coldness that I never really noticed before—at least not consciously. An emptiness that’s never really filled, even with a guest list of four hundred people.

  I aimlessly wander through the various rooms of the first floor—the library, the billiard room, the salon. It doesn’t take long for me to pinpoint what the Castaños’ small, run-down apartment has that this fifteen-thousand-square-foot mansion in Bel Air doesn’t.

  It’s not something you can buy in an expensive designer furniture boutique. It’s not something you can hire an interior decorator to paint into the walls. It’s not even something you can photograph and put on display in a home-and-garden magazine.

  What the Castaños have made is a home. A place you return to not because of what is there waiting for you but because of who.

  This is nothing but a pile of expensive bricks and imported fabrics.

  And even though I’m grateful to have been able to catch just a fleeting glimpse of what I’ve missed out on my entire life, it also fills me with a sense of despair that runs deep. Deeper than I usually let anything go. I feel it sinking into me. Spreading out. I feel it being absorbed by my blood. Seeping into distant, back corners that are impossible to reach. Impossible to clean.

  I feel cheated. Robbed. Like I got some kind of raw deal. And I’m not talking about the fifty-two jobs. I’m talking about my entire existence. Yes, I’ve been given everything I’ve ever wanted. I’ve been dressed in the most expensive clothes, slept in the most lavish hotels, eaten the most delectable foods since I was a baby, and yet I still feel like I got the short end of whatever stick is used to measure a life.

  Numbly, I pour myself a drink from the bar in the library. I slosh the clear liquid around, listening to the familiar clink of the ice against the glass. But I don’t drink it. I don’t even bring it to my lips to taste. I abandon it on a table and head for the stairs.

  With a sigh, I drag my tired body up the long, spiral staircase and down the hall to my bedroom. I slide the wig from my head, pull off Rolando’s comfy black sweatshirt, slip on a pair of clean cotton pajamas, and wash the makeup from my face.

  When I climb into bed and pull the covers up to my chin, I know that something has changed tonight. A switch has been flipped. A fuse has been lit.

  And I know that, unlike so many other times in my life—so many other moments of bleakness—this time it won’t be as easy to bury. It won’t be as easy to suppress. I won’t be able to pop a pill or down a drink and make it all fade into black.

  But the most frightening thought of all, as I shut off the light and hug the pillow to my chest, is realizing that, this time, I’m not sure I want to.

  * * *

  Sent: Friday, September 14, 4:18 p.m.

  To: Luke Carver

  From: Video-Blaze.com

  Subject: You have received a video message from Lexington Larrabee

  CLICK HERE TO PLAY MESSAGE

  Or read the free transcript from our automated speech-to-text service below.

  [BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

  Hey, Luke! Check it out! I’m recording this status report from my cell phone using the new Video-Blaze mobile app. Pretty cool, huh?

  So here I am on the last day of my job at Morty’s Flower Shop. But I guess you can tell from this outdoor ambience that I’m not actually in Morty’s Flower Shop right now. I’m out on a delivery run.

  This is, by far, the coolest part of the job so I thought I’d bring you along. You know, like, “live from the scene.”

  If you look behind me you can see a house. But not just any house. That’s the house of Victoria Rivera and she’s about to find out that her husband is coming home from Iraq next week. How do I know this? Because he sent her flowers! And that’s what he wanted written on the card. Isn’t that sweet? And now I get to deliver them to her.

  Oh crap. I left the flowers in the van. Hold on a second.

  [Unidentified sound]

  Okay, I’m back. With the flowers. See? Aren’t they pretty? I made the arrangement myself. Turns out I have quite a knack for flower arranging. You can ask Morty himself. He even told me I could have a full-time job here when I’m done. How do you like that?

  But seriously, this job has been really cool. You know what they say about shooting the messenger? Well, this is like the opposite of that. Check it out.

  [Knocking sound]

  Hello. Victoria Rivera? These are for you.

  [Screaming sound]

  I’m so glad you like them! Hey, can you do me a favor and look into the camera here and tell my friend Luke how much you like the flowers?

  Oh my God, I love the flowers!!!

  Thank you. And one more thing, would you mind telling him that I’m doing an awesome job being a florist?

  Hi, Luke. This girl is awesome. The flowers are gorgeous.


  Thanks!

  Did you hear that, Luke? Awesome.

  And speaking of awesome? Did you get a call from Phil, my supervisor at last week’s job? He said he was going to call you in person to tell you how well I did. Who knew telemarketing was my thing? Did he tell you how many credit-protection packages I sold in one week? Phil swore it was some kind of company record. I guess I can be pretty persuasive when I want to be. Although I don’t need to tell you that, right?

  Seriously, though, you really should protect your credit card against fraud. There are a lot of dishonest people out there who would steal your identity in a heartbeat.

  But I think my favorite part about working there was getting to talk to so many people on the phone. Sure, most people hang up and call you nasty things, but there are some really nice people out there too. One day I talked this sweet young woman out of marrying her emotionally abusive fiancé. That was kind of a highlight. I mean, imagine what her life would have been like if it weren’t for me calling to sell her a credit-protection plan.

  All right, so this is job #16. Job #15 was the telemarketing. What was before that? Oh, right. The car wash. I won’t lie. That was pretty hard at first. But do you notice how tan I am? It’s like I spent the week at the beach! That was definitely an unexpected plus from scrubbing cars all day. And check out these guns! Washing cars is like the best arm-toning exercise ever. Screw Pilates!

  Okay, well, that’s all for now. Consider yourself officially statused. I’m signing off.

  Until next time.

  [END TRANSCRIPT]

  * * *

  THE PURSUIT OF AWESOMENESS

  After pressing send on Luke’s latest video update, I start the engine of Morty’s delivery van and head back to the flower shop. As anxious as I am to move on to the next job and keep plugging away, I’m actually kind of sad that this is my last day here. I really did have a good time.

  Ever since I left Rolando’s apartment a few weeks ago, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to what he said on the curb that night. About expectations.

  And the more I thought about it, the more I realized he was right.

  I’ve spent the last eighteen years living up to everyone’s bottom-of-the-barrel expectations of me. For as long as I can remember people have thought of me as nothing but a failure. A spoiled-brat princess with no values and zero work ethic. And for as long as I can remember, I’ve been doing nothing but proving them right.

  All this time I thought the only way to get back at my father for putting me through this hell was to sulk and throw temper tantrums and complain about how miserable I am. How unfortunate my lot in life is. How unfairly I’ve been treated.

  But you know what? That’s exactly what everyone expects me to do—my father, Bruce, even Luke. And that’s probably because it’s exactly what I’ve always done.

  And where has it gotten me?

  Nowhere.

  I realized that if I truly do want to get back at my father I have to do exactly what Rolando said. I have to succeed with flying colors. For once in my life, I have to prove them wrong, rather than right.

  I have to be awesome.

  So that’s exactly what I’ve been trying to do. And it turns out it’s actually a lot easier than I thought. I’m better at some of these jobs than I would have ever imagined I could be. I guess I was so busy whining about doing them that I never gave myself the opportunity to figure out how to do them.

  “I enjoyed your last status report,” Luke says when he picks me up later that afternoon.

  “Thanks,” I say, smiling to myself. “I thought you might.”

  I buckle my seat belt and prepare myself for the drive but Luke doesn’t move. He fidgets awkwardly with the end of his tie, looking like he wants to say something else but is having trouble getting it out.

  “Is that all?” I prompt.

  “Actually, no.”

  I turn and face him. “Okay. What? Is it about Morty? He hasn’t called you yet with my final progress report because he’s trying to fill a huge order for tomorrow. He said he’d call first thing in the morning.”

  “No, no,” Luke says quickly. “It’s not about work.”

  This makes me laugh. “Not about work? Since when do you ever not talk about work?”

  “I know,” he admits sheepishly.

  “What’s it about then?”

  He contorts his mouth uncomfortably and looks away. “Actually it’s about clothes.”

  “Clothes?” I spit back in disbelief. “You want to talk to me about clothes?”

  Now he looks even more uncomfortable than before. “Well, remember the engagement party?”

  “And you looked like you were showing up for a round of golf? Yeah.”

  “Exactly,” he replies. “You told me the next time I needed help picking something out, I should call you.”

  My grin widens and I touch my hand to my heart. “Oh, Luke,” I tease. “You want me to dress you? I’m so flattered.”

  His face starts to turn several shades of red. “Well … sort of … I mean, I have something in mind but…” He’s all over the place now, barely even able to form a complete sentence. Very unLuke-like.

  I decide to put him out of his misery. “Where and when are you going?” I ask authoritatively, stepping in and taking control of the situation.

  He breathes a sigh of relief. “To a gallery opening. In Silver Lake. It’s tonight.”

  “Who’s the artist?”

  “Some new kid from Brazil that everyone is talking about. My friend knows him and asked if I wanted to come.”

  “Okay,” I sum up. “Silver Lake. Gallery opening. Hot new artist. I think I’ve got the picture.”

  “So what happens now?” Luke asks, looking awkward again.

  “What do you think happens now? We go to Rodeo, of course!”

  “Shouldn’t we go to my apartment first so you can see what I already have?”

  I shake my head and flash him a patronizing smile. It’s nice to be on the other end of one for once. “Oh, Luke, Luke,” I say condescendingly. “I can guarantee you don’t have anything of use in your closet.”

  UNDERNEATH IT ALL

  When Luke steps out of the dressing room it’s like he’s a different person. The contrast is so startling, I almost feel inclined to peek my head around the curtain and check that he didn’t leave the other version of himself in a lifeless heap in the corner.

  He’s wearing the vintage Diesel narrow-leg jeans I picked out for him along with the yellow graphic tee and white sports coat. Even though I’m the one who selected the outfit, I barely recognize him. In the more than three months that I’ve known him, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear anything but a boring corporate suit. And that disaster he showed up in at my father’s engagement party.

  Right now he actually looks normal.

  No. More than normal. He even looks kind of hot. I mean, the clothes look hot. On him.

  I let out a low whistle and give him an encouraging nod. “Now that’s much better.” I spin my finger in the air, commanding him to twirl.

  He gives me a bashful grin and does a full rotation.

  I tilt my head to the side and study the outfit. “Actually,” I say, my smile falling into a frown, “the T-shirt is wrong. Hold it right there.”

  I scamper back to the rack where we found the graphic tee. I locate a dark hunter-green version of the same one and bring it back to the dressing room. “Here,” I say, sliding the shirt from the hanger, “try this one instead.”

  He shrugs off the jacket, lays it carefully to the side, and then starts to pull the yellow T-shirt up over his head.

  “Uh … maybe you should…” I start to suggest that perhaps he should do that in the dressing room. That is, after all, the name of the room. But before I can get the full sentence out, the shirt is off and Luke’s bare chest is staring me right in the face. And the sight of it dries up every last drop of saliva in my mouth.

  Um, hel
lo? Can someone say ripped? Where on earth did those pecs come from? And abs too? Don’t tell me he’s been hiding those under that stuffy suit this entire time. What a complete and utter waste!

  And where does he find the time to tan? He looks like he’s been spending the summer at the beach or something. Not cooped up in a tiny cubicle at my father’s office. Or driving me to and from random job assignments.

  I would tell myself to close my mouth but my brain is not really communicating with my body properly. Because if it were, I’d be able to command my eyes to look away. But that’s so not happening.

  “Lexi,” I hear a voice say from far away. It takes me a few moments to realize it’s Luke who’s talking to me. I mean, I assume it’s him. There’s no one else around. But it’s not like I’m going to risk glancing away from his chest just to check that his lips are moving.

  “Lexi,” he repeats again. This time a bit louder. “The shirt?”

  “Huh?” I blink and quickly realize that I’m still holding the green shirt that he’s supposed to be trying on. I glance down at my hand and realize that the shirt is now totally crumpled from being clutched between my fingers.

  “Oh,” I say, suddenly unsure of what to do with my hands. “This one is wrinkled. I’ll get you a new one.”

  “Where’s that wrinkle-resistant clothing you suggested in your status report, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I call back with a nervous laugh as I stumble to the rack to fetch a fresh shirt.

  When I return, I reluctantly hand it over and watch as he slides it over his body and replaces the white jacket.

  He turns and faces the three-way mirror, pulling the lapels down.

  “Better?” he asks.

  No, I want to say. It most certainly is not better. But I manage to hide my disappointment with a forced smile and mumble, “Yeah, much better. That color makes your eyes pop.”

  He nods his approval into the mirror. “Okay, cool. I’ll take it.” Then he turns to me and grins. “Thanks. You’re a rock star.”