52 Reasons to Hate My Father Page 6

  This may very well be the last night of fun I’m going to have for a long, long time. My last night of freedom before I’m forced to enter the Richard Larrabee Boot Camp for Ungrateful, Spoiled Daughters.

  Tonight is my equivalent of the Last Supper.

  As the plane takes off and I watch the ground get smaller and smaller beneath me, I can’t help but smile as I imagine the look on Bruce’s face when I walk into his office tomorrow morning, after having partied the entire night away. And then I think about the call he’ll make to my father, informing him of my incapacitated state. Complaining about my total lack of respect for the family name and everything it represents.

  A blond and bubbly flight attendant arrives with a silver serving tray and offers me a glass of champagne. I bypass the glass and just take the bottle, guzzling it down like an athlete in a Gatorade commercial.

  My father might be able to force me to do manual labor. But he definitely can’t force me to care.

  ADVENTURES IN BABYSITTING

  I’m going to kill the sun. I swear to God, if it doesn’t stop shining, I’m going to hire a hit man and have it whacked. Who makes these sunglasses? Tom Ford? Well, they suck. They need to be like five hundred thousand times darker. I can’t believe they even have the nerve to call these sunglasses when they don’t do anything to block out the sun.

  My head feels like it’s been hit by an asteroid hurtling to earth at seven thousand gazillion miles per hour. I’m not sure I’ve ever been this hungover in my life. In fact, I don’t think anyone has ever been this hungover in the history of the universe.

  I would tell you about the party last night but I honestly don’t remember much of it. I remember arriving at the penthouse suite. I remember the pre-party cocktails we had while we were getting dressed. Then I remember walking into the club and my jaw dropping to the floor upon seeing the amazing 1920s-Hollywood theme that my friends came up with, complete with an actual car from 1925 parked right in the middle of the dance floor. I remember doing a round of shots and then dancing on the hood of that car. And the rest is pretty much a giant black hole.

  Just as planned, I haven’t slept at all. Unless you count the thirty-minute catnap I took on the flight back to LA that I had to board at seven-thirty this morning in order to be at Bruce’s office by nine. Which I don’t. Actually, come to think of it, I’m probably still a little bit drunk.

  Kingston picks me up at the airport and drives me to Century City. I rest my cheek against the soft, cool leather of the backseat and try to resist puking the entire way there. I’m saving that for the potted plant next to Bruce’s desk.

  I’m still wearing the 1920s-inspired flapper dress (designed especially for the occasion by Karl Lagerfeld) and hot-pink feather boa that Jia and T surprised me with for my birthday party last night. My black fishnet stockings have about fifteen holes in them, and the chin-length black wig complete with feather headband is sitting crooked on my head, but I’m far too debilitated to bother trying to fix it. And I don’t even want to think about what my makeup must look like right now. I haven’t looked into a mirror since we left the penthouse suite at ten last night and I’m not about to start now. I literally went straight from the dance floor to the airport. But I remember Jia caking it on my face last night as we were getting ready. Layer after layer of dark shadow, black-as-night eyeliner, and bloodred lipstick. By now I probably look like a head-on collision between death and a clown car.

  I stumble through the doors of Spiegelmann, Klein & Lipstein Law Offices, bypass the receptionist completely, and zigzag down the hallway to Bruce’s office. Then I collapse onto his couch, curling up into a ball.

  “Jesus Christ,” he breathes.

  “I’m ready to work,” I slur, shutting my eyes against the harsh light of his office. “Bring it on.”

  “You reek.”

  I hug a throw pillow to my chest. “Oh good. I thought it was you.”

  My eyes remain closed and I still have my sunglasses on for fear of permanent retina damage if I were to remove them, but I can tell he’s not amused. I can hear it in the way he breathes. Heavy and strenuous. Through his nose. It sounds like he’s trying to expel something that’s stuck up there.

  I have to fight back the smile that’s inching its way across my lips. Mostly because it hurts to move my face.

  I hear him start to pace. He’s muttering something incomprehensible and I don’t even bother trying to make sense of it. That would only require energy I don’t have.

  “You know what,” he eventually says after a few more seconds of incomprehensible ranting (although technically it could have been longer—I think I dozed off there for a minute), “I don’t care what kind of shape you’re in.” He suddenly sounds all decisive and boastful, as though he’s been having a long, heated debate with himself and is pleased that he’s finally won. “Consequences are more effective than concepts and it’s about time you started learning some.”

  “That’s the spirit, Brucey,” I mutter dazedly, managing to muster a weak fist pump.

  He ignores my goading tone and continues with authority. “Your first job starts today. And you’re not getting out of it just because you’re an overindulged, spoiled brat who refuses to take responsibility for her actions. At least not anymore. Those days are over, Lexington. You’re still going to work today. And you’ll complete a full five days on the job. We’re not postponing.”

  I blow on a feather from my headband that has fallen limply over my face. “No problem.”

  I hear Bruce’s pacing slow to a stop. I open one eye to see what’s going on. He’s now seated behind his desk, jabbing at a button on his phone.

  “Yes, Mr. Spiegelmann?” His assistant’s voice comes through the speaker.

  “Is he here?” Bruce asks.

  “Yes, he’s just arrived.”

  “Good. Send him in.”

  I sit up, struggling to hold back the bile that’s burbling up from my stomach, and glance suspiciously from Bruce to the phone. “Who?” I demand, praying to God it’s not my father. I really don’t think I could deal with him right now. “Who are you sending in?”

  The answer comes a second later when Bruce’s office door swings open and a young man in a stuffy dark gray suit carrying a leather briefcase strides pompously into the room. Despite my foggy head and blurred vision, I recognize his pretty-boy face and conventional preppy haircut immediately.

  “Lexington, this is Luke Carver. An intern at Larrabee Media.”

  “Oh, God,” I say with a loud groan, collapsing back onto my side. “Not you again.”

  It’s that annoying, arrogant jerk I had the displeasure of meeting at my father’s office yesterday. The one who had the nerve to restrict me from seeing him.

  He gives me a long, disapproving once-over. “Nice to see you again, Lexington.”

  “Oh, good,” Bruce says delightedly. “You two have already met.”

  “Unfortunately,” I mumble, turning my glare on Bruce. “What is he doing here?”

  Bruce rises to his feet and gives Luke a light pat on the shoulder. “She’s your problem now,” he says unsympathetically, and then stalks out the door.

  I launch back up to a seated position and watch, wide-eyed, as Bruce disappears down the hallway without even so much as a goodbye. “Bruce!” I call out exasperatedly. “What are you talking about? Where are you going?”

  But he doesn’t come back and now I’m left alone in his big office with this half-wit. I turn my angry glare on him. “Can someone please tell me what is going on around here?”

  Luke stands like a statue, both hands in front of him, clasped tightly around the handle of his briefcase. “Your father,” he begins stiffly, “has placed me in charge of this particular…”—he struggles for the word—“… project.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’ve been assigned to report back on your progress as you tackle your various jobs.”

  I push my sunglasses up ov
er my crooked wig, squinting against all sorts of unwanted light. “Excuse me? Are you telling me you’ve been assigned to babysit me?”

  Luke does not look especially pleased at my choice of words but he hides his discontent with a tight-lipped smile. “I’d prefer to think of myself as more of a liaison. Between you and your father. I’m here to make sure you complete each of your fifty-two occupations to your father’s satisfaction.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I screech, completely horrified.

  Luke doesn’t reply. He simply continues to stand at attention next to the door. I leap to my feet, ignoring the thunderbolt of pain that rockets through my head, brush past him, and barrel down the hallway. “Bruce!” I call at the top of my lungs.

  I find him standing at the reception desk, sipping on a fresh cup of coffee and perusing a legal brief like it’s just another warm, sunny day at the office.

  “You can’t be serious about this.”

  “I’m sorry, Lexington,” he replies unhelpfully. “Once again, this was your father’s call. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “You mean to tell me I’m stuck with this guy for the next year?”

  Bruce shrugs as though he doesn’t see why I’m getting so bent out of shape. “Well … yeah.”

  I glance back in the direction I came from. Luke is suddenly behind me, looking like a total corporate robot with his hardened jawline and prepackaged haircut.

  I can’t hold it in any longer. I feel the sickness rising up in my chest, stinging my throat. I turn helplessly toward Bruce and vomit all over his Armani suit.

  DANGEROUS LIAISONS

  I fall into the front seat of Luke’s car and he thrusts a trash can that he evidently stole from Bruce’s office into my lap and slams the door closed. I cringe at the sound.

  He gets in behind the wheel and fastens his seat belt. Then he proceeds to go through some five-minute procedure of checking and rechecking the mirrors, radio volume, wiper functionality, warning lights, and climate controls, as though he’s preparing for a transatlantic flight as opposed to just a stupid car ride.

  I stare at him for a few moments and then my eyes simply can’t handle being open any longer and I allow them to close as I let out a pained groan.

  “Please don’t puke in my car,” he says as he puts the shifter into reverse and backs out of the spot. “It’s new.”

  I open my eyes long enough to glance around at the boring gray cloth interior, cheap plastic paneling, and manual door locks and windows. “Oh, yeah,” I mock. “I wouldn’t want to mess up your brand new Kia.”

  I notice his knuckles turn white around the steering wheel as he slowly makes his way down the long, windy spiral ramp that leads out of the parking garage. “It’s a Honda Civic,” he replies through gritted teeth, and then adds, “Hybrid,” as if that’s supposed to be some kind of improvement.

  I roll my eyes. “Well, the color is awful. And it’s making me carsick.”

  “Not all of us are lucky enough to receive a Lexus for our sixteenth birthdays.”

  I flash him a look of repulsion. “Eww. Like I’d ever be caught dead in a Lexus.”

  Luke takes a long, deep breath. He looks like he’s about to close his eyes and start chanting Om or something and then suddenly, as if a switch has been flipped, he’s all business again. “Here’s how this is going to work,” he says importantly, as though he’s addressing a boardroom. I can see why my father likes this guy so much. He’s like a Richard Larrabee mini-me. “Your father has selected fifty-two jobs for you to undertake over the course of the next year. You will not be granted access to your trust fund until all fifty-two jobs have been completed. You will be given an allowance to cover your regular expenses as long as you fulfill your weekly obligations to this project. Should you decide to quit at any time or if it is determined that you are not taking the assignments seriously, your father will not hesitate to cut you off completely. Is that clear?”

  I’m barely paying attention. I’ve started to drift off again. My head is sagging forward against my chest. I feel a violent jerk as the car lurches to a stop at a red light and I snap awake. “Huh?”

  “I said,” Luke repeats impatiently, “is that clear?”

  “Yeah, whatever,” I mumble in response before twisting to my side, pulling my legs up underneath me, tucking my hands under my cheek, and attempting to doze off again. If I can just get a few minutes of sleep, I’ll be fine.

  But it soon becomes evident that this is a lost cause because Luke suddenly decides to treat the brake like it’s the snare pedal on a Rock Band drum kit. Every time my eyes start to drift closed, the car wrenches forward and back and I’m jolted awake like a crash test dummy hitting a brick wall. Then I look over at him with pure hatred in my eyes and he simply smiles, shrugs, and goes, “Sorry,” in this really high-pitched, singsongy voice. And I swear I see him laugh under his breath.

  He starts jabbering again. “I’ll expect regular status reports from you. This is a job and you’ll treat it as such.”

  “Regular what?” I ask, pressing both index fingers against my forehead.

  “Status reports. Summarizing what you’ve done at each job, what you’ve learned, and any insights that you’ve had.”

  “So what do you want me to do?” I say with a sarcastic snort. “Fax them to you?”

  “I don’t care what format you present them in, as long as the information is there.”

  I sigh and push my head back into the headrest. “I don’t remember that being part of the original arrangement.”

  “Well,” Luke says coldly, “it is now. And if you fail to comply, I’ll report back to your father that you’re being uncooperative.”

  I groan. Leave it to my father to hire someone to communicate with me on his behalf. Because God forbid he actually has to talk to me himself. Oh no, he has to pay a “liaison.” A freaking liaison! I mean, sure he’s been doing it for years, through hundreds of different people—Horatio, Bruce, Kingston, whatever eager new publicist he’s sent to clean up my latest mess—but until now, he’s never given it an official title. He’s never actually called a duck a duck.

  Although calling this Luke person a duck is far too kind. He’s more like a bug. A cockroach. And if he didn’t hold my financial future in his grubby little hands, I’d just as soon squash him underneath my Christian Louboutin heel.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask, looking out the window at the familiar landscape. Until now I hadn’t even noticed where we were going. It appears we’ve landed in a neighborhood of Brentwood.

  “To your first job assignment,” Luke replies rigidly. “I’ll be driving you to all of your jobs and picking you up at the end of the day.”

  “Thanks, but I have a car.”

  “Hmm.” Luke pretends to contemplate. “That’s not what CNN is reporting.”

  “I have a driver,” I amend.

  “Well, it looks like you won’t be needing him for this. It’s my job to make sure you show up on time every morning so I’ll be taking you.”

  Oh, God. Can this day possibly get any worse?

  And right then, as if the universe is answering my unspoken question with a smug, self-satisfied chuckle, Luke pulls into the driveway of a large Tudor-style mansion and parks the car. I see a short, blond-haired woman standing out front, dressed in a pale-blue-and-white-striped, calf-length uniform with short sleeves and a crisp white collar. In one hand she holds a red compartmentalized bucket filled with various plastic bottles of unidentifiable liquids. In the other she holds a second uniform, identical to her own.

  Luke walks around the hood of the car, opens my door, and beckons for me to get out but I don’t move. Instead I grip the edge of the seat so hard I think my nails might actually be puncturing the ugly gray fabric.

  The harsh-looking woman with the tight blond bun and dark sallow bags under her eyes elongates her neck and briskly approaches the car. She thrusts the red bucket toward me, like she’s the chief of so
me indigenous tribe making a peace offering to the strange newcomer. Like I’m actually supposed to take it and start jumping for joy, throwing my arms around her neck and thanking her for such a thoughtful gift.

  I recognize the bucket. We have one exactly like it at the house. But I’ve never touched it. I’ve never dared touch it. Because it belongs to Carmen.

  Our maid.

  “Here,” the woman says in a thick Eastern European accent. The way her tongue rolls harshly across the r in here makes it sound like she wants to murder the letter in cold blood, as opposed to just pronouncing it. “You take.”

  “No!” I immediately reply without even thinking, reaching out for the handle and yanking the car door closed. I quickly jab my hand down on the manual lock.

  “Lexi,” Luke says, knocking on the glass, “c’mon, open the door.”

  I cross my arms over my chest and lean back in the seat. I’m not going out there. I’ll sit in here all day if I have to. I don’t care. It’s better than what I’m expected to do out there.

  Clean houses? I so don’t think so.

  There’s another knock on the glass. “Lexi,” Luke urges, “you’re acting like a child.”

  “Am not!” I shout back.

  Luke rolls his eyes and produces the car keys from his pocket. He unlocks the door and opens it with an impatient sigh.

  Damn it. I wasn’t expecting him to have the keys.

  “Lexi,” he says gruffly, “this is Katarzyna. She works for Majestic Maids. She’ll be training you to clean houses this week. She knows about the project and has agreed to participate. She’s been instructed to report everything back to me.”

  “No,” I say again. “This is insane. I’m not doing it.”

  “If you don’t get out of the car,” Luke warns, “I’ll have to call your father.”

  “Fine,” I tell him stubbornly. “Call him. I don’t care.”