52 Reasons to Hate My Father Page 7

  “Fine,” Luke challenges, calmly calling my bluff. I watch him pull his cell phone out of his pocket and start dialing.

  “No!” I scream, leaping out of the car to grab his phone. “Don’t call him. I’ll do it. Whatever.” I violently slam the door behind me.

  Luke smiles, seemingly satisfied with his mini-victory, and opens the back door of the car. He leans in, riffles through his briefcase until he finds a plain manila folder, and flips it open. I tilt my head to read what’s typed in a crisp black font on the tab. All it says is Job #1.

  “You’ll work eight hours a day for the next five days,” he informs me in an official tone, reading from the folder.

  “Eight hours!” I screech. “That’s not humanly possible.”

  Katarzyna clears her throat and I reluctantly look at her.

  “Yes, Katarzyna?” Luke prompts.

  “Last week I work double shift EVERY day!” she roars in broken English, like she’s taking this whole thing way too personally. “I work SIXTEEN hours each day for seven days!”

  Perfect, I think. I’m training with Hitler’s maid.

  “Well, I guess that settles the debate on human possibilities,” Luke says, sounding far too amused for my liking.

  “I don’t think that counts,” I argue. “She’s a professional.”

  “And you will be too.” He smiles at me.

  Katarzyna pushes the red bucket toward me. This time, however, I’m not given much choice in the matter because she thrusts it against my gut and I manage to grab on to it before it plummets to the ground.

  “Thanks,” I mutter.

  Then she throws the extra uniform over my shoulder and tightly nods. “Okay. We go!”

  “Good luck!” Luke calls after me as I reluctantly follow her toward the front door. And just before the door swings shut behind us, I glance longingly at the freedom of the outside world. At Luke’s little silver sedan backing out of the driveway. At the white minivan with the Majestic Maids logo emblazoned on the side. The swirly pink letters twist and turn in large ornate loops and bows. As if a frilly logo is supposed to magically turn housecleaning into some kind of merry, whistle-while-you-work job fit for a princess.

  When really it’s the other way around.

  It’s Cinderella in reverse.

  This fairy tale has officially become a horror story. Happily Ever After on a yacht in the Mediterranean has turned into Crappily Ever After in the dark dungeons of Brentwood. And the princess—who used to be so glamorous and beautiful and on the VIP list of every ball in town—has been handed a bucketful of cleaning supplies and poofed into a maid.

  HOUSECLEANING FOR DUMMIES

  People are disgusting. This place is an absolute pigsty. Dirty laundry is hanging from every object and piece of furniture that even halfway resembles a hook. There are muddy footprints from some unidentified animal running in dizzying circles across the entire entry hall. Dishes are stacked on the stairs. On. The. Stairs. Why would someone put dishes on the stairs? Who even does that?

  And what is stuck on the bottom of my shoe? It better not be gum.

  Oh, God. It’s worse. It’s underwear.

  I am so out of here.

  I turn and bolt for the door. But Katarzyna is surprisingly strong … and fast. Before I can blink, she’s got her long bony fingers clutched around my arm.

  “Nuh-uh,” she says, shaking her head in disapproval and making a tsk sound with her tongue. “You stay. And clean!” She snatches the uniform from my shoulder and thrusts it into my hands. Then she points at a door off to the side. “That bathroom,” she huffs. “You change inside. Then you clean it.”

  I can’t believe this woman. Doesn’t she see how hungover I am? How pale and nearly green my skin is? I mean I’m practically on the verge of collapsing here!

  “I’m sorry,” I say woozily as I stumble over to the foot of the stairs and plop myself down. “But I have to rest a little. I don’t feel so good.”

  But the minute my butt hits the floor it’s being yanked up again. Her hand is back around my arm and she’s now literally dragging me to the bathroom.

  “Ow!” I whine once she releases me, rubbing my sore biceps. “That’s gonna leave a mark.”

  With a deep, bitter scowl, I stand in the doorway of the bathroom and wait for my apology. It never comes. Instead the door slams in my face, about half an inch from the tip of my nose. Let’s just say it’s a good thing I got that nose job in the tenth grade, otherwise it would have been a direct hit.

  After I’ve scowled and pouted in there for a good five minutes, there’s a bang on the door, followed by a gruff, “Time’s up! You change and clean. Or I call Luke!”

  With a sigh, I grumpily slide out of my flapper dress, stuff it in my bag, and pull the blue-and-white-striped dress over my head, shoving my arms through the sleeves and yanking the hem down.

  I turn and face myself in the mirror and instantly wish that I hadn’t.

  It’s even worse than I thought.

  The cut is terrible. The material is totally stiff and uncomfortable. Like it’s made out of recycled newspaper or something.

  My only salvation is the black, chin-length, 1920s-style wig, which I decide to keep on, although I do make the effort to straighten it so it looks a tad more realistic. If I’m going to have to wear this hideous uniform, the least I can do is disguise the rest of myself. Now when I look in the mirror I can almost fool myself into thinking it’s not really me.

  It’s a small consolation prize, but I’ll take it.

  More pounding on the door. “You are cleaning, yes?”

  “Yes!” I call back in annoyance.

  I stare at my reflection for a few moments more. My expression is a sad mix of horror and desolation. I’m mourning my former life. Less than twelve hours ago I was dancing in the hottest club in Vegas, being catered to by gorgeous shirtless waiters pouring me champagne that costs more per bottle than most people’s monthly rent, surrounded by the most beautiful and important people in the world, and wearing clothes personally designed for me by one of the most sought-after designers in the fashion industry.

  And now I’m about to clean someone’s toilet.

  Fan-freaking-tastic.

  I reluctantly turn and face the porcelain beast, reaching out my leg and using the toe of my shoe to hoist the lid from the seat. Without getting too close, I lean over to peer inside. Lining the bowl, there’s a disgusting brownish-gray ring of I-don’t-even-want-to-know-what.

  Well, I guess that answers the question of whether my gag reflexes are working.

  I scrounge around in my bucket until I come across a squirt bottle labeled All-Purpose Cleaner. Sounds pretty all-encompassing to me. With one arm covering my nose and mouth, I do a quick misting of the entire room—toilet bowl, sink, walls, mirror, and floor—flush the toilet with my foot, and then get the heck out of there.

  “Okay!” I call, stepping back into the entry hall and closing the door hastily behind me. “I’m done with the bathroom!”

  Katarzyna appears around a corner, holding a mop. She nods toward a red vacuum cleaner sitting in the foyer. “Good. Now you vacuum. Upstairs.”

  I groan and start for the stairs, lugging the vacuum behind me. It’s freakishly heavy and bangs loudly against each wooden step.

  “No!” Katarzyna screams from the bottom of the stairs. “Pick up! Pick up!”

  I roll my eyes and heave on the giant machine until it’s a few inches off the floor, and continue my climb.

  The first room I come to looks like the bedroom of a thirteen-year-old girl. A very messy thirteen-year-old girl. I glance around at the pinned-up posters of various teen heartthrobs, posing shirtless with sexy, far-off stares. I find it ironic that half of those people were at my party in Vegas last night.

  With a sigh, I search for an empty electrical socket and plug in the vacuum. Now I just have to figure out how to turn it on. There has to be a switch somewhere.

  Switch. Switch. Swit
ch.

  Okay, how about a button?

  Button. Button. Button.

  How on earth are you supposed to work this thing?

  I creep out to the hallway and peek over the banister. Katarzyna is on her hands and knees with a bucket of soapy water, scrubbing the unidentified animal footprints from the floor.

  I tiptoe back into the room. Okay, definitely not asking her for help. She might make me switch jobs with her. And I’d much rather be in here—I glance again at the posters on the wall—among friends, than down there.

  I whip out my cell phone, open the Internet browser, and Google How to turn on a vacuum cleaner. After a few minutes, I finally find a schematic of a device that looks similar to the one standing idle next to me. There’s a small pedal on the left-hand side, labeled On.

  I frown down at the live version in front of me, locate an identical pedal, and jam my foot downward on it. The vacuum roars to life, lurching out from under me. I spring forward to catch it.

  Okay. That’s done. Now. How do you use a vacuum cleaner?

  A few more clicks through Google leads me to a YouTube video of some woman in heels and a 1950s-style swing dress pushing an old-fashioned vacuum cleaner with a broad smile painted across her fully made-up face.

  That doesn’t look so complicated. Just a little back-and-forth action and I’m done. I glance down at the floor in front of me and frown. I can barely even see the carpet. It’s covered in junk. Clothes and knickknacks and papers and hair accessories.

  Well, that’s not my problem. If this stupid girl refuses to pick up her stuff, then too bad for her.

  With a grunt and a heave, I start pushing the giant whining machine along the floor. It’s not exactly as easy as the woman makes it seem in the video but then again, she had an empty floor to deal with. Mine is covered in crap. It’s like trying to drive a Porsche over a bumpy mountain path that’s usually reserved for SUVs and off-roading vehicles. But it’s doing a pretty impressive job at sucking up everything. The smaller items—like socks, underwear, hair clips, and paper—go up without a fight. The larger stuff—like bras, skirts, DVDs, and jewelry—require a little more coaxing.

  I stop and admire my handiwork.

  Ahhh … now that’s better.

  I can see the carpet. It’s baby pink. With several mysterious stains scattered throughout.

  Either way, it’s still a major improvement over—

  Grrruppppppp!

  What was that? That horrible retching sound. It was like the noise Holly once made after she accidentally swallowed an oversize bug and then tried to hack it up.

  I turn around to see that the noise is coming from the vacuum cleaner. It’s actually starting to convulse. And there’s smoke emerging from the base. Okay, that could be a problem.

  I dig out my phone and replay the YouTube video.

  I definitely don’t see any smoke there. And no vomiting sounds either. That woman still looks like she’s having the time of her life with that vacuum. As if there’s nothing in the world she’d rather be doing than pushing a carpet-cleaning machine back and forth all day.

  She must be drunk.

  Holy crap, that smoke really stinks. Like burned rubber mixed with body odor. I have to do something about that before Katarzyna smells it and comes up here and starts screaming at me again. I glance around the room until my eyes land on a cup of water on the nightstand next to the princess-pink bed.

  I lunge for it and dump it on the vacuum cleaner. The smoke instantly vanishes and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  That is, until sparks start flying. And the wall socket begins to make a weird zapping sound. And then the entire house goes dark.

  THE ULTIMATE DISGUISE

  So the vacuum cleaner is toast. And Katarzyna is really pissed. She’s been cursing me in Polish for the last fifteen minutes. At least I assume those are curse words. The only thing I’ve really been able to get, from the bits and pieces of English she throws in from time to time, is that you’re not supposed to vacuum over things, but rather pick them up first.

  Well, how on earth was I supposed to know that? She just said vacuum! Am I expected to be born with inherent vacuuming knowledge? The least she could have done is give me a few pointers before feeding me to the wolves.

  I’m guessing she’s already come to a similar conclusion because after she manages to find the circuit breaker, get the power in the house turned back on, and salvage the sucked-up items from the inside of the vacuum bag, she doesn’t leave my side for the rest of the day. She stands above me, barking orders like a drill sergeant. Making me scrub floors and sinks and toilets and glass coffee tables over and over again until there isn’t a single microorganism alive anywhere.

  At about two o’clock, we’re nearly finished. Katarzyna is watching me as I dust the living room when I hear a door slam shut and then the patter of footsteps running through the foyer.

  I stare wide-eyed at Katarzyna who gives me a look that says keep dusting.

  A refrigerator door opens and closes in the distant kitchen and then a small girl with thick wavy hair and braces comes trotting into the living room and jumps onto the couch. She props her dirty tennis shoes on the coffee table that I just spent the better half of an hour cleaning and starts slurping away at her drink.

  I look to Katarzyna again, this time with fury in my eyes, but she flashes me the same look.

  Then the girl pulls out a magazine, opens it up, and starts reading. I nearly gasp when I see that it’s the latest issue of Tattle, one of the most popular tabloid magazines in the country. And who do you think is on the freaking cover? Yep, that’s right. Yours truly.

  It’s a shot of me taken right after I pulled myself out of my crashed Mercedes on Sunset. Of course I look like crap.

  I stand frozen in place as I watch the oblivious preteen sip on soda and hungrily devour page after page of the periodical.

  Then, for the first time since she scampered into the house, she looks up at me. Our eyes meet and the most horrific, terrified panic rockets through my entire body.

  This is it. This is the end. Now this stupid little girl is going to whip out her cell phone, call her best friend, and start gabbing: You won’t believe this but Lexington Larrabee is cleaning my house right now! No … the Lexington Larrabee. I swear it’s her! She’s got the maid’s uniform and everything! And before you know it, the paparazzi will be swarming the place like a SWAT team at a hostage situation and then bam! there’s a picture of me wearing this god-awful thing on the next cover of Tattle.

  I wonder if I can convince them it was all a joke. That I’m staging some huge prank or something. Or better yet, acting out the wager of a lost bet. There’s got to be a believable explanation for this.

  “What?” the girl asks snidely, scrunching up her nose. And when I don’t reply—or blink—she gets even more annoyed and goes, “What are you looking at?”

  “Uh,” I say quickly, coming out of my trance and ducking my head down, suddenly very engrossed in dusting a nearby vase, “nothing.”

  I glance up from under my lashes long enough to see the girl roll her eyes and go back to her magazine as a staggering, mind-blowing revelation sucker punches me in the gut.

  She doesn’t recognize me.

  I’m standing right in front of her and she doesn’t even freaking recognize me.

  My mind is reeling. Caught in an agonizing internal battle between feeling relieved and feeling totally insulted. I’m never not recognized. Even when I try to go incognito and fly under the radar, I’m still eventually identified and photographed.

  Katarzyna looks intriguingly from me to the magazine cover, her mind clearly following a direct path to the source of my tormented expression.

  Then she leans in close to me and, in a tone that can almost be described as sympathetic, whispers the simple yet illuminating explanation that I couldn’t come up with on my own: “No one notices the help.”

  * * *

  Sent: Saturday, June 2,
8:10 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]

  What up, Luke? Lucas. The Lukinator. It’s me, Lexi. You said I could use any format to submit my status report so I decided to send it to you in a video message. I chose this format partly because it’s how my generation communicates—e-mail is soooo last decade—but mostly because I really don’t feel like typing. And even if I did, I don’t think I’d be physically able to.

  See this? See all these little white bandages on my fingers? Those are from the iron. Yes, the ir-on. As in what you use to remove wrinkles from clothing. Whoever invented that thing is a masochist. Here’s a question. Why don’t they just make clothes that don’t get wrinkled? I mean seriously, how hard is that? We’ve landed a man on the moon and no one can invent a stupid shirt that doesn’t wrinkle? What is wrong with this picture?

  There. There’s my insight for the day. Enlightening, isn’t it?

  And what else was it that I was supposed to include in these stupid little status reports of yours? Oh, right. My deep and profound life lessons. Okay, fine. You wanna know what I learned this week, working as a slave? Oh, sorry, I mean, a maid.

  I learned how to clean out a refrigerator! Hoorah!

  Now there’s something that’s going to come in handy in my future. If I’m ever at a party and there’s a life-or-death refrigerator-cleaning emergency, I’ve got it completely under control. Everyone else will be running around screaming their heads off and I’ll be like, Don’t panic! I’ve been properly trained!

  [Unidentified sound]

  Oh. That’s my cell phone ringing. I’m not going to answer it. It’s probably my friends calling, asking if I want to go out. But can I go out? No. Because I’ve got these unsightly bruises all over my body. See this one on my arm? A coffee table did that. And see this scratch on my face? Right here under my chin? That’s courtesy of a very hostile set of vertical blinds. Oh and don’t forget these scabs I have on my knees from scrubbing four thousand square feet of Spanish-tile floors. Do you think I can honestly show up at a club like this?