52 Reasons to Hate My Father (10 page)

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.”

BEDTIME

I close my laptop and drag my tired, bruised, and battered body to the bed, collapsing onto it like a sack of dirt. Holly hops up her custom-made, red carpeted staircase and lies down beside me.

Do people really do this
every
single week of their lives?

How do their limbs not fall off?

My phone rings again, and again I ignore it. The thought of my friends out there on the town having a blast without me makes me want to cry. I can’t remember the last time (or the first time, for that matter) that I haven’t been in the mood to go out. I’m Lexington Larrabee. Going out is what I do. It’s who I am.

Not anymore, apparently.

I suppose the good news is now I don’t have to worry about bumping into Mendi again.

The phone rings a third time. I finally locate it in the tangle of sheets and turn off the ringer. Then I crumble back into the bed with a whimper.

Holly picks up her head and stares at me curiously, her tall butterfly ears at full attention.

“I know,” I tell her with a sigh. “It’s pathetic.”

She rises to her feet, pads over to me, and lies back down with her head resting on my stomach.

“Thanks,” I say with a weak smile. “I knew you’d understand.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m just drifting to sleep when there’s a knock on my door.

“Go away!” I call to the unwanted visitor.

But the door opens anyway and in flounce Jia and T, dressed to go out. They skip over and plop down on either side of me. I groan and pull a pillow over my head. “Who let you in?”

“Señor Horatio,” T answers cheerfully. “Now get your bum out of bed and put on something cute. We’re going to Mist tonight.”

“No,” I say through the pillow. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Lex,” Jia warns. “You can’t hide from Mendi your whole life. This is
your
town, remember. You have to get out there and claim it!”

“This is
not
about Mendi,” comes my muffled yet resolved response.

Jia lets out an exasperated sigh and pulls the pillow from my face and the covers from my body. They both gasp in shock at the sight of the bruised and battered shell of a person underneath.

“Bloody hell!” T exclaims. “What happened to you?”

“I cleaned houses for five straight days this week.”

“That’s what that smell is,” Jia says with a satisfied nod, like she’d been trying to figure it out since she pranced through the door.

“Did you clean them or do battle with them?” T asks.

I manage a weak laugh. “A little of both, I suppose.” I pull the covers back over myself. “So, as you can see, I’m in no condition to leave the house.”

My two friends glance at each other and exchange consenting nods. “Have fun for me,” I mumble to them.

There’s a heavy silence in the room. I know they haven’t left yet because I can still feel the weight of their slender frames sitting on either side of me. But there’s something about the way the air moves around my head and the mattress shifts ever so lightly underneath me that tells me they’re motioning to each other.

My eyes flutter open and I see T shaking her head, crossing and uncrossing her hands in an adamant gesture, and mouthing something that looks like
Not now
.

When she notices me looking up at her, her hands instantly fall to her lap and a fake smile hurries its way to her lips.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” T says quickly, reaching down to stroke my hair. I jerk my head away.

“She deserves to know,” Jia argues in her infamous let’s-get-down-to-business voice.

“Yes, but she can know tomorrow. After she’s had a good rest. She’s clearly knackered and—”

“She’ll find out eventually!” Jia interrupts. “Better we be here for moral support when she does.”

“Will you guys shut up and tell me already,” I command.

T exhales loudly and turns her attention back to me. “It’s your father, love.”

“What about my father?” I ask, looking suspiciously between the two of them.

“He’s…” T tries. “Well, he’s…”

Jia eventually cuts her off with an impatient sigh, grabs the remote off my nightstand, and flips on the TV.

The familiar sounds and voices of
Access Hollywood
fill the room. On the screen, video footage of my father and his latest fling, Rêve, is playing. They’re on the red carpet of some black-tie benefit. He’s flashing his usual reserved yet respectable smile while his date, decked out in a long, sweeping red Valentino gown, beams and waves at the cameras like she’s riding a freaking parade float.

The slick voice of the
Access Hollywood
host pipes in. “Spokespeople for the Larrabee family made the official announcement earlier today after the pair returned from a romantic two-day trip to Paris. The date is not yet set but the event is expected to take place later this year.”

I feel a cold chill run down my spine.

Jia mutes the volume and tosses the remote back onto the nightstand. “He’s engaged.”

MOOD DE-HANCING SUBSTANCES

A horn honks impatiently outside on Monday morning as I slip on my second Emilio Pucci espadrille. I hum gleefully to myself as I go about my morning routine, taking my time finishing my makeup and selecting my accessories. I riffle through my jewelry box and hold up a long teardrop earring, promptly ruling it out when I see how it clashes with my new wig.

After the close call last week, I’ve decided to purchase a new one for every job. To keep my disguise fresh. And as a little treat to myself each week. If I’m going to have to endure this torture for an entire year, at least I can
try
to have some fun with it. Plus, I figure it’s a good way of mentally distancing myself from what I’m being forced to do. For instance, today, I’m not Lexington Larrabee going off to work God knows where doing God knows what, I’m
Cassandra
, the fiery redhead with long, luscious wavy locks who looks like she’s ready to race off to a newscaster audition at any moment.

I found this awesome wig warehouse online and started ordering from it. Now it’s like I get to be a different person every week of the year!

The horn honks again.

I hum louder to drown out the noise and open one of my cabinets, rummaging through stuff until I find a bottle of clear nail polish. I give my French manicure a quick top coat, blowing on my fingertips, and holding out my hands to admire my work.

It took my manicurist nearly
three
hours to fix the mess that those cleaning chemicals made of my nails. And the masseuse who had to work on my tightly knotted muscles? She’s probably undergoing hand surgery right this minute. The poor thing.

But the good news is I feel great. Refreshed and renewed.

My father can do whatever he wants. He can marry twenty-nine-year-old gold diggers and hire obnoxious liaisons to pick me up in the morning and drop me off at night but he can’t (and won’t) break my spirit. I got a nice little emergency pep talk from my shrink over the weekend and he kindly reminded me that I have total power over my own emotions. I can’t control what other people do or say. I can only control how I react to those things.

And I realized that I’ve been reacting the
entirely
wrong way.

I’ve been so busy whining about my lot in life, I haven’t even stopped to think about how I might be able to improve it. I’ve been so distracted by tacky uniforms and chipped manicures that I completely forgot about the
one
redeemable trait that I did manage to inherit from my father: the ability to think outside the box. The ability to
strategize.

And strategize I have. Today I go into battle with a new plan of attack. A plan that is sure to get me through the next fifty-one weeks with my dignity, reputation … and manicure intact.

It’s quite brilliant if I do say so myself. And so obvious, I’m honestly not sure why I didn’t think of it before. Probably because I was so blinded and dazed by those toxic cleaning chemicals, I couldn’t even think straight.

Hooooonnnnk!

It sounds like someone has laid a dead body on the car horn. I roll my eyes—some people are
so
dramatic—and toss a change of clothes into my bag. The weatherman on TV is going on and on about what a beautiful day it’s going to be today. “Perfect beach weather,” he chirps enthusiastically. “Don’t forget to pack your sunscreen!”

There’s a knock on my bedroom door. I zap the TV off with the remote and call casually, “Come in!”

Horatio stands in the doorway, looking quite perturbed (although it’s so subtle, you’d have to have lived with him as long as I have to recognize it). Holly gives a happy little bark, runs over to him, and jumps against his shins. He lifts her up and tucks her under his arm.

“Yes, Horatio?”

He flashes me a tight smile. “It would appear you have a visitor waiting outside.”

“Oh, would it?” I ask innocently, bending sideways to finger-comb my new red locks in the mirror of my vanity. “I hadn’t even noticed.”

I can see the reflection of Horatio’s face in the mirror and I know that he’s not buying my doe-eyed act for a second. I do feel bad that he has to be a casualty in this three-way battle between me, Luke, and my father, but as they say, all is fair in love and war.

Hooooooooooooooooonk!

I wait for the cringe-worthy noise to stop before saying in a syrupy tone, “You can tell him I’ll be right down.”

Horatio nods and turns to leave with Holly still in his arms.

“Wait!” I call, and he stops. I rush over to him and lean down to caress Holly’s precious face. “Bye-bye, baby,” I coo softly. “Mommy will miss you today. Yes, she will.”

Horatio waits patiently while I fawn over her before finally planting one long, parting smooch on the top of her head.

I stand up straight and address Horatio. “Thanks for taking such good care of her.”

He bows and turns to leave, grumbling under his breath,
“Los perros no están en mi contrato.”

“I know it’s not in your contract, Horatio,” I reply sweetly. “That’s why I appreciate it
soooo
much!”