52 Reasons to Hate My Father (5 page)

“Actually,” Bruce begins steadily, opening a manila folder on his desk and placing a pair of square-framed reading glasses onto the bridge of his nose, “your father has a very specific plan for how he intends you to spend this year.”

I snort loudly. “Well, it better include a yacht in the Mediterranean.”

“It doesn’t,” he counters with a deadpan expression, glaring down the tip of his nose at me. “Your father would like you to spend the next year working.”

“Working?”
I repeat incredulously, as though the word is completely foreign to me. Originating from some far-off country in the South Pacific. Written in a language that looks more like pictures than letters.

“Yes,” Bruce replies matter-of-factly.

“If my father thinks I’m gonna follow him around the office like some little lapdog for a year, pretending to care about stupid spreadsheets and prophet-and-lost statements, then he is
surely
mistaken. I am
not
RJ.”

“No,” Bruce says, removing his glasses and placing them down across the open folder. “Your father has no intention of you working for Larrabee Media.”

I feel some sense of relief, but it’s extremely short-lived. “Where does he
intend
for me to work, then?”

“Your father feels that you would benefit most by experiencing several
different
jobs. A buffet, if you will, of occupations. He believes this is the key to helping you appreciate the daily struggles that most people in this world have to endure to obtain even a fraction of what you have been so graciously given.”

I roll my eyes. “Quit with the Mother Teresa crap, Bruce, and just get on with it.”

He smiles indulgently. “Your father has selected precisely fifty-two occupations for you to undertake.”

“Fifty-two,”
I repeat in shock. “He wants me to do fifty-two different jobs!?”

“Yes. One for every week of the year.”

“But that has to be like … extortion or something. This can’t be legal.”

“I assure you, it’s perfectly legal,” Bruce defends, his tone slipping momentarily into that pompous, courtroom-lawyer voice he assumes whenever anyone brings up the subject of legality.

“What
kinds
of jobs are we talking about here? Acting? Modeling?”

Bruce looks like he’s stifling a chuckle, which manages to piss me off even more. “No,” he replies with a firm shake of his head. “These jobs are … well, slightly less glamorous. Minimum-wage-type stuff. Intended to teach you something about life. To show you how the other half lives.”

“What
other
half?” I snarl.

“The half that doesn’t receive a five-hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes convertible and then crash it into a convenience store the very next day.”

I bite my tongue so hard I can taste metal.

Bruce hands me a piece of paper. “Here’s a complete listing of the jobs you’ll be undertaking over the next year. You’re scheduled to start tomorrow.”

I gruffly snatch the paper from his hand and glance over the list. It seems to go on forever. My eyes graze over words like
janitor
,
waitress
,
dishwasher
,
fast-food restaurant employee
, and
gas station attendant
, and I can’t bear to read any further. I chuck the paper back in his direction. “No frickin’ way I’m doing any of those things!”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to, Lex,” he says, picking up the page from where it landed on the floor and placing it neatly back in the folder. “Unless, of course, you want to forfeit your trust fund.”

I start to pace the length of the office, mumbling to myself. “This is ludicrous! He can’t make me do this.” I stop and turn back to Bruce, throwing my arms in the air. “Is he
crazy
?”

“Actually,” Bruce answers my rhetorical question, “I happen to think it’s the sanest decision he’s made in a long time.”

“I’m a
Larrabee
for God’s sake!” I shout. “That’s
supposed
to mean something. Larrabees don’t work at gas stations.”

“Do I have to remind you of where your father came from?” Bruce interjects calmly. “Of his humble roots?”

No, he doesn’t have to remind me. I’m reminded every day. By every magazine article about my father or me. About how he started with nothing—a lowly copy-room employee at some small-town, local newspaper—and now he has everything and why didn’t he opt to instill some of those hard-working values in his spoiled brat of a daughter?

But I don’t say this to Bruce. I’m not about to give him
any
ammunition. So instead, I bypass his question altogether and scream, “That trust fund is mine! It has
my
name on it. It was promised to
me
! Just like all the others. RJ, Harrison, Hudson,
and
Cooper. They got what was promised to them. None of them were subjected to this insanity. None of them had to wait tables or wash dishes or whatever else is on that stupid list. They all got their twenty-five million free and clear. He can’t go back on his word like that. He can’t just change his mind without notice. I
earned
that money.”

Bruce apparently can’t stifle his amusement any longer because he suddenly breaks out into boisterous cackles of laughter. “Earned it? Doing what, may I ask?”

I’m so angry right now, my nostrils are flaring and my breath is coming out in ragged wheezes. I pace faster, hoping it will calm my nerves, but mostly so my feet have something to do besides karate chop Bruce’s mahogany desk in half. “This is not fair,” I hiss.

“Well,” Bruce says, plucking a tissue from the box next to his computer and proceeding to clean the lenses of his spectacles, “
fair
is a very relative term, isn’t it?”

I stop pacing. My feet freeze in their tracks as a sudden realization hits me like a truck. I narrow my eyes across the desk. “This was
your
idea, wasn’t it?” I take a menacing step toward him. “You’ve had a vendetta against me from the moment I was born. This was
your
doing, wasn’t it,
Bruce
?” I spit out his name.

He throws his hands in the air in surrender. “I swear I had nothing to do with it.”

“Oh come on. This has Bruce Spiegelmann written all over it.”

But Bruce simply shakes his head. “I’m afraid I can’t take the credit. It was entirely your father’s idea. He only asked me to help execute it. But I have to admit, I think it’s nothing short of genius.”

I can feel my fists ball up at my sides. The thought of my father and Bruce conspiring against me is making my insides boil with rage. The flames are lashing at the walls of my chest now, devouring my heart and lungs, the smoke stinging my throat. I look around for something to hit, something to throw, something to demonstrate just how livid I really am. My eyes land on a dozen gold-plated plaques lining the office wall. Some kind of stupid lawyer-of-the-year awards, no doubt. I take one purposeful step toward them but Bruce, obviously having read my thoughts in that freakish way that only he can, is out of his seat in a flash, stepping in my path. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” he warns.

I struggle to get past him but his arms wrap around me, holding me back. I immediately start thrashing. Holly jumps out of my bag and runs circles around us, barking her yippy little bark.

“Let me go!” I scream.

“Not if you’re going to trash the place.”

I continue to struggle against him, like an animal ensnared in a hunter’s trap. But I make no progress. Bruce is stronger than he looks.

“You can’t tell me what to do!” I screech into his ear.

He flinches but his grasp never falters. And when he speaks again, his tone is infuriatingly calm. “This two-year-old temper tantrum might work on Horatio or Kingston or whoever else you’ve managed to lure into your web, but it won’t work on me, Lexington.”

With that I stop thrashing, my arms falling to my sides. But still, he doesn’t release me. As though he doesn’t trust my surrender. “You don’t have a choice,” he whispers earnestly. “For once in your life, Lex, can’t you just trust that someone else might know what’s good for you? That your father might have your best interests at heart?”

In one fast, fluid motion, I raise my arms and slam them down hard, taking Bruce by surprise and breaking his tight clutch around me. But I don’t continue for the wall of plaques like I originally intended. I’m over my petty, violent quest for revenge now. I’m suddenly on a new mission. I scoop up Holly and my bag and head straight for the door, determined to get out of here as fast as I can.

This time, Bruce doesn’t try to stop me. Instead, he collapses against the edge of his desk, the struggle having left him slightly winded. “Lex,” he mutters feebly, “your father has made up his mind. You can’t fight this.”

“Oh, yeah?” I say, raising my eyebrows. “Watch me.”

LEXINGTON’S LAST STAND

After a quick call to Kingston, our driver, I confirm that my father is still in LA and currently in his downtown offices. I drive straight there and, with Holly tucked under one arm, march through the doors of the lobby like I own the place … and, well, technically I do. Or I
will
, anyway. When my father dies and I inherit one-fifth of his empire.

Not one person tries to stop me. Not the security guards, not the receptionists, not even the parking garage attendants who guard my father’s reserved parking spots like Knights Templar guarding the Holy Grail. I think everyone is just so surprised to see me—because, let’s face it, it’s not like I’m a regular visitor around here—that they can barely even utter a “Hello, Miss Larrabee,” let alone inquire about the nature of my visit.

When I finally get to the fifty-sixth floor, I’ve managed to totally pump myself up. I’m like a soldier prepared to fight and die for my cause. My blood is boiling, my teeth—or my veneers, rather—are bared, and I’m ready for battle.

I don’t say hello to anyone. I don’t stop to make meaningless chitchat with the assistants or the mail-room staff or anyone. I have zeroed in on my target—the closed door of my father’s corner office—and nothing will get in my way.

Except that.

Or I guess I should say …
him.

A body in a dark gray suit suddenly appears out of nowhere, obstructing my path a mere three paces from my goal. I glance up at the unfamiliar face and sigh. “Excuse me,” I say, not even bothering to cover up my annoyance with a fake smile. “You’re in my way.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you in there,” he replies unsympathetically, his large hazel eyes not even flickering for a second. “Mr. Larrabee is in the middle of an important phone call.”

I frown impatiently. “Don’t you
know
who I am?”

His expression doesn’t change. “I know
exactly
who you are. And you still can’t go in.”

I give a light laugh. “You must be new here.”

“I am, in fact,” he replies, with distinct pride in his voice. “I’m interning. Just started last week.”

“Well, newbie,” I sneer, “let me clue you in. I’m Lexington Larrabee and in case no one told you, you
have
to let me in. My father owns this place.”

“Your father,” he’s quick to correct in a snide tone, “is the chairman of the board. Larrabee Media is a public company. Technically the shareholders own it.”

My eyes widen in disbelief as I give the young man in front of me a spiteful once-over. He’s tall and fit. His honey-brown hair is cut short and gelled into submission in that traditional corporate-droid style. If we had met under any other circumstances—like in a club—I probably would have thought he was cute, maybe slightly too generic for my long-term taste, but cute enough to have shamelessly flirted with. But right now, under
these
circumstances, he’s pretty much the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met.

Plus, he looks
way
too young to be bossing people around. I don’t care what kind of stuffy corporate suit he’s wearing.

“What are you, like, seventeen?”

“I’m twenty,” he says defensively. “Not that it matters.”

“Look,” I say, infusing my voice with an artificial gentleness, “you’re new here. I’m sure you haven’t had a chance to be properly … trained or whatever, but if you don’t let me pass, I’m going to have you fired.”

He doesn’t move. In fact, he doesn’t even blink. He just continues to stand there, blocking the door to my father’s office like a marble statue. “I told you,” he says steadfastly, “your father is on a call and has insisted he not be bothered … by
anyone
.”

Jeez, what is
with
people today? Has everyone forgotten who I am? Who my father is? How much power I hold? It’s like the whole world has gotten temporary amnesia and suddenly I’m this nobody that everyone steps on.

“If you don’t let me in,” I insist through clenched teeth, “I swear I will knock you over.”

“And if you don’t turn around and wait in the lobby like everyone else, I’ll call security.”

I have to chuckle at this because it’s so completely absurd. “Oh my God, you really
are
dense.” I set Holly down at my feet and place my hands on my hips. “Security can’t do anything to me. I’m Lexington Larrabee!” I scream the last part loud enough for everyone within a two-mile radius to hear. I’m half hoping that
someone
will come to my rescue. That some receptionist or accountant or whoever will pop out of his or her office and tell this moron that he’s treading on thin ice right now. But the only door that opens is the one behind him and suddenly my father is standing in front of me.

“What is going on out here?” he barks.

“Daddy!” I cry, pushing roughly past the annoying gatekeeper and throwing my arms around my father’s neck. I hastily transition into a soft, tuneful voice. “Thank God you came out. I simply
have
to talk to you and this idiot wouldn’t let me come in.”

My father’s body stiffens under my embrace and eventually he reaches up to disengage my grasp. “Luke is my new intern. I told him I wasn’t to be bothered.” He gives the young man behind me a grateful nod and then looks at me with that familiar vacant expression. “At least someone can follow simple directions.”