Not to mention how sore I am after forty freaking hours of cleaning, scraping, squeegeeing, mopping, dusting, polishing, vacuuming, ironing, and laundering. I can barely walk, let alone get dressed. Let alone dance on tabletops.
So instead I’m just going to lie here in my room all weekend like a loser. I hope that makes you and my father very, very happy. I hope you’re both pleased to know that your little Operation Let’s Make Lexi’s Life Miserable is a huge success.
So that’s it. That’s the official report on my status. I hope it exceeds your wildest expectations. I’m going to bed now. At eight o’clock at night. Like a two-year-old.
Wait. I just remembered something else. I do have one more insight to report. I realized something this week. I had an epiphany. Are you ready for this? Are you sure? Okay, here it goes:
It turns out I have not one, not two, but fifty-two reasons to hate my father, and Majestic Maids Cleaning Services is the first.
[END TRANSCRIPT]
* * *
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 em
ergency 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!”
He shakes his head and keeps walking.
“Aren’t you glad you made me watch all those Spanish soap operas with you when I was growing up?” I call after him, but he doesn’t respond.
After another neighborhood-shaking honk from Luke, I sigh, grab my bag, and head for the stairs.
“Good morning, Luke,” I say politely as I strut down the front walkway of the house. “How are you today?”
“Thanks for getting out here so quickly,” he mumbles.
I smile cheerfully as I slide into the passenger seat. “You’re welcome.”
His eyes glide over my outfit, lingering at my new hair for a moment before continuing to my feet. He shakes his head. “You might want to put on some more comfortable shoes for this week’s assignment.”
I glance down at my toes and can’t help but smile at the cute little daisies my manicurist painted on my nails. “What are you talking about? These are Pucci espadrilles.”
He gives me a blank look.
“Espadrilles are known for their comfort.”
“Whatever,” Luke mutters. “They’re your feet.”
I buckle my seat belt and continue admiring my pedicure. He’s right. These are my feet. And thanks to my brilliant new strategy, I don’t plan on being on them much today.
I can feel Luke’s eyes boring into the side of my head and I turn to see him staring at me with a suspicious expression.
“What?”
His eyes narrow. “What’s with you?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. What’s with you?”
“You’re…” He searches for the right word. “Pleasant.”
I chuckle at his baffled expression. “I’m always pleasant.”
I can see an internal battle raging inside him. He’s fighting back some kind of offensive remark—deliberating between taking advantage of this prime opportunity to insult me and holding his tongue in order to sustain my unexpected demeanor.
I could honestly care less what he does. He’s not going to affect my mood. Not today. There’s nothing he can do to spoil the good day that I have in store.
Not even when he starts that agonizingly long predeparture procedure that he does before he can go anywhere. Normally it drives me insane. The way he has to check every mirror three times, fiddle with air-conditioning dials to get the absolute perfect temperature, and verify that his windshield wipers are in proper working order—twice—before he can even put the car in drive. But today I sit patiently in my seat, humming quietly to myself until it’s time to leave.
I don’t even have to fight the urge to tell him that the chances his windshield wipers have stopped working or his mirrors have been mysteriously realigned between his house and mine are about five billion to one. Like I have to every other day.
Nope. Today, it’s all good.
“So, what’s with the good mood?” Luke asks once we’re on the freeway, heading into the valley. “Did Louis Vuitton release a new overpriced, sweatshop-manufactured handbag?”
I smirk. “Not that I’ve heard. But if they do, I’ll be sure to pick one up for you.”
“A new club opening this weekend?” He ventures another guess.
“Nope.”
“So, are you going to tell me, or do I have to keep guessing?”
I turn and face him. “Can’t I just be in a good mood?”
He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “No. You can’t. Anyone else, sure. But not you.”
I cross my arms over my chest in mock offense. “And why not me?”
“Because you’re Lexington Larrabee. Lexington Larrabee doesn’t simply wake up in a good mood. She has to have just cause. There have to be outside forces at work.”
My mock offense quickly slips into real offense. “That’s not true!”
“Of course it’s true,” he begins knowingly, like he’s a college professor about to start his daily lecture to a hall full of eagerly awaiting students. “You’re all about external motivators. Needing something on the outside to make you feel good on the inside. It’s like some kind of modified codependency.”
I scrunch my nose at him. “Well, thank you, Dr. Carver. I didn’t realize you were also a shrink.”
“I’m double majoring in psychology,” he informs me. “I thought it would be a nice supplement to my business degree. If you’re going to run large corporations one day, you need to be able to get inside your employees’ heads.”
I snort. “And where is this? Harvard?”
He suddenly looks forlorn and the arrogance in his voice drops out. “No. Harvard wouldn’t give me a scholarship. USC offered me a full ride. Plus a chance to do a work-study program at your father’s company this year. So I enrolled there. Harvard was my first choice, though.”
“Of course it was,” I mumble. “But regardless, you’re wrong about me. I don’t need external what
evers to feel good about myself. I feel good about myself all the time.”
He shoots me a skeptical look. “Sure.”
“I do!” I screech back. “And why wouldn’t I? I’m Lexington Larrabee! In case you haven’t heard, I’m worth twenty-five million dollars!”
“Well, not yet, anyway,” Luke points out, his irritating smugness instantly returning.
“Fine. But I will be.”
“And what if you weren’t?” he inquires.
“What if I weren’t what?”
“What if you weren’t Lexington Larrabee? What if you weren’t going to be worth twenty-five million dollars? Would you still feel good about yourself?”
“Yes,” I say hastily, my chest burning with a familiar rage. “Not that it’s any of your business what makes me feel good.”
An awkward silence falls over the car as I quietly seethe in the passenger seat. Then Luke glances over at me and a sneaky smile appears on his lips. “Uh-oh.”
“What?” I growl, my face flushing.
“Looks like I ruined your mood.”
LEXI CAPONE
Luke Carver is the devil. No. Wait. He’s the devil’s apprentice. Which is way worse. Because the devil’s apprentice knows how evil the devil is—he’s heard the rumors about his immorality and heartlessness and cruelty—and yet he signs on to work for him just the same. He chooses to be like him. To dress like him. To talk like him. To follow in his callous footsteps. And that makes him even more wicked, even more abominable than the devil himself.
As we continue to drive, I tell myself to take deep breaths. I remind myself about the brilliant plan I’ve concocted and slowly my anger starts to subside. Just the thought of outmaneuvering Bruce, my father, and his annoying psychology-double-majoring protégé is enough to make the fire blazing in my chest simmer down and restore a blithe smile to my face.
52 Reasons to Hate My Father Page 8
