52 Reasons to Hate My Father

by Jessica Brody

  Twenty minutes later we arrive in the remote suburb of Santa Clarita.

  “What are we doing way out here?” I ask with a scowl.

  “When appropriate your father has specifically chosen remote locations to minimize your risk of being recognized. He doesn’t want the press involved in this.”

  I instinctively touch my wig. “Well, that’s one thing we have in common,” I remark with a snort.

  “Studies have shown that people don’t often recognize things when they’re out of context,” Luke explains, sliding right back into that annoyingly pretentious tone of his.

  I think about that bratty little girl at the house last week with her dirty shoes and the Tattle magazine with my picture on the cover. I was right in front of her face and I might as well have been invisible. “So I’ve noticed,” I murmur.

  Luke navigates through the wide tree-lined streets until finally pulling into a giant parking lot housing a supermarket, an all-you-can eat Italian restaurant chain, a salon offering haircuts for twelve dollars, and one of those bargain clothing stores that has the nerve to call Liz Claiborne a designer label.

  “So,” I say breezily, “at which one of these fine establishments will I be spending my week?”

  Luke nods at the anchor store in the center—an enormous Albertsons supermarket.

  “Let me guess. Grocery bagger?”

  Luke reaches into the backseat and pulls the file labeled Job #2 from his briefcase and flips it open. “Actually you’ll be doing a little of everything.”

  I smile enthusiastically and give him a thumbs-up. “Even better.”

  “Your assignment this week,” he continues, “is to successfully complete a rotation through every department within the store. That includes bakery, deli, meat, seafood, produce, and dry foods.”

  “Sounds practical,” I say, nodding with approval. “A very well-rounded schedule. Nicely done.”

  Luke flashes me a cut-the-crap look. “Okay. What gives?”

  I open my eyes wide. “What do you mean?”

  “Last week you moaned and groaned every single day and now suddenly you’re little Miss Sunshine?”

  “What can I say,” I respond, with a shrug and a sweet smile. “I’ve decided to change my approach to things.”

  He’s clearly not buying it but I don’t really care. I click off my seat belt, grab my bag, and step out of the car. “What time will you be picking me up?” I ask.

  “Six,” Luke replies.

  “Perfect.”

  “Ask for Neil when you get inside. He’s the one who’s supervising you this week.”

  I give him a quick salute and toss the bag over my shoulder. “Neil. Got it.”

  Luke shoots me one last distrustful look, which I respond to with a sugary smile before turning on the toes of my espadrilles and striding into the store.

  Normally when I walk into a supermarket—or any other store for that matter—the world tends to stop spinning. People halt what they’re doing, carts are absentmindedly released and left to run into giant displays of canned goods, and cash registers stop chiming. All eyes look up. Then the whispering starts, followed quickly by the requests for autographs. Cell phone cameras are whipped out and a frenzy of furious texting and Twittering begins.

  Not today though. Today I get to experience what it’s like for a normal person to walk into a supermarket. And I’ll tell you, it’s pretty anticlimactic.

  Absolutely nothing happens. The world just keeps on turning.

  I stand there for a few minutes, taking it in, before a tall, skinny, forty-something man in a black vest comes up to me and says, “You must be Lexi.”

  “Nuh-uh,” I correct him, holding up one finger. “This week I’ll be going by the name Cassandra.” Then I give him a sly wink. “Aliases are important for protecting one’s true identity.”

  He looks highly uninterested. “Sure. Fine. Whatever.”

  I squint at his name tag. “Neil?”

  He nods. “Welcome to Albertsons. C’mon. We’ll get you set up.”

  I follow him through the store to a small office in the back. He opens a metal locker behind his desk and starts flipping through a stack of white collared shirts and black vests like the one he’s wearing. He stops long enough to peer around the locker door at me. “What size shirt do you wear? Small?”

  “Actually,” I say, taking command of the situation, “a uniform won’t be necessary today.”

  “No?” he asks, genuinely confused.

  I shake my head and reach into my bag, producing a large bundle of hundred-dollar bills (a generous loan from Jia) and setting it down on the desk between us. “No.”

  Neil jumps back slightly at the sight of it. As if I’ve just dropped a dead rat in front of him, as opposed to a giant wad of cash.

  “What’s that?” he asks in a wavering voice.

  “Ten thousand dollars,” I reply matter-of-factly.

  Neil slowly sets down the black vest and reaches out to touch the tightly wrapped bundle with the tip of his index finger. As if checking to make sure it is real.

  “What’s it for?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. To feed your children. Buy something nice for your wife. Whatever you want it to be for.”

  He looks anxiously at the open door behind me. “But Luke already paid me.”

  I turn and close the office door. “This isn’t between you and Luke. It’s between you and me.” I look at him purposefully, holding his eye. “Only you and me.”

  Wow, I’m really good at this. I sound like I’m in a mob movie or something. I guess there’s at least one upside to having Richard Larrabee’s DNA running through my bloodstream.

  Neil’s face is still a giant question mark. I kind of feel bad for him. He looks so lost and out of his element.

  “You see, I think there’s a way we can help each other,” I explain.

  He nods, taking it all in.

  I continue. “I need a report at the end of the week saying that I completed five days of working here. And you”—I glance around the small, cluttered office—“seeing that you work at a supermarket, I’m guessing need money.”

  I wait for the comprehension to register in his eyes. When he continues to hesitate, I push further. “Do you have kids?” I ask.

  “Four.”

  I nod, trying to look contemplative. “Hmm. Sounds rough.”

  He blinks. No response.

  “And expensive.”

  More silence.

  “So, do we have a deal?”

  I can see the gears in his brain clicking away but still he doesn’t utter a single word. That’s okay though. He doesn’t have to say anything. As soon as I watch him slide the money off the desk and deposit it into his pants pocket, I know what the answer is.

  It was an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  With a smug smile, I stroll out of the office, back through the store, and out the front doors. I slide my sunglasses over my eyes, whip out my cell phone, and call the number I programmed in last night.

  “Yes, hello,” I say cheerfully. “I need a car service from Santa Clarita to Malibu.”

  “Certainly,” comes a friendly, accommodating voice. “Do you have an account with us?”

  “No. I’ll be paying cash.”

  “Of course. We can have a car out to you in fifteen minutes.”

  “Perfect.” I give her the address of the store, click off the phone, and slide it into my pocket.

  I pull a large straw sun hat out of my bag and place it on my head with a purposeful tap. I gaze up at the sky and squint gleefully into the beautiful southern California sun.

  The weatherman was right. It’s a perfect day for the beach.

  NEVER UNDERESTIMATE A LARRABEE

  Mwahahahahahahahahaha!

  In case you couldn’t tell, that’s my diabolical I-outsmarted-my-father-and-his-brownnosing-intern-page-boy laugh. I would do it aloud right here in the parking lot of the Albertsons supermarket but I don’t r
eally want to draw any unnecessary attention to myself. Not when I’m this close to getting the heck out of here.

  That was easy. Almost too easy. I’m almost offended that my father and his minion think so little of me. That they so terribly underestimate me. Well, serves them right, then. They deserve to be duped.

  When I told Jia and T my plan, they were more than happy to front me the cash to get me through the next fifty-one weeks. They know I’m good for the money. I mean, I do have a twenty-five-million-dollar check coming my way. I even offered to pay them interest on their investment but neither one of them would have it.

  So all I have to do now is keep paying off struggling supervisor after struggling supervisor until the year is over and then it’s au revoir Larrabee Family, bonjour trust fund!

  I keep one eye on my cell phone to check the time and the other on the parking lot in expectation of my transportation. Cars come and go as the slew of suburban housewives tackle their weekly shopping lists. I told Jia and T I’d meet them at eleven at my father’s beach-front condo in Malibu.

  I quickly tap out a text message to Jia to let them know that my plan was a grand success. A horn honks just as I’m pressing send and I sling my bag over my shoulder and start for the curb. But when I look up, I’m dismayed to see that it’s not, in fact, the black limousine with tinted windows that I ordered but rather a small silver sedan.

  A very familiar silver sedan.

  A silver sedan I was just riding in less than an hour ago.

  Crap.

  The passenger-side window rolls down and Luke’s face appears. “Going somewhere?”

  “No,” I say, pretending to have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. “I was just getting some air.” I wave a hand in front of my face for effect. “It’s really stuffy in there!”

  “Mmm hmm.” Luke is clearly not fooled by my little hot-flash performance. “Get in,” he commands.

  I huff out a sigh and reluctantly slide into the passenger seat. “Yes?”

  “I have something to show you.” He reaches behind him and pulls his briefcase from the backseat. Then he takes out a Larrabee Media monogrammed laptop and opens it.

  I feign impatience. “Will this take very long? I kind of have to go. I have a lot of work to do in there, you know? Bagging groceries and everything.”

  “Mmm hmm,” he says again, tapping away at the keyboard.

  I discreetly glance out the windshield for signs of my car service.

  “It’s not coming,” Luke says, without looking up from the screen.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your car,” he replies nonchalantly. “It’s not coming.”

  I make a pfff sound with my mouth to indicate that he’s clearly lost it. “What car?”

  “The one you ordered and I canceled.”

  “What?” I cry. “Why would you do … How did you—”

  He interrupts me by pushing the computer into my lap and pressing a button.

  A grainy black-and-white image fills the screen. It looks kind of familiar. Then I gasp as I realize that it’s the back office of the store that I left only a few minutes ago. And it’s not just an image. It’s a video. The door swings open and in walks Neil followed by me. I watch in horror as the scene I just lived replays right before my eyes.

  “You were spying on me!” I scream in disgust.

  “I find monitoring to be a more accurate term.”

  “It’s spying,” I protest. “And it’s unacceptable.”

  “The store is already equipped with cameras,” Luke explains. “We were just given access to the feed.”

  My eyes open wide with horror. “Does Neil know that?”

  Luke nods solemnly. “Yes, which is why he called me the minute you left.”

  I can feel my stomach start to boil. “That rat!”

  Luke laughs at my reaction. “Oh, Lex,” he condescends. “Did you honestly think you could outsmart me? Your father?” He flashes me a patronizing smile. “Please.”

  I seethe in silence, my chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths.

  “Your father warned me that you’d try everything in your power to get out of having to work. Which is why I told all the supervisors in advance that they were to report any bribe attempts or other methods of evasion on your part. And which is why I got permission to tap your cell phone. It’s also equipped with a GPS tracking device, so I wouldn’t try to go anywhere if I were you.” He cocks his head to the side, his expression suddenly pensive. “I guess now I understand your good mood this morning.”

  The anger is rising up. Just like it always does. I clutch the laptop in my hands and eye the open window next to me. With a distressed battle cry, I launch the computer up in the air and aim for the sidewalk. It leaves my hands and I watch anxiously for the collision. The satisfying crunch of Larrabee Media–issued technology smashing against pavement.

  But it never comes. And that’s when I realize that Luke grabbed the laptop from my hands right before I hurled it toward the open window.

  I turn around to see him calmly closing the lid and returning it to his briefcase. As if removing computers from the hands of would-be electronics assassins is all in a day’s work for him.

  “Your father also warned me about your temper,” Luke states in a composed tone.

  With a furious grunt, I jerk on the door handle and push the door open with my feet. “You know,” I screech as I scramble back onto the curb, “for someone who’s never around, my father sure knows a heck of a lot about me!”

  “Enjoy your shift!” Luke calls out.

  I slam the door and stalk back into the store. I don’t stop moving until I find Neil in the bread aisle, marking items with an electronic pricing gun.

  I shove my open hand in his face and growl, “I want my money back.”

  * * *

  Sent: Friday, July 6, 9:36 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]

  I know, I know. I haven’t done a status report in over a month. Blah blah blah. You tell me every single time I get in the car. So fine. Here it is. Your new video message status report.

  In case you couldn’t tell from these horrific bags under my eyes, I’m a little tired right now. Can you see them? Can you see the bags? How about when I lean into the camera like this? Now can you see them? You shouldn’t have a problem. They’re epic.

  That’s probably because I spent the last month in hell. And I don’t really feel like rehashing all the glorious moments of torture with you but I know, I have to. Because this is a status report. And I’m supposed to report on my status. And if I don’t comply with your requirements, you’ll have to report me to my father.

  Did you like my impression of you just then? Pretty good, huh? I’ve been practicing.

  So anyway … Wait, hold on … I have something disgusting under my nail. Ick! What is that? I don’t even wanna know.

  Okay. So job #2 was at Albertsons. What did I learn from Mr. Albertson? Well, I learned to always check for hidden cameras when you attempt to bribe someone. I learned that it’s physically impossible to push a train of forty shopping carts through a parking lot in Pucci espadrilles … without falling on your face, that is. Oh, I also learned that you’re not supposed to use cake icing to spell out obscenities or draw distasteful images on children’s birthday cakes. And for the record, I don’t know what Neil told you but that was not a picture of what he thought it was. It was supposed to be two people playing leapfrog. Just wanna clear that up.

  Job #3 was … What was it again? Oh right. Cleaning horse stalls at that stable in Malibu. Sorry, I’ve tried to block that one from my memory. Although I found the experience very metaphorical. My life having literally turned
to crap. Horse crap, that is. So there’s my insight on that.

  Then I worked at the doughnut shop where I learned how to wake up at 3:30 in the freaking morning. Every day. To do what, you might ask? Something exciting? Oh, yes! I woke up at the crack of dawn to knead dough! Thrilling, isn’t it? And you wouldn’t guess it just by looking at it, but doughnut dough is sticky. It gets places. Places I don’t even want to talk about.

  After that came the exciting week of washing dishes at that Chinese restaurant. And I learned that [unidentifiable word] in Chinese means hurry the [expletive deleted] up. At least that’s what I could deduce from the context and the frequency of use. I guess that might come in handy the next time I’m in Beijing. So thank you! Thanks, Luke! Thanks, Daddy! I really am learning useful things.

  That was sarcasm, by the way. In case they don’t have that on your planet.

  All right, where was I? Oh, yes. Job #6. Hold on, let me get my handy little list out.

  Here it is. See? This is the official list. Kindly faxed over by my good friend Bruce. Here, I’ll hold it closer to the camera. Can you see it now? If you’ll notice, I’ve crossed out the original title and written in a new one. It’s now called the 52-Reasons-to-Hate-My-Father list. And currently we’re on reason #6. The cemetery. Digging graves for a week. Creepy. Very, very creepy. Although …

  Oh, wait a sec. I just got an e-mail. It’s from my friends Jia and T. Do you know where they are? They’re where I’m supposed to be right now. On a private yacht, cruising around the Mediterranean. They left three weeks ago. Isn’t that just the cherry on top of the whole yummy-delicious crap sundae that has become my life?

  Ooh, they’re in Santorini this week. How lovely. Look, they’ve even included a photograph. Check out that crystal-blue water? Isn’t it beautiful? It says, Miss you. Love you. Wish you were here. Yeah, that makes three of us.

  Wait, I have another picture to show you. Hold on, let me bring it up on my phone. Okay, here it is. Here’s me, after working the graveyard shift … literally … at the graveyard. Notice the shovel in my hand and the dirt. It’s pretty much everywhere, isn’t it? Notice the expression on my face. That’s the face of misery. In case you couldn’t tell.