52 Reasons to Hate My Father

by Jessica Brody

  The man holds up one finger as he and his wife quickly scan the menu, whispering to each other. I can tell immediately from the way they’re dressed that they’re not American. Having spent the majority of my childhood traipsing around Western Europe, I have a very finely tuned radar for foreigners. Especially of the European variety.

  The woman makes a disgusted face and turns away from the menu, muttering to her husband, “Je n’arrive pas à croire que les Américains mangent cette nourriture dégoûtante. Je ne peux pas manger ici.”

  I was right. They’re French. And that woman just expressed her utter disbelief that Americans can call anything on this menu food. It’s the exact same thought I had when I walked in here this morning.

  “I assure you,” I reply in French, without thinking, “not all Americans eat this crap.”

  The couple laughs and the woman murmurs something about trying Mimi’s Café next door instead. I tell her it’s probably a safer bet.

  As soon as they exit, Jenna turns to me with a look of pure awe. “You speak French?”

  I blink back at her in surprise, taking a moment to figure out why she looks so astonished. Even Rolando, the guy cleaning the salsa bar, has looked over here again to wait for my answer.

  Whoops.

  I guess employees of Don Juan’s Tacos aren’t usually fluent in French.

  “Oh,” I say quickly, waving my hand in the air to downplay the situation, “just a little.”

  Jenna laughs. “Sounded like more than a little.” She turns toward the salsa bar again. “Rolando, did you hear that? She was like, Bloodidoo bla bloo bla.”

  He laughs. “Yep. Pretty impressive.”

  “Well…” I fidget with the stack of plastic trays on the counter. “My mom is French.”

  As soon as the lie is out of my mouth, I wish I could take it back. I immediately feel guilty about mentioning my mother. Especially when what I said is not even true.

  “Cool,” Jenna says. “My relatives are from, like, Norway or something. But that was, like, thousands of years ago. You know what’s kind of weird? I think Lexington Larrabee speaks French too! I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere. She has, like, five houses in France or something.”

  Actually it’s only two. An apartment in Paris and a château near Aix-en-Provence but I’m not about to correct her.

  “I don’t think her mom is from France, though.” Jenna keeps babbling. “I’m pretty sure she’s dead. Some tragic car accident or something. It’s kinda sad when you think about it, huh? Losing your mom like that?”

  “We should probably finish the register training,” I interject quickly. “You know, before Javier comes out here and murders me with a taco shell.”

  Jenna laughs, seemingly oblivious to my skillful topic-dodging. “Good thinking,” she says, tapping her forehead.

  Thankfully, Rolando goes back to filling salsa bins, Jenna goes back to pointing at random buttons on the computer in front of us, and I slowly go back to breathing normally again.

  CULT CLASSIC

  I thought working in fast food was supposed to be easy. But it’s actually ridiculously hard. Like brain surgery or something. The drive-thru headset requires a PhD to operate. In one shift I manage to accidentally cuss out three customers because I thought I was pressing the off button when really I was pressing the broadcast-my-voice-to-the-world button. And since every employee in the restaurant wears a headset pretty much everyone heard me.

  The order screens positioned above the food line are even worse. I swear the incoming orders are displayed in some kind of top-secret government code. What the heck is SDT wo ch + so supposed to mean? I need a translator just to figure out what item to make and there are so many freaking ingredients, even then I don’t get it right.

  Plus the deep fryer is out to get me. I’m convinced of it. It bubbles and boils in blistering hot rage and lashes out at me every time I attempt to submerge a basket of fries. And don’t even get me started on the nacho cheese sauce. This lethal substance is dangerous, volatile, and should be kept far away from living creatures. Its creamy and inviting texture is but a ruse to reel you in and gain your trust. But turn your back for only a few minutes and it morphs into a crusty, gelatinous, fluorescent yellow sludge. And once it’s touched the surface of any object it’s virtually impossible to remove.

  By the end of my first day, my feet are swollen, my back is throbbing, I have burns on my arms, and I smell like I’ve been rolling around in french fries all day. I swear the stench of grease has seeped into my clothes and skin.

  So I think it’s safe to say that the very last face I want to see at ten o’clock at night after coming off my hellish eight-hour shift is my father’s. And yet, there it is. The second I open the door of Luke’s Honda Civic, I see it. Lying on the passenger seat. That infamous I’m-going-to-eat-you-alive-and-enjoy-it half smile staring up at me.

  It’s a copy of my father’s autobiography. Although the “auto” part is yet another brilliant Richard Larrabee deception. I know for a fact that he hired a ghostwriter to write the stupid thing.

  I let out a loud groan. “What is that doing here?” I ask, glaring at the hardcover. I lower myself into the car, trying to aim my butt right onto the image of my father’s smug face. Luke saves the book just in time and holds it protectively to his chest.

  “I bought it today,” Luke says proudly. “I’m going to take it into the office tomorrow to get it autographed.”

  I roll my eyes and buckle my seat belt.

  “We’re studying him in our entrepreneurship class,” Luke continues eagerly. “I’m reading about how your father started out with no money, no higher education, working in the mail room of a small newspaper.”

  “Copy room,” I correct begrudgingly.

  “Right,” Luke says. “It’s amazing how in only a few short years, he went on to form one of the largest media corporations in the world.”

  I scowl in disgust. “Spare me the book report, okay?”

  Luke shoots me a scolding look and shoves the book in my face, tapping the cover brusquely. “This man is a legend. He has changed lives.”

  “I’m living proof of that,” I grumble.

  But Luke hardly hears me. He stares wistfully at the cover like he’s a twelve-year-old girl staring at a photograph of her latest heartthrob crush and is about to start making out with it.

  “He certainly changed mine,” he muses, and I marvel at how much he sounds like a member of one of those crazy cults that go off to live together in the woods somewhere.

  Good. I hope they serve Kool-Aid.

  “You should read it,” Luke suggests, coming out of his love trance and tapping the cover again.

  I snort. “Sure. That’s exactly how I want to spend my free time.”

  “You might learn a few things about the man who raised you.”

  “That man did not raise me.”

  “You know,” Luke begins pensively, “I don’t think you appreciate what you have. Who you are. How fortunate you are to have been born into your family. The rest of us actually had to work to get to where we are.”

  I cackle with fake laughter. “And I don’t think you appreciate what the reality of being born into my family truly is.”

  He ignores me. “You have been given so many amazing opportunities and all you’ve chosen to do with any of them is get drunk and party and crash cars into convenience stores.”

  “Well, at least I have fun,” I snap back at him viciously. “At least I know how to.”

  “I have fun,” he defends, sounding insulted.

  “Oh yeah,” I mock. “I’m sure spreadsheets and status reports are a whole barrel of laughs.”

  “My entire life is not just spreadsheets and status reports, I’ll have you know.”

  “Oh please! You’re so uptight about everything!” I press on. “You can’t even start a car without analyzing the process. I bet your idea of fun is organizing the pens in your desk drawer. Don’t you ever let l
oose? Throw caution to the wind? Do something reckless?”

  There’s a long silence on the other side of the car and suddenly I feel like we’re separated by a football field instead of a mere six-inch center console.

  “Yes,” he finally replies meekly. “Yes, I do.”

  “Oh really?” I challenge. Then without another word, I open the passenger door and step out of the car.

  “What are you doing?” Luke calls after me, but I don’t answer. I march over to the driver’s-side door and yank it open. Luke looks up at me like he doesn’t even know me.

  “Out,” I command, beckoning harshly with my hand.

  He gives me a guarded look but eventually steps out of the car. “Why?”

  I immediately slide in behind the wheel and buckle my seat belt. “I’m driving.”

  “Okay,” Luke stammers, still looking extremely unsure as he runs around and gets into the passenger seat. “Where are we going?”

  I move the seat forward so that my feet can reach the pedals and rev the engine. “You say you know how to have fun?” I begin, shifting the car into drive. “I’m taking you somewhere you can prove it.”

  THE ART OF NEGOTIATION

  I screech up to the curb of Club Shadow on Sunset. Luke looks positively green from my reckless driving and I half expect him to open the car door and start vomiting. I hop out and toss the keys to the waiting valet. Luke follows warily behind me, staring blindly into the flashes of the dozen paparazzi who are staked out front.

  “Lexi!” they call desperately, trying to get me to turn around and give them a clean shot of my face. But I pay no attention and continue into the club with my head down, hauling Luke behind me by the sleeve of his suit jacket.

  Inside we’re ushered straight to the VIP room and escorted to a private booth in the back. I order a vodka on the rocks and Luke mumbles something about having a diet soda.

  I roll my eyes. Even his drink choice is boring. I stop the waitress on her way to the bar and tell her to skip the soda and the vodka and just bring us a round of tequila shots. She nods and winks at me.

  I peer across the booth at Luke who’s staring wide-eyed at his surroundings, taking in the scantily clad waitresses who pass with trays, two girls making out passionately in the next booth, and a mosh pit of recognizable celebrity faces grinding up against each other both on and off the dance floor.

  Watching his deer-in-headlights expression makes me feel quite pleased with myself. This guy has been living in a bubble for far too long. It’s about time someone popped it.

  “I can’t believe they didn’t even card you,” he says after the waitress delivers our shots.

  I shrug. “They know who I am.”

  “Exactly,” he replies, sniffing his tequila and grimacing. “They know you’re only eighteen.”

  “The rules are different for me.”

  He lets out a short laugh and shakes his head. “So I’ve seen.”

  I hold up my shot glass and motion for him to do the same. But he just stares numbly at it. “C’mon,” I coax. “Live a little.”

  “I live plenty, thank you.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.” I flash him a coy grin. “I bet you’ve never let yourself lose control. Even for a second.”

  He shakes his head again but doesn’t say anything.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  His body stiffens. “You don’t have to get drunk off your face to have fun, you know.”

  “True,” I admit with a smile. “But it helps.”

  He leans back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest. “I think I’ll just chill here and make sure you get home okay. We both know you have some trouble with that.”

  “Suit yourself,” I say contentedly, downing my shot and then reaching across the table and grabbing his. I quickly swallow that one too and bristle at the aftertaste.

  “Woo!” I cry out. “It’s good to be back!”

  Luke looks at me and shakes his head one more time.

  I stifle a giggle. “You can stay here and be boring all you want,” I say playfully, reaching out to stick my finger in his face. He jerks his head away and I scoot to the edge of the booth. “I’m going to dance. Come join me when you get tired of living in that shell.”

  * * *

  An hour and several more shots later, I’m still on the dance floor and Luke is still presumably sulking in the booth. Although I haven’t seen him since I left so there’s a high probability he’s already pouted his way home.

  But I vow not to think about him. He’s a total buzz kill and right now I feel incredible. It’s so amazing to be back here. The alcohol pumping through my veins. Warming me. Loosening me. Erasing me. The music numbing my brain and silencing my thoughts. I can feel it thumping through my core, taking control of my body and whipping my limbs this way and that. I can feel my head lightening. Opening. Floating.

  I let my eyes close and the rhythm take me over.

  This is exactly what I needed. An escape. A diversion. A way to press reset and make the last three months disappear.

  There’s a brusque tap on my shoulder and my eyes flutter open to see Luke standing next to me. He’s not dancing. He’s not even attempting to move to the music. He’s just standing there, looking drearily sober and very irritated.

  “I think we should go!” he shouts over the music.

  “What? Why?” I shout back. “It’s not even midnight.”

  He looks around anxiously, his discomfort in the surroundings evident on his face. “You have to work tomorrow.”

  I laugh loudly. “So?”

  “So, maybe you should get some rest.”

  “Maybe you should give it a rest!” I call back.

  I grab Luke’s waist, forcing him to move with the music. “Come on! Lighten up. It’s easy. You just have to disengage from your mind.”

  He steps nervously out of my reach. “C’mon, Lexi. It’s getting late. You’ve had your fun. I think I should take you home.”

  “Why? Are you worried about what Daddy will think? His intern out partying with his only daughter? Are you worried he’ll disapprove?”

  I can tell by the way the corners of his mouth tug downward that I’ve hit the nail right on the head. But still he doesn’t respond.

  “Look—” I start to say, but my voice catches in my throat when I see a figure in the distance, moving toward me, making his way through the crowd seemingly in slow motion. My vision is hazy from the alcohol but I recognize the shape of his broad shoulders. The slight swagger of his frame as he walks—no, struts through a crowd. The sexy smile that parts his lips as he recognizes me and approaches.

  Luke turns to see what’s snagged my attention. “Hey,” he says. “Don’t I know that guy from somewhere?”

  I can feel the oxygen abandoning my lungs. The muscles in my legs suddenly turn to mush. My voice is hoarse and almost trembling when I answer, “Yes. That’s Mendi Milos. The heir to the Milos real estate empire…” I pause and take a deep, stabilizing breath. “And my ex-boyfriend.”

  Before I can think of what to do or how to react, Mendi is suddenly next to me, his lips brushing against my cheek. “Hi, Lex,” he says, that smooth accented voice slicing through the music. “I haven’t seen you around in a while.”

  I swallow hard. “I’ve been busy. Taking some time off from the scene.”

  He smiles, causing my knees to buckle. “I don’t blame you,” he says. “It can get rather … I don’t know, repetitive.” He glances behind me. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Oh,” I say in surprise. For a moment I’d forgotten Luke was even there. Mendi has always had that effect on me. Making me feel like there’s no one around but us. For a dozen miles. Even in a crowded club. “Sorry. This is Luke Carver. Luke, Mendi Milos,” I introduce them politely, and then quickly add, “Luke works for my father.”

  They shake hands, subtly sizing each other up the way only guys know how to do.

  Mendi immediately turns back to me
, as though Luke has simply vanished in a puff of smoke and we’re back in our own little world built for two. “It’s good to see you, baby. I’ve missed you.”

  I can feel my vital organs melting. Stomach first. Then lungs. Then heart. That voice used to lull me to sleep at night. It’s a delicious recipe of about six countries beautifully melded together in one lilting accent. The result of growing up in hotels across Europe. And it’s still, much to my dismay, the most breathtaking sound I’ve ever heard.

  Instinctively I open my mouth to speak, to tell him that I’ve missed him too, when I see the girl sidle up next to him. She tucks her hand casually into the back pocket of his designer jeans and gives me a less-than-subtle once-over the way only girls know how to do.

  I recognize her immediately. The long extensions of stringy blond hair. The twelve-inch waist. The D-cup chest stuffed into a B-cup bra.

  My heart leaps into my throat and continues to beat there, choking me up, rendering me utterly speechless.

  I watch helplessly as his arm drapes around her thin, frail shoulders. The same arm that used to hold me. That used to drape around me when I was cold. That used to shield me from the imposing flashes of nosy photographers.

  “This is Serena,” he says. As if I didn’t know. As if the entire world hasn’t been watching her on that sleazy MTV reality show for the past two years.

  The infamous Serena Henson. Otherwise known as the ditzy, overprocessed backstabber.

  I’ve never had anything against her personally. That is, until she walked into the club with my ex-boyfriend.

  I simply can’t believe he would actually date someone like that. A prominent European heir isn’t supposed to date trashy American reality-TV stars. It simply isn’t done.

  “You look good,” he coos to me. “What have you been up to?”

  Mendi may want to hang out and chat like nothing ever happened between us—like we didn’t spend the last two years running in and out of each other’s lives—but I can’t stand there another second. Not if I want to keep the alcohol in my stomach from coming back up. So I spin around and bolt from the dance floor, pushing my way through the crowd of people and heading for the door.