52 Reasons to Hate My Father (24 page)

Despite the fact that Horatio is the one standing in front of me when I declare this solemn vow, as soon as the words leave my mouth, I recognize that the person I’m really declaring it to is me.

And as sick to my stomach as it makes me feel, I have a sinking suspicion I know where I have to go next.

I’m going to have to talk to my father.

LET THERE NOT BE LIGHT

Come Monday morning I’m a frazzled mess. I spent the entire weekend having phantom conversations with a man I hardly know. And let me tell you, having an imaginary dialogue with a stranger is virtually impossible.

On the way to my new job assignment, Luke asks me what’s wrong but I just kind of mumble something that sounds like
Nuffing
, and continue to zone out in space.

I have no idea what I’m going to say to my father. Not to mention the challenge of actually getting him into a room for more than five minutes. He’s not the type of guy you can simply call up and invite to sushi. Especially with that big merger that everyone has been talking about lately.

“Luke,” I interrupt my silence, trying to make my voice sound light and natural, “where’s my father these days?”

“He’s here in LA,” he tells me. “He’s been in meetings for the past few weeks trying to iron out the last-minute details of the merger.”

I nod, like I’m truly interested. “Oh, right. What’s the status with that, anyway? Is it almost over?”

Luke looks pleasantly surprised that I’m finally taking an interest in my father’s business affairs. “Well,” he begins eagerly, “they’re getting down to the nitty-gritty now. The French company we’re merging with—LaFleur Media—has been a little difficult but they seem to finally be in the clear. Of course, the shareholders still have to vote on it. That will happen later this week but…”

He proceeds to blather on about the details. Apparently news of the impending deal has been all over CNBC and everyone at work is superexcited about it because it’s supposed to significantly increase Larrabee Media’s market share in Europe.

Or at least this is how much I’m able to absorb through my current half-conscious state. I try, for the sake of being polite, to sound at least somewhat interested as Luke talks, throwing in random
mmm hmm
s and
oh, really
s, hoping that they happen to land in appropriate parts of his speech. But I assume I’m not doing a very good job at it because Luke finally stops talking, laughs, and says, “Sorry, I guess you didn’t need
all
that information. I’ll shut up now.”

I open my mouth to protest and apologize but then I notice the car has stopped and we’ve arrived at our destination. I’m actually grateful for the distraction this job promises to bring. My thoughts have been getting very difficult to live with lately.

This week I’m working for a catering company. As a member of their wait staff. I have to wear this completely unflattering tuxedo vest and bow tie but after a few hours of training I realize that the work itself is not that bad. And it turns out I’m actually kind of good at it. I guess all those catered affairs I’ve attended over the course of my life are coming in handy.

But there’s a very solid line between being a guest at an event and being a member of the help, and the biggest challenge in this job is, of course, getting used to being on the other side of that line. You know, like passing around the trays instead of eating off them. Filling the champagne glasses instead of drinking from them. Picking up the dirty plates instead of dirtying them.

Once my training session is complete, we start loading up the van to head off to the location of my first event. It’s a private party at a huge mansion in Palos Verdes Estates.

This week, my alias is Heidi, a sweet and innocent blonde with long pigtails.

Kate, the owner of the catering company, starts me off on tray duty, handing me a large, silver platter of cucumber cups filled with tuna seviche and sending me out of the kitchen into the living room.

Just like they taught me in training, I keep my head down and my mouth shut and make my way through the first floor of the house, silently offering my wares to the sea of elegantly dressed guests.

The party reminds me of the kinds of events we often throw at my own house. With bartenders and tray passers and an orchestra in the backyard. It’s high society at its best. And the most ironic part of all—the most ironic part of this whole experience—is not that I’m now the one working the event, but the fact that not one single person here recognizes me. And that’s probably because not one single person here has looked at me long enough to give themselves the chance to recognize me.

I don’t get second glances. I barely even get first glances. I might as well be a piece of furniture with a tray attached for the amount of attention people pay me.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I
want
to be noticed. I most certainly don’t. But even after nearly five months, it still boggles my brain.

I pass through the living room, out the back doors, and onto a large terrace where a group of business men are standing in a circle, swirling red wine around in large goblets.

There’s a man with horn-rimmed glasses in the center who seems to be doing most of the talking. I think this is his house because I saw him talking to Kate earlier about where to set everything up. Based on the scope of this party and the way he’s dressed, I assume he must be a rich business man.

It’s not until I approach the circle that I realize he’s speaking in French. I proffer my tray and a stack of napkins. A few of the men treat themselves to an appetizer without even glancing in my direction. They all have their eyes glued intently on the man in the center who’s speaking animatedly.

Since my French vocabulary is usually limited to talking about food and fashion and celebrities I’m only able to pick up bits and pieces of the conversation. Something about making a secret arrangement to evict an annoying chef.

Evict a chef?

Whatever. I think I’ll stick to passing out appetizers.

I clear the rest of my tray and return to the kitchen for a refill.

But Kate apparently has other plans for me. “Heidi, I think we’ve got everything covered here.” She nods at her assistant, who is carrying a stack of dirty baking sheets out the servant’s entrance. “Why don’t you ride back to the office with Marshall and help him close up.”

“Okay.” I shrug and set the tray down on the counter before following Marshall out the back door.

Kate’s catering headquarters is only five miles away and once we get there Marshall asks if I wouldn’t mind emptying all the trash cans in the kitchen.

“Sure,” I reply, and grab an overflowing bag from the bin near the prep station. Fumbling to keep the contents from spilling, I cinch up the top, hoist it over my shoulder, and head outside.

As soon as I reach the street, the bag bursts open and the trash scatters everywhere. I curse under my breath and bend down to start scooping it up. It smells revolting and I try to breathe out of my mouth as I pick up items one at a time and toss them into the Dumpster.

I’m halfway through the mess when I hear a voice call, “Lexington!”

I know I shouldn’t look up because tonight my name isn’t Lexington—it’s Heidi and people named Heidi don’t usually answer to the name Lexington. But my reflexes are apparently quicker than my brain and I raise my head just in time to see the first blinding flash.

It’s followed by a second and then a third, until I’m completely surrounded by a blaze of flickering lightbulbs.

“Lexi!” a voice calls from somewhere behind the pulsating glow. “Lexi! Over here! Look over here!”

My eyes struggle to see through the wall of light as my mind struggles to make sense of the chaos.

What are they doing here? I’m not at a club. I’m not at a premiere. I am at a catering office. Why are the paparazzi here?

“Lexi,” comes another voice, and out of the confusion steps a woman with a microphone. She’s followed closely behind by a man with a camera hoisted onto his shoulder. She thrusts the microphone—which I can now see has the familiar
E! News
logo on it—into my face and asks, “Tell us about what you’re doing here.”

“Uh,” I stammer dazedly, blinking against the bright flashes.

And then suddenly another microphone is in front of me. “Lexi. Is it true you’re working for this catering company?”

“Huh?”

“Lexi!” A third reporter nearly knocks me over as he shoves his way into my space. “How do you feel about your father’s decision to make you work for an entire year to gain access to your trust fund?”

The gears of my brain suddenly click into place.
“What?”
I bellow in return.

The
E! News
woman shoves the man aside and fights to regain her spot right in front of me. “Lexi,” she asks, “out of all the jobs he’s made you do, which one has been the most difficult?”

I can hear my heart hammering in my chest. My breathing quickens. I stare into the growing mass of cameras and reporters and news vans. Three just pulled up and I can see people running toward me, equipment being lugged behind them.

I try to back away but walk smack into a wall of people. I’m completely surrounded now.

The questions keep coming. The bulbs keep flashing. A hand reaches out and pulls the wig from my head. I reach for it but it’s lost in the sea of commotion.

Fortunately my instincts kick in. Countless years of dodging the press and running from mob scenes like this. I bow my head, crouch low, and slither through the crowd until I’m back in the safe confines of the catering company’s kitchen.

Well,
safe
meaning that they can’t come in here. They can’t follow me. They’re not allowed on private property.

But certainly not safe in the larger sense of the word. In the larger sense of my life. My reputation. My anonymity.

I fall against the large stainless steel sink, panting heavily, forcing reluctant air in and out of my lungs, silently willing my heart to keep beating even though it’s threatening to stall.

Twenty weeks in and it’s over. It’s all over. I don’t know how it happened but it has.

They’ve found me.

DRIVE-THRU CONFESSION BOOTH

For nearly five months now, Lexington Larrabee, the famed daughter of billionaire entrepreneur Richard Larrabee, has been performing various low-wage jobs across southern California in what some have been describing as a ‘life-rehabilitation program,’ designed and implemented by Richard Larrabee himself. The details of the arrangement are still not entirely clear but we do know that Lexington will be forced to perform a different job every week for a year if she wants to receive access to her trust fund, which experts have estimated to be valued at approximately twenty-five million dollars. Although unconfirmed by official spokespeople of the Larrabee family, it is believed that Richard Larrabee’s decision to enroll his infamously troubled daughter in this unique program came immediately after she crashed her car into a convenience store on Sunset Boulevard, approximately four and a half months ago.

“Our list is not yet complete, but so far our research has revealed that Lexington has worked as a maid, a catering server, a crossing guard, a dishwasher, a telemarketer, and a car wash attendant, among other things.

“The news of this unusual yet intriguing arrangement was brought to the attention of the press by an anonymous tip. Both Lexington Larrabee and Richard Larrabee have declined to comment but today in the studio we have a child-development psychologist here to talk about…”

I switch off the TV and collapse onto my bed. I can’t watch any more footage of myself in that heinous catering uniform, scooping garbage up off the street. It’s humiliating.

And those experts they keep interviewing are driving me insane. Child-development psychologists. Teen-drinking-abuse specialists. Doctors. Shrinks. Sociologists. It’s like they put out some kind of call to action. Anyone who has an opinion about Lexington Larrabee’s life, stop by the studio and we’ll put you on the air.

They all say the same thing too. They sing my father’s praises and then proceed to bash me. Hooray for Richard Larrabee for taking a proactive, responsible approach to his daughter’s well-being. If only all parents paid that much attention to the needs of their struggling teen children, our world would be a better place.

Blah. Blah. Blah.

What they fail to mention is that beyond orchestrating this little endeavor, my father hasn’t been involved in the slightest. In fact, he’s so
un
involved that he actually had to hire an official liaison to pay attention to me on his behalf. Because he was too busy and important to do it himself.

And where’s my credit for actually manning up and doing the jobs? I’m the one out there busting my butt every week at fast-food restaurants and fish markets and dairy farms, I’m the one doing all the work. But do I get any of the glory? Of course not.
That
goes to my father. The working-class hero. The man of the people. I’m just the spoiled-brat princess who screwed up enough to get herself into this predicament. I’m the ungrateful rich heiress who deserves to be taught a lesson.

The house is like a federal-disaster area. The phone has been ringing off the hook, Horatio had to disconnect the doorbell, and the news vans are once again lining the streets. I haven’t been able to leave since I got home last night.

And worst of all, I don’t have a clue who did this to me.

Anonymous tip? Yeah right!

There’s a traitor in our midst. And I am determined to find out who it is.

And kill them.

At first I suspected Luke. But after I cussed him out on the phone for about an hour last night, he finally convinced me that it wasn’t him. That he would never betray my father’s trust like that. And he’s right. He wouldn’t. He’s too much of a butt kisser to do something like that.

Then I suspected Bruce but he denied it too, spouting off some mumbo jumbo about attorney-client privilege and how he could go to jail and lose his license if he were ever to divulge my father’s secrets to the press.