52 Reasons to Hate My Father

  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 stil
l 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 uninvolved 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.

  I know it wasn’t Jia or T. They would never double-cross me like that. All the staff had to sign confidentiality agreements the day they were hired. And my brothers are far too wrapped up in their own lives to even bother with something like this.

  So who does that leave?

  That’s pretty much everyone who knows.

  I sit up on my bed and stare into my empty room. There’s a knock on the door and Carmen comes in with a basket of folded laundry. Wordlessly, she disappears into my closet to start putting stuff away.

  I continue to rack my brain, trying to figure out who could possibly have done this.

  “Miss Lexington. Where you want me put this?” Carmen’s voice pulls my focus upward and my eyes are drawn directly to the item draped over her arm. A ragged old black hoodie.

  A gift from a friend. A very dear friend. A friend who knew who I was but strangely enough wanted nothing from me.

  Could that have been because he knew he could get more somewhere else? Somewhere like Us Weekly or Tattle magazine?

  My mind is reeling as I numbly rise to my feet, walk over to where Carmen is standing, and pull the item into my hands.

  Once I have hold of it, I immediately yank it over my head and draw the strings tight under my chin.

  “Kingston!” I call as I bound down the stairs.

  He’s there by the time I reach the bottom step. “Yes, Miss Larrabee.”

  “I need your car.”

  He nods politely. “Of course, miss. Would you like to drive the Range Rover? Or perhaps the Jaguar?”

  “No.” I grab his arm. “I need your personal car.”

  “But,” he says, “Miss Larrabee. I drive a Ford Focus. My car—”

  “Is perfect,” I interrupt. “I also need you to drive me to the end of the street.”

  He looks like he’s about to argue. I squeeze his arm and stare fiercely into his eyes. “Of course, miss,” he finally agrees.

  I duck behind the front seat and Kingston covers me with a beach towel he finds in his trunk. He drives me through the crowd of press, who clearly think nothing of his car, and stops at the end of my street.

  “Thank you,” I tell him sincerely as I hop out of the back and get in behind the wheel. “I really appreciate this. And sorry to make you walk back.”

  He offers me a tender smile. “That’s okay, Miss Larrabee. I drive around all day. I could use the exercise.”

  I close the door and take off toward Sunset.

  Thirty minutes later, I screech into the drive-thru of the Don Juan’s Tacos, roll down the window, and wait.

  “Welcome to Don Juan’s. This is Rolando. How may I help you today?”

  I lean out the open window, getting as close to the built-in microphone as I can, and scream, “You can tell me why you betrayed me, you jerk!”

  There’s an awkward pause and then he tries again. “Hello?”

  “I know it was you!” I yell, leaning to the point where I’m in danger of falling right out of the car. “I know you were the anonymous source who tipped off the press about me!”

  “Lexi?” he ventures a guess after another bout of silence.

  “Duh!” I scream back.

  “Lexi, what are you talking about?”

  I sigh. I’m losing my patience for his little innocent act. After all, it was that stupid act that made me trust him to begin with. What an idiot I was!

  “The press!” I shout. “You told the press that Lexington Larrabee was working undercover at Don Juan’s Tacos and fifty-one other places. You totally outed me!”

  “Lexi,” he says warningly. “I think you just outed yourself.”

  “What?”

  “Did you forget that everyone here wears a headset? The entire staff can hear you right now.”

  Crap.

  Well, not that it matters anyway. I’m already exposed. They’re going to see it on the news if they haven’t already.

  “Why don’t you drive around back and I’ll come out and talk to you,” Rolando suggests.

  I lower myself into the car. “Fine.”

  But Rolando isn’t the only person who shows up. The entire staff pours out the door, all stumbling on top of one another to get a look. I can hear their curious murmurings from inside the car. Jenna is shrieking into her cell phone. “I totally knew it was her! I mean, I thought she looked like her, but it really was her!”

  Rolando taps on the glass of the passenger-side window and I lean over and unlock the door. He gets in and we
sit in silence for a few moments. I’m much calmer now. The anger has mostly burned off, leaving behind only bitter sorrow.

  “I trusted you,” I seethe, trying to keep my voice from breaking. “I thought you were my friend. Why did you do it?”

  “I didn’t,” he says quietly.

  “I don’t believe you!” I snap back.

  “Lexi, why would I do that?”

  I throw my hands up in the air, flustered. “I don’t know! Money! Publicity! Fame!”

  “Well, anyone who gives an anonymous tip is not looking for fame.”

  “Fine. Money then.”

  He gestures at his salsa-stained mustard-colored shirt. “Would I still be working here if I had sold your story for money?”

  I consider this. He’s got a point.

  I sigh and slouch in my seat. I guess I’m back at square one. “If not you, then who?” I whisper.

  “I don’t know,” Rolando says unhelpfully. “I would consider who has the most to gain from exposing you.”

  “That’s the point. I have no idea!”

  “Well, who’s getting the most out of your exposure?”

  I groan. “Certainly not me. My life is ruined. My father’s the only one who actually comes out looking good from…” My voice trails off and then, “Oh my God!” I shriek. “My father! The upcoming merger. He needs the shareholders to vote on it. He needs to build confidence. This is a total image booster for him.”

  Rolando doesn’t seem to be following. “So, your father tipped off the press himself?”

  I laugh at this as I rebuckle my seat belt. “Of course not,” I tell him. “My father doesn’t do anything himself. He hires people.”

  He looks skeptical. “So he hired someone just to call in an anonymous tip?”

  “He didn’t have to,” I clarify. “She already works for him.”

  THE TIN MAN

  “Lexi!” Caroline trills in her nasal French accent the moment her assistant patches me through to her cell. “I’m glad you called. I was just on my way to your father’s office for a strategy meeting. There’s so much to discuss after this exciting new development! I’m going to suggest to him that we move up the wedding to capitalize on all this positive press. Which reminds me. We have to get you into a fitting for your maid of honor dress ASAP. Shall I have Brent get Vera’s assistant on the phone and schedule something for you for tomorrow?”