52 Reasons to Hate My Father

  “I’m afraid he can.”

  “For how long?” I demand through gritted teeth.

  “A year.”

  “A year!” I spit out. “You can’t make me wait a YEAR! I’ve been waiting for this day for eighteen years! What am I supposed to do for an entire year?”

  “Actually,” Bruce begins steadily, opening a manila folder on his desk and placing a pair of square-framed reading glasses onto the bridge of his nose, “your father has a very specific plan for how he intends you to spend this year.”

  I snort loudly. “Well, it better include a yacht in the Mediterranean.”

  “It doesn’t,” he counters with a deadpan expression, glaring down the tip of his nose at me. “Your father would like you to spend the next year working.”

  “Working?” I repeat incredulously, as though the word is completely foreign to me. Originating from some far-off country in the South Pacific. Written in a language that looks more like pictures than letters.

  “Yes,” Bruce replies matter-of-factly.

  “If my father thinks I’m gonna follow him around the office like some little lapdog for a year, pretending to care about stupid spreadsheets and prophet-and-lost statements, then he is surely mistaken. I am not RJ.”

  “No,” Bruce says, removing his glasses and placing them down across the open folder. “Your father has no intention of you working for Larrabee Media.”

  I feel some sense of relief, but it’s extremely short-lived. “Where does he intend for me to work, then?”

  “Your father feels that you would benefit most by experiencing several different jobs. A buffet, if you will, of occupations. He believes this is the key to helping you appreciate the daily struggles that most people in this world have to endure to obtain even a fraction of what you have been so graciously given.”

  I roll my eyes. “Quit with the Mother Teresa crap, Bruce, and just get on with it.”

  He smiles indulgently. “Your father has selected precisely fifty-two occupations for you to undertake.”

  “Fifty-two,” I repeat in shock. “He wants me to do fifty-two different jobs!?”

  “Yes. One for every week of the year.”

  “But that has to be like … extortion or something. This can’t be legal.”

  “I assure you, it’s perfectly legal,” Bruce defends, his tone slipping momentarily into that pompous, courtroom-lawyer voice he assumes whenever anyone brings up the subject of legality.

  “What kinds of jobs are we talking about here? Acting? Modeling?”

  Bruce looks like he’s stifling a chuckle, which manages to piss me off even more. “No,” he replies with a firm shake of his head. “These jobs are … well, slightly less glamorous. Minimum-wage-type stuff. Intended to teach you something about life. To show you how the other half lives.”

  “What other half?” I snarl.

  “The half that doesn’t receive a five-hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes convertible and then crash it into a convenience store the very next day.”

  I bite my tongue so hard I can taste metal.

  Bruce hands me a piece of paper. “Here’s a complete listing of the jobs you’ll be undertaking over the next year. You’re scheduled to start tomorrow.”

  I gruffly snatch the paper from his hand and glance over the list. It seems to go on forever. My eyes graze over words like janitor, waitress, dishwasher, fast-food restaurant employee, and gas station attendant, and I can’t bear to read any further. I chuck the paper back in his direction. “No frickin’ way I’m doing any of those things!”

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to, Lex,” he says, picking up the page from where it landed on the floor and placing it neatly back in the folder. “Unless, of course, you want to forfeit your trust fund.”

  I start to pace the length of the office, mumbling to myself. “This is ludicrous! He can’t make me do this.” I stop and turn back to Bruce, throwing my arms in the air. “Is he crazy?”

  “Actually,” Bruce answers my rhetorical question, “I happen to think it’s the sanest decision he’s made in a long time.”

  “I’m a Larrabee for God’s sake!” I shout. “That’s supposed to mean something. Larrabees don’t work at gas stations.”

  “Do I have to remind you of where your father came from?” Bruce interjects calmly. “Of his humble roots?”

  No, he doesn’t have to remind me. I’m reminded every day. By every magazine article about my father or me. About how he started with nothing—a lowly copy-room employee at some small-town, local newspaper—and now he has everything and why didn’t he opt to instill some of those hard-working values in his spoiled brat of a daughter?

  But I don’t say this to Bruce. I’m not about to give him any ammunition. So instead, I bypass his question altogether and scream, “That trust fund is mine! It has my name on it. It was promised to me! Just like all the others. RJ, Harrison, Hudson, and Cooper. They got what was promised to them. None of them were subjected to this insanity. None of them had to wait tables or wash dishes or whatever else is on that stupid list. They all got their twenty-five million free and clear. He can’t go back on his word like that. He can’t just change his mind without notice. I earned that money.”

  Bruce apparently can’t stifle his amusement any longer because he suddenly breaks out into boisterous cackles of laughter. “Earned it? Doing what, may I ask?”

  I’m so angry right now, my nostrils are flaring and my breath is coming out in ragged wheezes. I pace faster, hoping it will calm my nerves, but mostly so my feet have something to do besides karate chop Bruce’s mahogany desk in half. “This is not fair,” I hiss.

  “Well,” Bruce says, plucking a tissue from the box next to his computer and proceeding to clean the lenses of his spectacles, “fair is a very relative term, isn’t it?”

  I stop pacing. My feet freeze in their tracks as a sudden realization hits me like a truck. I narrow my eyes across the desk. “This was your idea, wasn’t it?” I take a menacing step toward him. “You’ve had a vendetta against me from the moment I was born. This was your doing, wasn’t it, Bruce?” I spit out his name.

  He throws his hands in the air in surrender. “I swear I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Oh come on. This has Bruce Spiegelmann written all over it.”

  But Bruce simply shakes his head. “I’m afraid I can’t take the credit. It was entirely your father’s idea. He only asked me to help execute it. But I have to admit, I think it’s nothing short of genius.”

  I can feel my fists ball up at my sides. The thought of my father and Bruce conspiring against me is making my insides boil with rage. The flames are lashing at the walls of my chest now, devouring my heart and lungs, the smoke stinging my throat. I look around for something to hit, something to throw, something to demonstrate just how livid I really am. My eyes land on a dozen gold-plated plaques lining the office wall. Some kind of stupid lawyer-of-the-year awards, no doubt. I take one purposeful step toward them but Bruce, obviously having read my thoughts in that freakish way that only he can, is out of his seat in a flash, stepping in my path. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” he warns.

  I struggle to get past him but his arms wrap around me, holding me back. I immediately start thrashing. Holly jumps out of my bag and runs circles around us, barking her yippy little bark.

  “Let me go!” I scream.

  “Not if you’re going to trash the place.”

  I continue to struggle against him, like an animal ensnared in a hunter’s trap. But I make no progress. Bruce is stronger than he looks.

  “You can’t tell me what to do!” I screech into his ear.

  He flinches but his grasp never falters. And when he speaks again, his tone is infuriatingly calm. “This two-year-old temper tantrum might work on Horatio or Kingston or whoever else you’ve managed to lure into your web, but it won’t work on me, Lexington.”

  With that I stop thrashing, my arms falling to my sides. But still, he doesn’t rel
ease me. As though he doesn’t trust my surrender. “You don’t have a choice,” he whispers earnestly. “For once in your life, Lex, can’t you just trust that someone else might know what’s good for you? That your father might have your best interests at heart?”

  In one fast, fluid motion, I raise my arms and slam them down hard, taking Bruce by surprise and breaking his tight clutch around me. But I don’t continue for the wall of plaques like I originally intended. I’m over my petty, violent quest for revenge now. I’m suddenly on a new mission. I scoop up Holly and my bag and head straight for the door, determined to get out of here as fast as I can.

  This time, Bruce doesn’t try to stop me. Instead, he collapses against the edge of his desk, the struggle having left him slightly winded. “Lex,” he mutters feebly, “your father has made up his mind. You can’t fight this.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I say, raising my eyebrows. “Watch me.”

  LEXINGTON’S LAST STAND

  After a quick call to Kingston, our driver, I confirm that my father is still in LA and currently in his downtown offices. I drive straight there and, with Holly tucked under one arm, march through the doors of the lobby like I own the place … and, well, technically I do. Or I will, anyway. When my father dies and I inherit one-fifth of his empire.

  Not one person tries to stop me. Not the security guards, not the receptionists, not even the parking garage attendants who guard my father’s reserved parking spots like Knights Templar guarding the Holy Grail. I think everyone is just so surprised to see me—because, let’s face it, it’s not like I’m a regular visitor around here—that they can barely even utter a “Hello, Miss Larrabee,” let alone inquire about the nature of my visit.

  When I finally get to the fifty-sixth floor, I’ve managed to totally pump myself up. I’m like a soldier prepared to fight and die for my cause. My blood is boiling, my teeth—or my veneers, rather—are bared, and I’m ready for battle.

  I don’t say hello to anyone. I don’t stop to make meaningless chitchat with the assistants or the mail-room staff or anyone. I have zeroed in on my target—the closed door of my father’s corner office—and nothing will get in my way.

  Except that.

  Or I guess I should say … him.

  A body in a dark gray suit suddenly appears out of nowhere, obstructing my path a mere three paces from my goal. I glance up at the unfamiliar face and sigh. “Excuse me,” I say, not even bothering to cover up my annoyance with a fake smile. “You’re in my way.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you in there,” he replies unsympathetically, his large hazel eyes not even flickering for a second. “Mr. Larrabee is in the middle of an important phone call.”

  I frown impatiently. “Don’t you know who I am?”

  His expression doesn’t change. “I know exactly who you are. And you still can’t go in.”

  I give a light laugh. “You must be new here.”

  “I am, in fact,” he replies, with distinct pride in his voice. “I’m interning. Just started last week.”

  “Well, newbie,” I sneer, “let me clue you in. I’m Lexington Larrabee and in case no one told you, you have to let me in. My father owns this place.”

  “Your father,” he’s quick to correct in a snide tone, “is the chairman of the board. Larrabee Media is a public company. Technically the shareholders own it.”

  My eyes widen in disbelief as I give the young man in front of me a spiteful once-over. He’s tall and fit. His honey-brown hair is cut short and gelled into submission in that traditional corporate-droid style. If we had met under any other circumstances—like in a club—I probably would have thought he was cute, maybe slightly too generic for my long-term taste, but cute enough to have shamelessly flirted with. But right now, under these circumstances, he’s pretty much the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met.

  Plus, he looks way too young to be bossing people around. I don’t care what kind of stuffy corporate suit he’s wearing.

  “What are you, like, seventeen?”

  “I’m twenty,” he says defensively. “Not that it matters.”

  “Look,” I say, infusing my voice with an artificial gentleness, “you’re new here. I’m sure you haven’t had a chance to be properly … trained or whatever, but if you don’t let me pass, I’m going to have you fired.”

  He doesn’t move. In fact, he doesn’t even blink. He just continues to stand there, blocking the door to my father’s office like a marble statue. “I told you,” he says steadfastly, “your father is on a call and has insisted he not be bothered … by anyone.”

  Jeez, what is with people today? Has everyone forgotten who I am? Who my father is? How much power I hold? It’s like the whole world has gotten temporary amnesia and suddenly I’m this nobody that everyone steps on.

  “If you don’t let me in,” I insist through clenched teeth, “I swear I will knock you over.”

  “And if you don’t turn around and wait in the lobby like everyone else, I’ll call security.”

  I have to chuckle at this because it’s so completely absurd. “Oh my God, you really are dense.” I set Holly down at my feet and place my hands on my hips. “Security can’t do anything to me. I’m Lexington Larrabee!” I scream the last part loud enough for everyone within a two-mile radius to hear. I’m half hoping that someone will come to my rescue. That some receptionist or accountant or whoever will pop out of his or her office and tell this moron that he’s treading on thin ice right now. But the only door that opens is the one behind him and suddenly my father is standing in front of me.

  “What is going on out here?” he barks.

  “Daddy!” I cry, pushing roughly past the annoying gatekeeper and throwing my arms around my father’s neck. I hastily transition into a soft, tuneful voice. “Thank God you came out. I simply have to talk to you and this idiot wouldn’t let me come in.”

  My father’s body stiffens under my embrace and eventually he reaches up to disengage my grasp. “Luke is my new intern. I told him I wasn’t to be bothered.” He gives the young man behind me a grateful nod and then looks at me with that familiar vacant expression. “At least someone can follow simple directions.”

  I turn my head around long enough to catch sight of Luke’s nauseatingly smug expression.

  I’m going to kill that guy.

  Well, just as soon as I’m finished here.

  “What do you want?” my dad asks pointedly.

  I take a deep breath and lower my voice. “I really need to talk to you. Can we go in your office?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m running late to a meeting.”

  “But—”

  “I’m not changing my mind, Lexington,” my father replies, obviously having already guessed the reason behind my unexpected visit. “You’ll do the fifty-two jobs I’ve selected for you and you’ll complete each one of them to my satisfaction or the trust fund will be reassigned.”

  He starts walking. I jog to catch up with him. Holly follows closely at my heels.

  “But Daddy,” I try again.

  “I’m sorry, Lexington. This is the way it’s going to be.”

  “But it’s not fair!” I cry out, not caring that a dozen or so people have poked their heads out of their offices to see what is going on. “Cooper never had to do anything for his money. Or RJ! Or Hudson and Harrison! This is totally sexist!”

  My father comes to a sudden halt and turns to face me, the most unpleasant expression plastered across his face.

  Okay, maybe the sexist remark was going a bit too far.

  “You think this is about gender?” he growls in that low, malicious tone that used to give me nightmares as a child. “You think I’m doing this because you’re a girl? If anything, I have given you more leeway, more advantages, more leniency than any of your brothers. And I can see now what a colossal mistake that was because you have done nothing with any of it except lead a life of gluttony and ingratitude. And up until a few days ago, I was at a complete loss as to h
ow to turn that around. This is my last hope for you, Lexington. My last effort to instill some sense into you. Some values. Some humanity.”

  I can feel tears stinging my eyes but I fight them back with a few quick blinks. Just as I’ve always done. I haven’t let my father see me cry since I was eight years old and he told me he was going to be in Hong Kong for Christmas and I couldn’t come. And I’m not about to start again now. “I won’t do it,” I vow, but my voice breaks.

  “This isn’t a choice, Lexington.”

  “You can’t make me do it!” I assert, feeling slightly more confident. “I’ll leave. I’ll run away. My friends and I have plans, you know? I have places to go. I don’t have to stay around here and play poverty camp with a bunch of low-rent, high school dropouts.”

  My father’s face remains a blank page but he leans in closer to me—close enough that I can feel his breath on my forehead. The proximity is making my stomach flip so I take an instinctive step back. “You’ll do it,” he promises ominously. “Or you’ll lose everything.”

  And with that, my father turns around and continues down the hall, disappearing into a conference room and closing the door behind him.

  GROUNDED

  I need to get out of here. I need to escape. I can’t handle all this pressure! My flight to Vegas is scheduled for six p.m. but I can’t wait that long. I have to leave now. I need a distraction. I need to be surrounded by friends and noise and commotion. And I can’t think of a better place to do that than Las Vegas.

  Plus, I’m absolutely positive that given enough time to think and digest everything that’s happened, my father will inevitably change his mind and this will all be over. It’s obvious he’s just being rash. A total overreaction to last week’s event. All he needs is a little time and space for the reality of his decision to sink in and then he’ll realize how ridiculous and unreasonable he’s being. I know my father. No one can talk him out of a decision except himself. So I need to give him a chance to do that. It’ll probably take him a few hours—maybe even a day—to see the error of his ways. Then I’ll get a phone call from Bruce, who will most likely be wallowing in defeat, grumbling about how the whole thing is called off, how sorry he is for being so rude in his office, not to mention physically violent (which was totally out of line, by the way) and how about a lovely send-off party for your cruise as a token of my remorse? And, of course, I’ll accept. Because I’m forgiving like that.