Free 52 Reasons to Hate My Father by Jessica Brody Page B

gift.
    I recognize the bucket. We have one exactly like it at the house. But I’ve never touched it. I’ve never dared touch it. Because it belongs to Carmen.
    Our maid .
    “Here,” the woman says in a thick Eastern European accent. The way her tongue rolls harshly across the r in here makes it sound like she wants to murder the letter in cold blood, as opposed to just pronouncing it. “You take.”
    “No!” I immediately reply without even thinking, reaching out for the handle and yanking the car door closed. I quickly jab my hand down on the manual lock.
    “Lexi,” Luke says, knocking on the glass, “c’mon, open the door.”
    I cross my arms over my chest and lean back in the seat. I’m not going out there. I’ll sit in here all day if I have to. I don’t care. It’s better than what I’m expected to do out there.
    Clean houses? I so don’t think so.
    There’s another knock on the glass. “Lexi,” Luke urges, “you’re acting like a child.”
    “Am not!” I shout back.
    Luke rolls his eyes and produces the car keys from his pocket. He unlocks the door and opens it with an impatient sigh.
    Damn it. I wasn’t expecting him to have the keys.
    “Lexi,” he says gruffly, “this is Katarzyna. She works for Majestic Maids. She’ll be training you to clean houses this week. She knows about the project and has agreed to participate. She’s been instructed to report everything back to me.”
    “No,” I say again. “This is insane. I’m not doing it.”
    “If you don’t get out of the car,” Luke warns, “I’ll have to call your father.”
    “Fine,” I tell him stubbornly. “Call him. I don’t care.”
    “Fine,” Luke challenges, calmly calling my bluff. I watch him pull his cell phone out of his pocket and start dialing.
    “No!” I scream, leaping out of the car to grab his phone. “Don’t call him. I’ll do it. Whatever.” I violently slam the door behind me.
    Luke smiles, seemingly satisfied with his mini-victory, and opens the back door of the car. He leans in, riffles through his briefcase until he finds a plain manila folder, and flips it open. I tilt my head to read what’s typed in a crisp black font on the tab. All it says is Job #1 .
    “You’ll work eight hours a day for the next five days,” he informs me in an official tone, reading from the folder.
    “Eight hours!” I screech. “That’s not humanly possible.”
    Katarzyna clears her throat and I reluctantly look at her.
    “Yes, Katarzyna?” Luke prompts.
    “Last week I work double shift EVERY day!” she roars in broken English, like she’s taking this whole thing way too personally. “I work SIXTEEN hours each day for seven days!”
    Perfect, I think. I’m training with Hitler’s maid.
    “Well, I guess that settles the debate on human possibilities,” Luke says, sounding far too amused for my liking.
    “I don’t think that counts,” I argue. “She’s a professional.”
    “And you will be too.” He smiles at me.
    Katarzyna pushes the red bucket toward me. This time, however, I’m not given much choice in the matter because she thrusts it against my gut and I manage to grab on to it before it plummets to the ground.
    “Thanks,” I mutter.
    Then she throws the extra uniform over my shoulder and tightly nods. “Okay. We go!”
    “Good luck!” Luke calls after me as I reluctantly follow her toward the front door. And just before the door swings shut behind us, I glance longingly at the freedom of the outside world. At Luke’s little silver sedan backing out of the driveway. At the white minivan with the Majestic Maids logo emblazoned on the side. The swirly pink letters twist and turn in large ornate loops and bows. As if a frilly logo is supposed to magically turn housecleaning into some kind of merry, whistle-while-you-work job fit for a princess.
    When really it’s the other way around.
    It’s Cinderella in reverse.
    This fairy tale has officially become a horror story. Happily Ever After