Read Online 52 Reasons to Hate My Father by Jessica Brody - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jessica Brody
Ads: Link
everything it represents.
A blond and bubbly flight attendant arrives with a silver serving tray and offers me a glass of champagne. I bypass the glass and just take the bottle, guzzling it down like an athlete in a Gatorade commercial.
My father might be able to force me to do manual labor. But he definitely can’t force me to care.
ADVENTURES IN BABYSITTING
I’m going to kill the sun. I swear to God, if it doesn’t stop shining, I’m going to hire a hit man and have it whacked. Who makes these sunglasses? Tom Ford? Well, they suck. They need to be like five hundred thousand times darker. I can’t believe they even have the nerve to call these sunglasses when they don’t do anything to block out the sun.
My head feels like it’s been hit by an asteroid hurtling to earth at seven thousand gazillion miles per hour. I’m not sure I’ve ever been this hungover in my life. In fact, I don’t think anyone has ever been this hungover in the history of the universe.
I would tell you about the party last night but I honestly don’t remember much of it. I remember arriving at the penthouse suite. I remember the pre-party cocktails we had while we were getting dressed. Then I remember walking into the club and my jaw dropping to the floor upon seeing the amazing 1920s-Hollywood theme that my friends came up with, complete with an actual car from 1925 parked right in the middle of the dance floor. I remember doing a round of shots and then dancing on the hood of that car. And the rest is pretty much a giant black hole.
Just as planned, I haven’t slept at all. Unless you count the thirty-minute catnap I took on the flight back to LA that I had to board at seven-thirty this morning in order to be at Bruce’s office by nine. Which I don’t. Actually, come to think of it, I’m probably still a little bit drunk.
Kingston picks me up at the airport and drives me to Century City. I rest my cheek against the soft, cool leather of the backseat and try to resist puking the entire way there. I’m saving that for the potted plant next to Bruce’s desk.
I’m still wearing the 1920s-inspired flapper dress (designed especially for the occasion by Karl Lagerfeld) and hot-pink feather boa that Jia and T surprised me with for my birthday party last night. My black fishnet stockings have about fifteen holes in them, and the chin-length black wig complete with feather headband is sitting crooked on my head, but I’m far too debilitated to bother trying to fix it. And I don’t even want to think about what my makeup must look like right now. I haven’t looked into a mirror since we left the penthouse suite at ten last night and I’m not about to start now. I literally went straight from the dance floor to the airport. But I remember Jia caking it on my face last night as we were getting ready. Layer after layer of dark shadow, black-as-night eyeliner, and bloodred lipstick. By now I probably look like a head-on collision between death and a clown car.
I stumble through the doors of Spiegelmann, Klein & Lipstein Law Offices, bypass the receptionist completely, and zigzag down the hallway to Bruce’s office. Then I collapse onto his couch, curling up into a ball.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.
“I’m ready to work,” I slur, shutting my eyes against the harsh light of his office. “Bring it on.”
“You reek.”
I hug a throw pillow to my chest. “Oh good. I thought it was you.”
My eyes remain closed and I still have my sunglasses on for fear of permanent retina damage if I were to remove them, but I can tell he’s not amused. I can hear it in the way he breathes. Heavy and strenuous. Through his nose. It sounds like he’s trying to expel something that’s stuck up there.
I have to fight back the smile that’s inching its way across my lips. Mostly because it hurts to move my face.
I hear him start to pace. He’s muttering something incomprehensible and I don’t even bother trying to make sense of it.
A blond and bubbly flight attendant arrives with a silver serving tray and offers me a glass of champagne. I bypass the glass and just take the bottle, guzzling it down like an athlete in a Gatorade commercial.
My father might be able to force me to do manual labor. But he definitely can’t force me to care.
ADVENTURES IN BABYSITTING
I’m going to kill the sun. I swear to God, if it doesn’t stop shining, I’m going to hire a hit man and have it whacked. Who makes these sunglasses? Tom Ford? Well, they suck. They need to be like five hundred thousand times darker. I can’t believe they even have the nerve to call these sunglasses when they don’t do anything to block out the sun.
My head feels like it’s been hit by an asteroid hurtling to earth at seven thousand gazillion miles per hour. I’m not sure I’ve ever been this hungover in my life. In fact, I don’t think anyone has ever been this hungover in the history of the universe.
I would tell you about the party last night but I honestly don’t remember much of it. I remember arriving at the penthouse suite. I remember the pre-party cocktails we had while we were getting dressed. Then I remember walking into the club and my jaw dropping to the floor upon seeing the amazing 1920s-Hollywood theme that my friends came up with, complete with an actual car from 1925 parked right in the middle of the dance floor. I remember doing a round of shots and then dancing on the hood of that car. And the rest is pretty much a giant black hole.
Just as planned, I haven’t slept at all. Unless you count the thirty-minute catnap I took on the flight back to LA that I had to board at seven-thirty this morning in order to be at Bruce’s office by nine. Which I don’t. Actually, come to think of it, I’m probably still a little bit drunk.
Kingston picks me up at the airport and drives me to Century City. I rest my cheek against the soft, cool leather of the backseat and try to resist puking the entire way there. I’m saving that for the potted plant next to Bruce’s desk.
I’m still wearing the 1920s-inspired flapper dress (designed especially for the occasion by Karl Lagerfeld) and hot-pink feather boa that Jia and T surprised me with for my birthday party last night. My black fishnet stockings have about fifteen holes in them, and the chin-length black wig complete with feather headband is sitting crooked on my head, but I’m far too debilitated to bother trying to fix it. And I don’t even want to think about what my makeup must look like right now. I haven’t looked into a mirror since we left the penthouse suite at ten last night and I’m not about to start now. I literally went straight from the dance floor to the airport. But I remember Jia caking it on my face last night as we were getting ready. Layer after layer of dark shadow, black-as-night eyeliner, and bloodred lipstick. By now I probably look like a head-on collision between death and a clown car.
I stumble through the doors of Spiegelmann, Klein & Lipstein Law Offices, bypass the receptionist completely, and zigzag down the hallway to Bruce’s office. Then I collapse onto his couch, curling up into a ball.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.
“I’m ready to work,” I slur, shutting my eyes against the harsh light of his office. “Bring it on.”
“You reek.”
I hug a throw pillow to my chest. “Oh good. I thought it was you.”
My eyes remain closed and I still have my sunglasses on for fear of permanent retina damage if I were to remove them, but I can tell he’s not amused. I can hear it in the way he breathes. Heavy and strenuous. Through his nose. It sounds like he’s trying to expel something that’s stuck up there.
I have to fight back the smile that’s inching its way across my lips. Mostly because it hurts to move my face.
I hear him start to pace. He’s muttering something incomprehensible and I don’t even bother trying to make sense of it.
Similar Books
