Poor Little Rich Girl | ✓

Prologue: I'll Put It In Layman's Terms

Prologue: I'll Put It In Layman's Terms

“Money isn't everything...but it ranks right up there with oxygen.” —  Rita Davenport

“’I said, “Hey, L.A., it’s really, really nice to meet you. If it’s okay, I think I’ll stay. ‘Cause I just wanna have some fun’.” I belt out loud to the sound of Ryan Beatty’s beautiful voice coming from my radio speakers, as I punch the security code into the keypad.

I wave hello to Marvin, the security guy who makes sure that no one who doesn’t belong on our property gets through the gates. His name isn’t actually Marvin, but his first name is too complicated and complex for me to remember, so I’ve always called him Marvin. Ever since my daddy first employed him here about seven and a half years ago. 

The big, black iron wrought gate slowly opens, and I push down on the accelerator, speeding through the gap, as soon as it’s large enough to fit my precious BMW thorough. I wind around the corner that leads up to my actual house, and park in the circular driveway behind my brother’s blood red Aston Martin. Why he got to get an Aston Martin and I a BMW, I will never know. I guess it could be because in a matter of two months he’ll be graduating from our school as the salutatorian. Early graduation present, I guess. They’ve only told him so that he can write the perfect speech. But I like to tease him about it and remind him that he’s not the best, he’s the second best.

Removing my new patterned Ray Ban Wayfarers, I run my fingers through my hair, and push the button making the roof of my car raise back up. I get out of my car, dragging along my backpack and closing the door carefully behind me. I drop my keys down into the deep pocket of my school-issued blazer and walk up to the front door. Since our house is constantly monitored - outside and some places inside - we leave our front door unlocked all the time. And plus, no one gets through the gates if Marvin has been instructed to let them in. Unless it’s me, my brother or my parents obviously.

As I push down on the door knob to walk in - yes, we have a weird door knob - to in, the door swings open from the opposite side and a large gruff man holding a box full of stuff walks out past me, causing me to wrinkle my forehead in confusion. I follow him with my eyes and see him walk across the grass - which is really rude, considering the fact that that’s brand new turf he’s walking on. And turf isn’t very cheap, you know. He tosses the box into the back of a truck and then heads back into my house, like I’m not even standing here. I walk around so that I can get a better view of the truck mystery guy just threw a box into.

On the side it reads in big, white block letters; Garcia’s Auction House. What? Now I’m confused. I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I’m pretty sure that an auction is when you sell your stuff, isn’t it? Another man walks out, pushing a red dolly in front of him. On that dolly? My periwinkle vanity that should be in my bedroom.

“Excuse me, where are you going with that?” I demand, putting my hands on my hips.

The man shrugs, continuing his walk to the large truck. “Mr. Vandergeld just told me to get it.”

Why would my dad tell him to ‘just get it’?I turn on my heel, and walk back to the front door, going in. I stop in my tracks and my eyes widen as I look around the nearly empty living room. All that remains is the long, white sectional couch and the arm chair. Everything else is gone. The insanely expensive paintings that hung on the walls just this morning are gone, the flat screen TV which was I watched reruns of Boy Meets World on just hours ago before leaving for school is nowhere in sight. Something is definitely not right, and I need to find out what it is.

“Daddy?!” I shout through the house, tossing my backpack at the couch. I walk out of the living room, en route for my dad’s office. That’s where he spends a large percentage, in his office, I mean.