Poor Little Rich Girl | ✓

Chapter 9: I Feel Like Such A Peasant

Chapter 9: I Feel Like Such A Peasant  

Stephanie, I want these chores completed by the time I get back today. I’ll be back at about six.

1.     Sweep the living room.

2.    Sweep the dining room.

3.    Load the dishwasher.

4.     Feed Chipper and Rueben. {The horses, I’m sure you can find the stables.}

That’s it for now; make sure you’ve got them done.

-      Your grandmother.

How heartfelt. I think sarcastically as I read the note my grandma left for me. I don’t think that it’s fair at all that Spencer has absolutely no chores. I mean, he’s the one who’s been lounging around the house all day. I, on the other hand, actually went to school and did stuff. Pulling my cell phone out of my purse, I dial my mom’s number and put the phone up to my ear, waiting impatiently as it rings.

“Hi sweetie, how are you?” She asks chirpily.  

“Your mother is crazy.” I inform her without so much a greeting.

“Steffy,” My mother says in a reprimanding tone.

“What? She is! She left a stupid note telling me sweep the living and dining rooms, load the dishwasher and feed her horses. Like, what? And Spencer has to do nothing? That’s not fair at all.” I gripe into the phone.

“It’s her house Steffy, and while we’re living there, you’re gonna do what she asks.”

“Not stupid stuff.”

“Even what you think is stupid.” My mom corrects me. “Don’t be difficult with your grandmother.”

“I’m not being difficult with her! I don’t even know how to sweep; I’ve never done it.”

“I know you’ve swept at least once in your life, Steffy.”

“I always vacuumed, not swept.”

“Well today you’re sweeping.”

“And loading the dishwasher? How the hell should I know how to do that? That was Landen’s job, not mine.” I complain.

Landon was one of the chefs we had back in L.A. Well actually, he was the son of the head chef, Michelangelo who had recently moved to America from Paris. Sometimes, he helped his dad prepare some of the main meals and whatnot, but I’m pretty sure he was never actually on the payroll. He was hot too, very, very hot. Landen, not Michelangelo, I mean. Not that Michelangelo was ugly or anything. He was just really old, like older than my dad.

“Do not swear at me, Steffy.” My mom says with a sad sigh.

“And where are you at anyway? Why aren’t you here?”

“I’m looking for a job, seeing as how we’re now, you know, without.”

“Broke.” I deadpan.

“Yes, broke. Now stop complaining and just do the damn chores.” My mom demands and then suddenly the line goes dead.

My mother just hung up on me. We must be living in some terrible twisted parallel universe. Usually I’m the angry one hanging up on her, not the other way around. Not to mention the fact that we have no money, which is definitely reason to believe I’m no longer living in the world I once knew.