Unexpected Help

House Maid Lesson 1: Can I Help You, Douchebag?

1. Can I Help You, Douchebag?

Dirt is the understatement of the century of what they treat me as- but it's not just that. They're so hostile about their demands it sickens me. "Quinn! What did I tell you about letting Flea walk around in the house?!" my mother, Candice, questioned in the most infuriatingly high-pitched tone I've heard in the last...hour. Ha!

Flea is our rescue dog that I had to get down on my knees and grovel for- literally, in order for my parents to let me keep him. I think he's a cross between a Chow Chow and Siberian Husky. Maybe a Shiba Inu?... I don't know. All that matters is that I love him and he's the only friend I have in this excuse of a 'family friendly' household. The reason for his name is because the bass, piano, trumpet and backing vocals for the Red Hot Chili Peppers name is Michael 'Flea' Balzary- I'm kind of in love with old school music and post core. Pop music can just come and kiss my ass.

And that fake smile they put on almost makes me want to gag. I work myself to the bone and my reward is a total of four hours of sleep before I kick start the day at my treacherous high school, Cordelia Elite. Weird name for a school? I know.

By the way, the people I'm talking about right now are my parents- those bastards. Though, it's mostly my father; a pure business shark. He even has the beady eyes and jelled hair pat down, the only thing that throws people for a whirlwind is the fact that he's considered handsome- in old people world anyways. This isn't another Cinderella story, hun. This is the real world where no brainless so-called Prince is going to sweep me up from my feet and take me away. No. I may be the help, or even the worst term which even makes my ears bleed: maid, but I am no helpless little damsel in distress who can't keep her shit together. You may even call me the 'Badass Chick' of my school. The Sapphire Vixen.

The thing I don't understand is why my father- Hector- forces me to do unpaid labor. He's filthy stinkin' rich, why can't he just hire someone else? Wait, now I remember; he's a conman. The sleazy grease bag doesn't want anyone else knowing about his real profession. The faker even funds my school's programs and sponsors his old poker buddy, Mayor Isaac.

The most humiliating thing is that I even have to wear the uniform, frills, stockings and all. Can someone spell smut for me? The only stylish thing about my attire is the fact I get to somewhat customize it, which is why my headband is laced with a light champagne gold of my own taste and I usually slip on a pair of simple black Prada heels my mom never wears. Though, my common clothing consists of skinny jeans, combat boots and comic tees with the leather jacket that was passed down by my Nana, Henrietta. Oh, how I adore that woman. She's from my father's Italian branch of the family and boy, does that geezer know how to live. Her features consist of snow white hair that's styled into a lightly jelled pixy cut, her olive skinned countenance somewhat defined with broad crow's feet that shine brightly when she passes someone her signature grin and flashes her piercing sea foam colored orbs.

"Sorry, Mrs. Baltz," I apologized through gritted teeth to Candice from upstairs in my parent's bedroom where I was currently making up the bed before trotting downstairs in my sleek raven shoes, careful not to slip and end up fracturing my tailbone. During 'work' I was to address my mom by her last name like you would a teacher. Ugh.

My furry-headed friend simply panted as he sat directly in front of the mahogany coffee table that laid on the center of the plush white rug, his tongue hanging limply from the side of his blueish tinted lips. This only resulted in a chuckle to escape my slightly different colored lips, the upper one a tad darker than the lower- almost like Kim Possible. Heh. Those were the days. Except I look far from being a kick-ass ginger.

I have naturally tawny skin the color of caramel and the so-called 'mesmerizing' ocean eyes of my grandmother, which is the only trait of mine I can list under as cool. My kinky curls fall all the way down to my waist because Nana Henrietta insisted that I let my hair grow out as far as I wanted to when my father was about to force me to go extremely short; so short that my ends stopped at my ears, but he can't argue with his mother. She will cuss him out relentlessly- just one more thing to love about her. The only downside to it was that I have to take very careful care of my hair, or else I would end up looking like Frankenstein's wife- on a bad hair day.