Chapter 1
My father was a domineering CEO, and my mother was his beloved wife.
But one day, my father went bankrupt.
My mother began making strange demands of him.
*****
The shrill trill of crickets came floating through the window.
The doorbell rang for the third time before Mom's nail clippers finally snapped shut.
"Jenna, go open the door," she said.
Hugging half a watermelon, I slid off the couch.
Just as I reached the entryway barefoot, someone slammed the door from outside.
The door swung open.
There wasn't that funky sour smell I had braced myself for, but it wasn't exactly pleasant either.
It was the musty, rain-dampened mold mixed with stale tobacco.
A tall man stood in the doorway. It was Roderick.
His once-tailored suit was now crumpled like a ball of discarded paper.
A button was missing from his collar, and his chin was shadowed with bluish stubble.
He forced a stiff smile.
"Jenna," he said.
His voice was rough.
I glanced back at Mom, who was sipping her coffee.
"Who let you in? Did you even ask for my permission?" she snapped.
Roderick froze, his foot awkwardly hovering in midair.
"Leila, I—" he started.
"Call me your employer, or Ms. Schmidt," Mom interrupted.
She stood up.
"Ms. Schmidt, the court froze all my assets. My car's gone, too. All I've got left is the clothes on my back," Roderick said.
"So?" she shot back.
She leaned against the shoe cabinet.
"I've got nowhere else to go," Roderick said.
Now, all that lingered was the stale, defeated smell of sweat.
"This isn't a shelter for loafers, and definitely not for bankrupt exes," Mom said coldly.
"Unless," she said, pausing.
Roderick's head snapped up.
"Unless what? Let me stay. I promise I'll bounce back," he pleaded.
"Stop right there," Mom cut him off.
She held up one finger.
"I'm not here for your big talk. Ember went back to her hometown, and now we need a live-in housekeeper," she said.
"Room and board, seven dollars a month. Are you in or not?" she added.
Roderick's face turned dark, livid red.
"Leila, you're humiliating me," he snapped.
"If you're not interested, suit yourself. Jenna, close the door," Mom said.
I reached out to push the door shut.
But a large hand gripped the doorframe, refusing to let go.
"Fine, I'll do it," Roderick muttered.
"Didn't catch that. Say it louder," Mom said.
"I said I'll do it!" Roderick shouted.
Mom nodded, satisfied, and slid a pair of pink Peppa Pig plastic slippers toward him.
"Put them on. From now on, you're Employee One. First job. Go scrub the toilet," she commanded.
Roderick took off his mud-splattered designer shoes.
He crammed his size 9.5 feet into the size 6.5 pink slippers.
His heels were hanging way off the back.
Roderick had never cooked a day in his life.
Back when he had a good chef at home, the only reason he ever set foot in the kitchen was to grab some ice water.
Now, Mom handed him his first task: make dinner.
"I want scrambled eggs with onions, and Jenna wants braised pork ribs," she said.
With that, she headed upstairs to put on a face mask.
I sat at the table, swinging my legs, watching him like I was in the front row at a monkey show.
Roderick took off his suit jacket, his white shirt soaked through with sweat.
He didn't have an apron, so he stuffed his tie into his shirt pocket.
He clutched two eggs in his hand, dead serious. It was like he was signing a million-dollar deal.
Roderick said to me, "Jenna, how do you even open these things?"
His eyes were practically begging for help.
I sighed and hopped off my chair.
I grabbed an egg, cracked it against the edge of the bowl, and split it open with one hand. Just like that, the egg slid smoothly into the bowl.
"Wow," Roderick blurted out.
Roderick looked at me like I had just performed magic.
He tried to crack the egg like I did but put way too much force into it.
With a loud crack, the egg exploded all over his hand, goo even dripping down his sleeve.
"Idiot," I muttered.
The next hour turned the kitchen into a total disaster zone.
He tossed the pork ribs straight into the hot oil without even washing them first, and the oil went everywhere.
He yelped in pain as a blister instantly formed on the back of his hand.
But he didn't dare stop. He frantically poured sauce into the pan, hands shaking.
The onions were cut into all sorts of shapes.
He forgot to turn on the exhaust fan, and the whole house filled with a choking, burnt smell.
Mom came storming downstairs, her face still covered in a black face mask.
"Roderick, are you trying to burn the house down?" she snapped.
Roderick was drenched in sweat, his face smeared with black ash, and he was holding a plate of something that looked like it had been charred to a crisp.
"The fire was way too high. I'm not used to this stove," he stammered.
He plopped that disaster of a dish onto the table.