Page 2 of Levi

“Sounds good,” she says. “Got to go,” she tells Hillary. “Have a great day, Ms. Twatt,” she grins wide before letting herself into the house.

I join her at the foot of the stairs, avoiding my stepmother’s pointed gaze by grabbing the second bag from Syd’s hand. Hillary is quick to blame me when the wind blows the wrong way, so I do my best to avoid her and her girls.

I lean into Sydney and murmur into her ear, “You keep giving Hillary reasons to hate you.”

“I can’t help it,” she says. “I love getting under her skin.”

And she does it well.

* * *

“Icould live off thesehuevos rancheros burritos and the pulled pork ones from Mamá Carlota,” I say, scooping up the rest of my salsa before popping the last bite into my mouth.

“Same,” Syd agrees.

“Now I’m stuffed,” I lean back in my chair and rub my tummy in delight. “Thanks again for looking out for me,” I smile warmly.

When Dad was alive, Hillary excelled at preparing inedible meals. Seriously, the woman can’t cook to save her life. She’s long stopped pretending to know anything about cooking since she no longer has to brainwash my dad into believing she’s the perfect wife. She can order, though. That said, since she hired a ketogenic dietician and a personal trainer two months ago—with money we don’t have—to help her daughters lose a ton of weight for a string of auditions, I’m left fending for myself. It’s yet another ploy to distract from the real fact. Olive and Petula have zero acting talent, and their petulant—pun very much intended—attitude to life is a major turn off.

“It’s not over yet,” Syd announces. “I got us your favorite from Mamá Carlota as a post breakfast sugar rush.”

“You gottres lechescake?” I ask.

Her blue eyes twinkle. “I did,” she nods, a knowing smile firmly in place. “I also got flan,” she allows for a theatrical pause, “and then I stopped by Sticky Fingers to buy you a jar ofdulce de leche—they were just displaying them when I got there.”

Damn.

Left to my own devices, I could eatdulce de lechewith a spoon straight from the jar—

Wait a minute.

I narrow my eyes at Sydney. “You’re buttering me up.”

“Why would you say that?”

“You’re an even worse actress than Olive and Petula,” I sneer.

“I take offense to that,” she scoffs. “I consider myself far more capable of delivering believable lines than Ever Dumb and Ever Dumber—I mean, your evil stepsisters—even if I’m only a lowly blue-collar worker who will never grace the red carpet.”

We laugh.

Hillary poo-poos all over manual labor. It’s beneath her. She has dreams of multi-million-dollar contracts and shelves lined with Oscars. She’s banking on her daughters to make her a bona fide stage mom. Good luck with that.

“Regardless, the answer is no to whatever you’re about to ask, Syd,” I warn.

“Don’t be like that,” she complains.

I cock an eyebrow. “What do you have up your sleeve?”

She scoots her chair closer to mine and brushes stands of her red hair behind her ears. “You’re not going to work today,” she tells me.

“This is LA and all, but since it’s only nine a.m., it’s not nearly hot enough for you to suffer from heatstroke,” I retort.

“Seriously, Jules, you need to take the day off,” she volleys.

“I can’t,” I tell her.

“Yes, you can,” she argues.