Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
He pauses for dramatic effect.
“—in the whole wide world . . .” He turns and looks at me. “Who also happens to be a frosting thief and serial remote control hider.”
He’s right. I love hiding it.
Laughter. Applause as if Dad is the funniest.
“She stole our hearts,” Dad continues dramatically. “Our sleep. Also my phone. Which she drooled on!”
More laughter.
Mom stage-whispers, “Tell them about the time she locked us out of the iPad for twenty-four hours, honey.”
“She did! She did do that!” he announces dramatically. “Five incorrect passcodes. We were digitally exiled by our own child!”
No one can get enough. I stare out at my parents’ friends, chunk of cake halfway to my mouth.
“Genius!” someone yells.
“Not like her father!”
I turn my head to the right.
Huh. What’s this?
I reach out, tiny, cake-filled hands grasping for the bopping white string . . .
Mitts take hold. I pull it, luring it into my mouth.
Yummy balloon string . . .
“Someone grab that!” Mom screeches, lunging across the picnic table like I’m about to launch into orbit.
Too late. Balloon string: acquired!
Victory is Min—
Dad intercepts with one hand and swaps it out for a rice puff.
Shoot. My brow furrows—as if that was an equal trade?
Then just as I’m about to let out a disappointed wail, things look up when someone puts a sparkler into the cake.
A Sparkler!
Directly in front of me!
I’ve only been alive 365 days, and already I’m questioning everyone’s judgment.
What is wrong with these people?
Dad smiles like he’s just proud to be nominated. “But in all seriousness . . .” He takes a drink from his glass. “There’s no playbook for this—no game plan that could’ve prepared us for how much we’d love you. You made us a family. You made me a dad.”
He looks right at me—cake-smeared, frosting-fisted chaos goblin that I am—and grins like he just scored the winning touchdown.
“We love our little MacGyver more than words. More than football. More than sleep—barely. You’re our wildest dream come true.”
I let out a burp.
A solid one.
“Did she just—?” someone murmurs.
Dad grins, puffing out his chest proudly. “She gets that from me.”
Mom rolls her eyes and wipes a smear of frosting off my nose. “She gets everything from you.”
I am, objectively, an icon.
I grab another chunk of cake and smush it into my cheek like war paint, surveying my kingdom: RAWR!
A backyard strung with sparkly streamers, half-eaten cupcakes on a plastic table, and a group of grown-ups fussing over me like I’m Beyoncé in a onesie.
Mom laughs. “She’s going to break hearts one day.”
Eventually, I start to fade. Not crash. Fade.
Like a glittery little star.
Twinkle, twinkle . . .
I’m tucked into my stroller like a burrito, pacifier in mouth, cheeks sticky with sugar and the vague memory of triumph. Grandpa McBride wheels me toward the porch.
“Nap time for the birthday bairn!” he announces, pushing my stroller through the backyard like he’s the grand marshal of a parade.
I smile at him around my paci.
You think this is over? You sweet, simple fools.
I am the queen of cake. Destroyer of clean outfits. Burper of burps.
Name’s Bronte MacGyver.
Try and forget me—I dare you.