Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Not that Dad’s asking for my side of things. He rarely does. He heard Beatrice’s version and went straight to lecture-mode and his disappointed-dad routine.
“I’m heading into a meeting, but we’re going to talk about this later. For now, Beatrice quit, effective immediately.” He sighs, and that part stings. I hate that he’s frustrated with me about this again because Beatrice isn’t the first nanny who’s left her station as my caretaker. She’s just the most recent. I know it stresses him out to have deal with this again, but in my defense, I’ve had to deal with her on a daily basis, so I’m pretty sure I’m the one getting shafted here.
“All right. I’ll have your dinner warmed up when you get home. You thinking eight or nine?” I offer, trying to get in Dad’s good graces before the coming discussion.
He huffs out a dry laugh. “No way. You’re not staying home alone. Uncle Kyle will be there shortly to get you.”
“Dad,” I drawl out, making it an extra two or three syllables. “I’m twelve now. Almost a teenager. I don’t need a babysitter. I can be one in all but two states.”
“Kyle will be there soon. I’ll pick you up from his place after my meeting. Understood?”
I drop my head, knowing I’m not winning this one. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. I love you.”
“Love you too,” I mumble, rolling my eyes again as I hang up the phone.
At least Kyle’s my most fun uncle.
CAMERON
“Grace! Hurry up or you’re not going to have time for breakfast!” I call up the stairs, checking my watch. Again. And grumbling at the sheer number of minutes that have ticked by since my daughter proclaimed she was ‘almost ready’. I knew it was stupid wishful thinking, but I really did hope she meant it.
“MeeMaw H is taking me by Starbucks on the way to school,” she calls back, “So I don’t need to eat at home.”
I shake my head, rolling my eyes. I wouldn’t admit it, but I’m not sure whether she gets that ugly habit from me or I got it from her. Either way is entirely plausible because anyone who lives with a twelve-year-old girl and doesn’t roll their eyes has got to be a robot if you ask me. I love my daughter like crazy, but she drives me absolutely mad sometimes.
“No, she’s not,” I declare in a tone that invites no discussion on the matter. “You’re not having a Frappuccino for breakfast. You need something healthier than that.” Under my breath, I mutter, “And definitely not caffeinated.”
My daughter pops into view as she leans out her bedroom door upstairs. She’s the spitting image of her mother, which is the nature part of the equation, but her attitude? All mine, and solidly from the nurture portion. And since she’s had a long-term exposure to only my grumpiness, she glares down at me from her vantage, her iceberg blue eyes full of challenge and matching my own current state of frustration. “I don’t get Frappuccinos for breakfast. They’re for after-school snacks and treats.” There’s an implication of ‘duh’ in every word. “Breakfast is a pumpkin spice latte, single shot, with cinnamon sugar sprinkled on top, and a slice of pumpkin bread. Because fall, Dad.”
A sharp, stabbing pain shoots through my head, right behind my left eyeball.
“It’s barely September,” I argue, glancing at my watch to confirm it’s only September sixth. But the ticking of the second hand reminds me of the real issue. “And no Starbucks before school. Let’s go. Breakfast is already on the table.” As I twirl a circle in the air with my hand, hopefully rallying her to hustle, I make a mental note to have a curt discussion with Mom about giving espresso drinks to my daughter. Even if it’s a single shot, Grace doesn’t need the caffeine at her age—I think it stunts growth, if I’m not mistaken, but also, since I’m not sure, I make a mental note to look that up. Regardless, she doesn’t need that much processed sugar before school. Or ever.
If it were solely up to me, Grace wouldn’t even know what Starbucks is. But that’s not the reality when I depend on others to help manage our busy schedules, and I can’t exactly tell a nanny—or my mother—not to drink coffee when they’re with Grace. There’d be a mutiny, and I don’t have the time nor energy to deal with that. Plus, I’m well aware that roughly half the seventh grade at her school walks into first period hopped up on coffee, energy drinks, or worse. It’s a hotly contested debate on which drive-thru is best, with vehement proponents for Starbucks, Dunkin’, and Dutch Bros. My daughter is obviously in the Starbucks camp.
Grace makes a growling sound of frustration before disappearing back into her bedroom, where I hear shuffling, so I at least know she’s getting ready. And probably hexing me too. I don’t know what’s gotten into her lately.