Free Sprinkles and Secrets by Lisa Schroeder Page A

do-over.”
    â€œDon’t be a sore loser. Besides, you don’t need anything anyway, Little Brother Man. You got
Star Wars,
you got a touchdown, what else do you need?”
    â€œWhat I need is my very own spaceship.”
    â€œWell, you know what Uncle Pete says: You’ve got to believe it to achieve it.”
    â€œWhat’s that mean, Sophie?”
    I think for a minute. “I’m pretty sure it means no one can really give you what you want except yourself.”

    I can’t sleep. We came home and played Monopoly together. Dad has no mercy when we play that game. He won again, just like the last twenty-six times we’ve played. After that, I went to bed and read for a while. When I closed the book, I felt tired. And I wanted to get a good night’s sleep, because Mom and I are going shopping tomorrow. I love shopping on the day after Thanksgiving—it’s one of my favorite days of the year.
    But every time I close my eyes, thoughts of cupcakes and brownies swirl around in my brain. I want to stop thinking about it! How come my brain doesn’t have an on/off switch?
    At midnight, I get up to see if a glass of milk will do the trick. And a cookie. We didn’t eat anything after Thanksgiving dinner because everyone was so stuffed, but now, I’m kind of hungry.
    I reach into the cookie jar and pull out one of Mom’s homemade monster cookies, Hayden’s favorite. They’re made with peanut butter, oatmeal, chocolate chips, and M&M’s. Mmmm, so good. As I’m pouring myself a glass of milk, I hear someone behind me.
    â€œCan’t sleep?” Dad asks.
    I turn and look at him. “No, I’m sleepwalking. I’m dreaming about eating a cookie with milk. And about some guy who looks like a pirate standing in the kitchen talking to me, wearing an old green robe that looks like it’s been around since 1970.”
    â€œAh, okay,” he says. “I thought you might be worried about Monday.”
    I take a bite of my cookie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s to worry about?”
    He takes a seat on the stool next to the counter. “Have you told her yet?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhen are you going to do that?”
    I grab my glass of milk and take a seat next to him. “I don’t know. Probably next week sometime. Hopefully.”
    He picks up the glass of milk and takes a drink. “It’ll be okay. You’ll see.”
    My eyes drift from his face to the green robe he’s wearing. There are stains on the shoulders. “What are those?” I ask him, pointing.
    He follows my finger. “Those are the places where you and your brother spit up on me.”
    â€œGross! Dad, get yourself a new robe, would ya?”
    He pulls me in and kisses my forehead. “No way. It’s one of the few reminders I have of when you were cute and cuddly. You’d cry and your mom would nudge me to say that it was my turn. So I’d get up, go to your crib, bring you down here, and give you a bottle. Then I’d rock you, burp you, you’d spit up on me, and then you’d fall asleep.”
    I give him a funny look. “They do make these things called burp rags, you know.”
    â€œI know, but sometimes, I’d forget to have one with me or you’d miss or—”
    â€œOkay, okay! I can’t believe we’re sitting here talking about spit-up.”
    He rubs my hair and stands up. “I think you’re the one who started it.”
    I look at him, my pirate of a dad in an old, ugly robe, and I can’t help it. I love the guy so much. I stand and give him a big hug. We stand there for a long time, rocking back and forth the tiniest little bit.
    I yawn and pull away. “Okay. I think I can sleep now. Thanks, Dad.”
    â€œAnytime, sweetheart. You want me to burp you too?”
    I laugh. “Nah, I’m good, thanks.”
    Before I go, I look at