Package Deal(22)

“You know who, Mr. Owl.”

When the wind began to pick up, he returned to the house and tried, unsuccessfully, to concentrate on the rest of the papers he had to grade before the next day.





Chapter 5



“Go, Cecelia. Check her!” Coach’s voice carried above the cheering of the onlookers.

On the soccer field, Cecelia sped up, reached the ball before the girl on the opposing team, and kicked it back up the field through the misting rain that made the grass slippery. Students and other adults stood along the sidelines watching the action. Even that icky man, Professor Winslow, was watching. Everyone except her mother, who had a late-afternoon class.

“Get it, Cecelia!”

That voice. She looked up. There he was. Professor Dunbar—Marcus, her mother called him—waving to her as he ran along the sidelines paralleling the action on the field. Inspired, she waved back and sped up, weaving between two players on the opposing team. She kicked the ball again and it shot between the legs of the goalie.

“Great score!” The coach cheered, and patted her on the back as she ran off the field.

She looked past the coach. Marcus was still clapping, his hands high. She grinned at him and waved.

“Is that your dad?”

Cecelia looked over at her new best friend, Samantha, and shook her head. “He’s a friend.”

“My sister, Brittany, says he’s hot. He came and talked to her class at the high school about what reporters do.”

Cecelia wiped her sweaty face with the towel Sam handed her. “He’s my friend,” she said proudly, imagining what it might be like if he took her to a movie instead of her mom.

The coach gathered the girls and lined them up to touch hands with members of the other team. “You girls did great today. See you all at practice.”

Cecelia stuffed her soccer gear into her backpack and started toward the lecture hall where her mother was teaching.

Professor Dunbar caught up with her. “That was a super shot, Cecelia. You are some soccer player. Where did you learn to do that?”

“I started playing when I was little—in kindergarten. Some of our team just started this year, so the coach sometimes has me show them certain moves.”

“He’s a wise man. Here, let me carry your stuff.”He took her backpack from her. “Where are you headed?”

“To my mom’s class. She doesn’t like me walking home by myself. When we have a game after school, I meet her and we go home together.”

“Good idea. Mind if I join you?”

Together, they headed for the lecture hall, Cecelia taking three or four steps for every two of the man’s longer stride.

She imagined what the other girls might be thinking, as they moved closer to the campus buildings. Maybe they would be jealous that he liked her—enough to carry her soccer stuff.Maybe, like Sam, they thought he was her dad. She liked that idea … having a dad.

“Bye, Cece. See you at practice!” one of them called.

She grinned and waved. When she and Marcus arrived at the lecture hall, Cecelia reached for her things.

Marcus shook his head. “Let’s sit here and watch your mother in action,” he whispered.

“Okay,” she whispered back.

She liked that she could feel the warmth of his arm as it rested near hers on the armrest. He never tried to touch her like that icky Professor Winslow. Cecelia hated that her mother had to share an office with him. He was a professor like Marcus, but they were so different. Professor Winslow smelled—bad sometimes, other times dirty.

Marcus was funny. He didn’t stare at her like that other man. She liked that Marcus played guessing games with her before taking her mother out, and he seemed to know, and maybe even like, the same books she read. She had asked her mother if they could go horseback riding—like in Misty of Chincoteague. Maybe Marcus would come, too.

Her mother finished her lecture and spoke to two students who came up to the podium while she erased the whiteboard.

After the last of the students filed out, Cecelia ran down the side aisle to the front of the room. “We won by one goal, and I kicked it in!”

“Good for you!” Her mother looked toward Marcus, still seated, at the back of the lecture hall.

As he sauntered to the front of the room, he said, “That was a nice point you made about Lincoln. Who would have guessed his work could be considered poetry?” He brushed his hair off his forehead.

“My minor was American History. I like to link literature and history. It keeps the students interested, and so many famous people were great writers, don’t you think?”

Marcus nodded. “Even we journeyman newshounds can recognize a well-made sentence now and again.” He glanced down at Cecelia. “Your daughter plays a mean game of soccer.”