The man she didn’t like pushed the door open. “I’m here to see your mother, Cecelia.”
“She’s not here.” She backed away from him, her heart starting to race, not liking how he always seemed to stare at her without blinking.
“Then I’ll wait for her.”
“My mom isn’t here,” she repeated. “She won’t like it that you—I—” Her chin trembled. “I thought you were … someone else.”She went to the front window and looked down the street. “I’m not supposed to let anyone in when my mom’s not here.” Except Marcus. He’s my friend. Our friend.
The man followed her. “You must like those jeans with the polka dots on the pockets. I’ve seen them before.” The icky man smiled at her, his dark hair falling onto his forehead, almost covering his eyes. “And that’s not a nice way to talk. We can wait together. Why don’t you just sit here with me?” He strode into the room, leaving the door ajar.
When she didn’t answer him, he grasped her arm and pulled her closer as he sat down on the couch, forcing her to sit next to him. “What’s the name of that pony on your shirt?” He poked at it with the rolled-up paper in one hand.
“I don’t want to.” She tried to pull away, but his grip was tight on her arm, almost hurting.
“Why don’t you want to talk to me, Cecelia? You never talk to me,” he said. “Even when I’m nice to you. I want to be your friend.” He looked at her with those eyes that never blinked, like Francie’s cat when he was getting ready to pounce on a toy mouse. “Do you have a playhouse, Cecelia—where you play tea party? I could play with you.” His voice had a singsong quality that made her shiver.
She shook her head.“Your hair is dirty. You should wash it. And your shirt is stinky.” She knew what her mother would say if she heard her, but she didn’t care that she wasn’t being polite. Maybe if she wasn’t nice, he would go away.
“You’re right. I’ve been busy. I’ll have to do that. I’ll do it tonight. Okay?”
She squirmed to move away from him. She hated that he looked squinty-eyes when he stared at her.
“Be nice and sit here, right next to me.” He placed the paper on the table. “I just want you to be nice to me, so I can be nice to you. Don’t you want me to be nice to you?”
When she didn’t try to get up, the man loosened his grip on her arm, his hand snaking down her blue-jeaned thigh. “Where did your mother say she went?”
“To the store, to get some milk.” She tried not to look at him, not liking that his pale eyes seemed to bore into her.
“Do you like it here?” His hand slithered up and down her leg and he leaned closer to her.
She nodded, pulling her leg away as far as she could, but he had her cornered. “It’s okay.”
“What is it you like the most?” He stood up, placed one arm around her shoulder and then sat down again, bringing her closer.
“Soccer … and my Scout troop.”
His arm brushed against her neck and then moved slowly down her back. The way he was touching her gave her goose bumps. She tried to edge away from him before he slid his other arm around her, trapping her between his knees.
She tried to remember what her mother had said a long time ago when they had that talk about touching. The man pulled her onto his lap.She froze when the man’s hand suddenly moved around to the front of her stomach and began to slide downward. Then something hard pushed up against her bottom. She remembered what to do.Scream, Cecelia. Run away! The icky man was breathing funny and making a weird noise.
“Stop it. Let me go.” Without warning, she jumped up, twisted her body and shoved his hand away from the front of her jeans. His other hand slid off her arm as she twisted away from him. As she moved, her left foot came down on the top of his shoe—hard—and she turned toward the half-open front door, screaming loudly.
The bad man jerked when she yelled. “Stop! Cecelia! Come back!”
Her stomach was full to bursting with fear. She ran out the door, down the porch stairs, and across the lawn yelling at the top of her lungs. Her heart pounded as she heeded her mother’s remembered words to get away. She looked back once to see if he was following her.
That man was bad. He was going to do a bad thing. She was sure of it, and she had to get away—run and yell—like her mother had told her—run and yell as loudly as she could. As she angled across the neighbor’s lawn and down to the sidewalk, all she could think of was to escape—to get as far away from the man who was in her house, who might be following her, trying to catch her, to stop her from screaming. She ran into the street. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a car coming toward her, fast. Her mother had told her never to go into the street without looking both ways. But she had to get away. If she could just get across the street.