“Cece!”
No answer.
“Cece!”
Still no answer. He walked down the hall.
“Cecelia!”
He walked further. No answer, but he could hear the sound of singing. Ironically, a song about cleaning.
“You could do a lot when you got
Such a happy little tune to hum
While you’re sponging up the soapy scum.
We adore each fil--”
“Cecelia!” He yelled, and she whipped around, silenced mid-lyric.
“What, Daddy?”
Jim pushed his hair off his face. “I’ve been calling for you,” he said, “I don’t like when you don’t listen, Cece.”
She shrugged. “Sorry, Daddy.” Then she turned back to the TV.
Jim was pretty sure this was karma from his own childhood.
“Cecelia Marie,” he said firmly, trying to keep from snapping at her, “your room is pigsty. There are toys and books and crayons everywhere. You were supposed to clean it this morning.”
“When the movie is over,” she said, her eyes not leaving the screen.
Well, that was enough of that. He walked over, hitting the stop button on the DVD player and removing the disc.
“Daddy!” Cece screamed, stomping her foot. “I was watching that.”
He placed the DVD in the cabinet near the ceiling, where he knew she couldn’t reach even if she climbed up the shelves like she wasn’t allowed to do but still did sometimes.
“You can watch it again when your room is clean,” he informed her.
She crossed her arms and stuck out her lower lip. “No fair!”
He crossed his arms right back. “I don’t want to hear no fair. Your mother and I have asked you five times to pick up your room. Now march.” He pointed to the steps.
She huffed and stomped toward the stairs. He could hear her banging up the steps, down the hall and…
“Don’t slam the-”
Too late.
Jim sighed and sat down on the couch, flipping on ESPN. He could hear Cece above him, stomping around her room.
He hated to be “mean Daddy,” but he and Pam were pretty determined not to let their kids be spoiled brats. They’d seem some spoiled brats, at Cece’s school and even at Nattie and Zander’s day care, and they’d decided they didn’t want anyone thinking about their children what they’d thought about some other people’s.
He knew they could be stricter, but there was, he was constantly learning, a fine line to walk.
Twenty minutes later, he heard Cece coming down the stairs again, her steps still defiant, but not quite as angry.
“Your room all clean?” He called from the couch.
No answer. Jim sighed.
“Cece?”
No answer. He could hear her moving around the kitchen, opening and closing drawers. He stood up and walked in.
Cece was standing on a chair, spreading peanut butter on to slices of bread. Her red backpack was on the floor next to her. He could see Freckles, her favorite stuffed leopard, sticking out.
“Whatcha doing?” Jim asked from the doorway, though he was pretty sure he knew.
She didn’t look at him. “Running away,” she informed him coldly. “I’m mad at you.”
Jim nodded. This wasn’t the first time Cece had run away from home. Reasoning with her wouldn’t work right now, he knew.
So he watched, silently, as she finished constructing her peanut butter sandwich and put it in a bag along with an apple, a small package of Oreos and a juice box from the refrigerator.
She put the lunch bag in her backpack, then placed the pack on her little shoulders, and walked past her father, her braids swishing.
He turned and watched as she took her sweater from the hook by the door and walked out, careful to let the door slam just a little, just enough to show that she was still mad, but not enough to make him angry.
Jim walked into the living room and looked out the window, careful to stay hidden behind the curtain. He watched as Cece climbed on to her light purple bicycle, first fishing her helmet out of the basket and strapping it on, and replacing it in the basket with her sweater.
Then she rode away.
To the end of the driveway.
When she reached the mailbox, Cece stopped, climbed off her bike and settled down on the grass, cross legged. She sat Freckles on her lap, and pulled out her lunch bag and book.
Jim watched her take a bite of an Oreo, another show of rebellion, he knew, eating dessert first. She opened the book - “The Secret Garden” - to a dog-eared page and began to read, chewing her cookie, her back to the house.
He smiled, shook his head and went back to watching the game, the volume low.
She’d come home before the sun went down, he knew.
That was the rule.
Author's Chapter Notes:
I'm realizing that it might look to some like Pam is a negligent mother because she's not around in this story, or like Jim ignores his other children, but if anyone is thinking that, please remember that each chapter is one day, sometimes just an hour or less, and that each one takes place in a different year. And the story, as the title says, is really all about Jim and Cece. Hope y'all are enjoying it!
Chapter End Notes:
I have memories of "running away" to the end of the driveway 25 years ago.
Thanks for reading. Thoughts always deeply appreciated.
Thanks for reading. Thoughts always deeply appreciated.
