A Penny's Worth (The Cephas Bourdon Series)

by A. M. Hooper

  "You're a senior in high school. Why are you so busy?" He looked very bewildered.

  "You sure ask . . . interesting questions." He paused again. "My parents were really well off," he started.

  "I noticed. That car isn't exactly a beater."

  "Yeah. Well, I never really went to school. I was learning the family business, so to speak."

  "You're being somewhat evasive," I prodded, intrigued by his lack of detail.

  "Yeah, I—" The front door opened.

  "Em!" a deep voice called from the entry. "Did you steal somebody's car?" he called. I could hear the grin in his voice.

  "That will be my dad," I warned.

  "I brought home Chinese!" he shouted. "But I'm hoping that's a friend's car. One—because I bought way too much food, and two—it's very convenient to have rich friends: they're easy to take advantage of." I rolled my eyes and stood from the couch, just in time to see my dad walking into the living room.

  "Hi, Dad."

  "Hi, pumpkin. So, which is it? Advantage-taking or grand theft auto?" Just then Cephas stood.

  "Dad, this is Cephas," I gestured toward him. Cephas walked around the couch.

  "Nice to meet you, sir," Cephas offered, shaking my dad's hand firmly.

  "So it's advantage-taking," my dad smiled in return. "But I wager nobody's been taking any advantage here," he said sternly.

  "No, sir," Cephas replied. I covered a mortified expression with my hands.

  "Dad, please. Can you act normal for just one minute?" He looked me in the eye with the same mischievous look that defined Cephas’ demeanor every now and then.

  "Sure," he replied, turning toward the kitchen. He set some grocery bags on the counter. To my utter horror, he continued talking.

  "What happened to—what was his name? Chelsea?"

  "It was Chase, Dad." I replied.

  "Hmmm, I always thought Chelsea would be a better name for him." I heard a snicker next to me. I glared and Cephas muttered a 'sorry.'

  "He's busy—forever," I replied. My dad and I had made a deal: when we didn't want to talk about a break-up, we said the other person was busy, and then concluded with an amount of time, whether temporary or permanent.

  "Good. So, Cephas, do you like Chinese?"

  "Sure do."

  "Em?"

  "Duh." I walked to the kitchen and sat on the counter. Dad joined me and I patted the seat next to me.

  "Please excuse our manners, Cephas. We prefer to sit on the counter instead of at the table. But only when we eat Chinese," my dad explained. He winked at me. We ate Chinese at least three times a week. Cephas jumped up on the counter next to me and I handed him a carton of food.

  I was waiting for my dad to start grilling Cephas for information. He could never ask normal questions, such as 'Where are you from' or 'How are your parents,' although right now I was grateful he would, no doubt, avoid those types of questions.

  "So, Cephas—what are you going to do for a living?" Cephas and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. My dad looked surprised.

  "Okay, let's start with a different question. How old are you?" Cephas cleared his throat before responding.

  "Eighteen, sir. I'm about to graduate with Emmaline."

  "You must not have known each other very long," he commented, pushing his food around with a set of chopsticks.

  "Why's that?" Cephas asked.

  "All her friends call her Emma." He was still looking down at his food.

  "And you call her Em," Cephas observed. My dad looked up from his carton, peering at Cephas through his posh glasses.

  "That's right."

  "I think I like that nick name better," Cephas added. My dad studied him for a moment over the rim of his glasses, then returned to his food.

  "Me too. I like you, Cephas," he said, waving his chopsticks in the air at him. "You know what else I like? Your car. Where on earth did you get a car like that?"

  "Well," Cephas began, clearing his throat. "They said, 'order a car,' so I used the manufacturer's website and put it together. Then they sent it to me." He always seemed to be clearing his throat when he talked about himself. My dad stared in surprised approval.

  "Who's they?"

  "The people responsible for my parents," he replied, pushing his food around with a set of chopsticks.

  "I have a more important question," my dad continued. I hoped he wouldn't push the issue.

  "Didn't anybody teach you how to use chopsticks?" Cephas chuckled, eying his utensil and setting it down.

  "I'm not very good at it, I must admit," Cephas replied. My dad lighted off of the counter, armed with a new carton of food and a fresh set of chop sticks.

  "Well, I need to do some work, so I'll be in my office if you need anything," my dad warned more than offered. He started down the hall, humming on the way.

  "Your dad is cool. I can't believe you were warning me about him," Cephas observed. "Although I can see how protective he is."

  "Yeah, he's pretty great, as far as dads go. Was your dad like that?" Cephas looked away, his eyes glazing over with a deep, misty gray.

  "I'm sorry, Cephas, you don't—I didn't—"

  "No, it's fine," Cephas encouraged. "I just haven't ever talked to anyone about my parents. My dad loved me like he loved nothing else. Well, except for my mother. And my mother—wow, she was great. But my dad was always really busy. He made time for me, though, and I loved hanging out with him when I was a little kid. My hand moved subconsciously to his leg. He looked down at my hand, then into my face. I blushed, realizing the location of my hand.

  "You respond really well to people," he said, sniffing and chuckling. "Did your last boyfriend have a tragic life too?"

  "No, his life was cake. I just . . . I don't know. I feel—connected to you." I looked away, embarrassed by my forwardness.

  “Wait—you said last boyfriend. How did you know I broke up with Chase?” I asked, not taking care to mask the shocked undertones in my voice. Cephas grabbed my hand, lacing his fingers with mine.

  "Come on; I spied a movie in your cabinet that I really want to see." He tugged at my hand and pulled me toward the living room, smiling that smile that was becoming quite familiar. I conceded and followed him as he dragged me toward the movie cabinet. He pulled out a movie, but wouldn't show me the cover. He held onto my hand, keeping me captive as he put the DVD into the system and pushed play. Smiling, he pulled me quickly to the couch, plopping down and pulling me after him. I let out a small scream, covering my mouth in hope my dad didn't hear. I attempted to control the anxious feelings evident in my haphazard yelp, but I was quite unsuccessful as Cephas maneuvered me close to his body. His arms wrapped around my waist. My nervous breathing ensued and I tried not to breathe in Cephas’ aphrodisiacal cologne. This proved difficult, as I was breathing erratically, thus inhaling his heavenly scent every other second. The movie intro sounded, signaling the start of a familiar film. I forgot about my anxiety for a moment.

  "You do not want to watch this," I accused Cephas, looking up at him to keep from disrupting our position.

  "Yes, I do!" he countered, a lying smile on his face. "I want to watch your favorite movie!" I paused before responding.

  "How do you know it's my favorite?"

  "Well, look how worn the case is. Any case that looks like that has been either run over by a car or watched a billion times. I just took a wild guess." That sounded like a reasonable conclusion.

  “At least you’re observant enough to be a CIA agent,” I commented, trying to ignore his thumbs as they moved along my abdomen, playing along the line of my jeans. We sat in silence, turning back toward the television to watch the film. His fingers made a figure-eight around my belly button.

  "This is my favorite part!" I whispered to him excitedly. He chuckled.

  "Cephas," my dad called from his office. Cephas released me, sitting up rigidly. I shrugged my shoulders and Cephas stood, puzzlement prevalent on his face. He walked up to the door,
which hung slightly ajar, and pushed it open, peering inside.

  "Come in and shut the door, please," my dad said from his desk. The door quietly clicked into a closed position. What was my dad doing?! The walls were pretty sound proof so I couldn't hear much. I stayed my position on the couch, afraid to get caught listening by the door. They hadn't been in there but a moment when I heard my father's voice raise. He never raised his voice. I even heard Cephas’ voice raise a few times. What was going on? The door flew open and Cephas emerged, my dad right behind him. My father’s face was stern, his body tense. The black-rimmed glasses he wore accentuated his unwavering decision. I looked at Cephas, whose face matched my father's. He looked into my eyes, pleading for understanding, and perhaps a little help. My dad cleared his throat and Cephas turned down the hall. I'm pretty sure my mouth hung open as I sat there, completely confused.

  "Cephas, wait! What—"

  "Leave it alone, Emmaline." My dad's voice was cold; he never called me Emmaline.

  "What happened, Dad?" I whispered.

  "Nothing. You're never to see that boy again." He spun on his heels, done with the conversation. I jumped off of the couch and followed him into his office.

  "I said let it alone," he demanded from his desk.

  "No, Dad." The words were shocking, even to my own ears. I had somehow acquired a massive dose of gumption in the past two days—it extended beyond my regular sassy demeanor—and I wasn’t about to back down now. My dad looked up at me in stern surprise. His eyes spewed anger, but eventually softened.

  "Em, I just don't want you to get hurt. This is in your own best interest."

  "No, Cephas was in my own best interest. You don't know anything about him!"

  "Oh, really? Let me tell you something I do know. That boy is involved in something far beyond his capacity to understand. It's illegal, immoral, and unsafe, so don't tell me he had your best interest in mind!"

  "What, Dad! What did he do?"

  "I can't tell you."

  "How do you even know any of this?" I asked quietly, trying to keep the water inside my eyes rather than out. My father sighed.

  "He's a smart boy, erasing the history on the website he was using. But I'm an inventor, remember? You think I just let that computer go unsupervised? Any click of the mouse, any tap of a key, is recorded into a file on my computer. I browsed through the file and found everything. That boy is a part of something in which I don't want you involved."

  Spinning away from me in his swivel chair, my dad started typing busily on his computer. I stood in silence, not knowing what to say. What did Cephas do? My dad stopped typing and sighed.

  "Look, sweetheart. I've seen some bad things in my life, and I don't want any of it to catch up with you."

  "Like what?!" I began, unleashing my emotion. I couldn't control my anger; maybe this gumption thing was more damaging than helpful, but I was already in too deep to turn back.

  "Ever since Mom died you've been trying to 'protect' me. You haven't even invented anything for two years! You just go off on business trips, talking to masses of people who respect you, but they don't even know you! They don't know you just sit in your office all the time. They don't know that you can't get over Mom's death. It was an accident Dad—an accident!"

  I had said too much—I knew it instantly. His tongue pressed against his bottom lip, then he bit down, the way he does when he's trying to hold back tears.

  "Let me—" he began.

  "No, Dad. I don't want to hear your explanation." I quickly left his office, running up to my bedroom. I threw myself onto my bed. I felt so confused. What had Cephas done? Why did my dad yell at one of my friends—the first guy I had ever—No, Emmaline. You're not in love. That would be ridiculous. I turned and punched my pillow, its chocolate brown fabric already soaked with tears. Why did everything have to be so messed up all of the time? And why did my dad have to be so stuck in the past? And why did that stupid drunk driver . . . I began to cry harder and harder until I finally fell asleep.

  And everything went black.

  CHAPTER 7

  I groaned and rolled over, pulling the blanket over my head to shield the light of the sun. Who had opened the curtains? I sat halfway up in my bed, looking around. My dad sat snoring in the ivory leather recliner next to my bed. A smile crossed my face. I pulled myself upright, rustling my down comforter. My dad’s eyes popped open.

  "Em!" he said, surprised from his sudden awakening. "You're up."

  I nodded. "Dad, about last night: I'm sorry. I said too much. I—"

  "No. You're right. Get dressed. Let's go before it gets too hot outside."

  He walked out of my room and I jumped out of bed. We always visited my mom's grave together on the day she died. All three of us used to visit my Grandpa's grave on the day he died. I wiped a tear from my eyes. There was no point in putting on any makeup, so I slipped on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. I brushed my teeth and pulled a ponytail holder through my hair, then ran down the stairs and rinsed out my mouth in the downstairs bathroom sink. Meeting my dad in the hall, we walked out the door together. The cemetery was only a couple of blocks away, so we just walked. I listened to the birds chirp, to the cars whiz by on the distant road. We never talked on this walk—not since Mom died. We used to talk about Grandpa and all of our fun memories, but Dad didn't want to talk about Mom. He never did. So, we just walked in silence. The cemetery was beautiful at this time of year. All of the flowers were in bloom and the grass boasted a deep, green hue; I breathed in the scent of wet soil and fresh dew. We walked slowly to the familiar headstone. It was tall, just like my mom; it was also one of the newest headstones in the entire cemetery. I knelt and ran my hand across the inscription: 'Asleep, though she'll regain her roles, when light shines on mortal souls.' Dad handed me a lily to set on her grave. Lilies were her favorite flowers. Then I took a rock out of my pocket. Mom always talked about how some culture laid rocks on their graves because rocks lived on forever. I didn't know if that was true, but I laid a rock on the grave just to make my mom happy. My dad shook his head and chuckled.

  "Your mom always loved discovering facts about people and things and telling everyone about them. I think that was why she was such a good reporter." I smiled in response.

  "Yeah, she did," I whispered. I watched my dad's finger run across the inscription.

  “What does it mean?” I asked, reading over the words again. My dad shook his head.

  “I don't know. I think it has something to do with resurrection. She was on quite the religious kick before she di—” his voice cracked and he moved his fingers to the bridge of his nose. I sat in silence and watched him try to clear his emotion. He shook his head several times until he looked up into the azure sky. The sun reflected off of his smudge-free glasses and he looked back down at me, smiling a fake smile.

  “Dad, you can cry. It's okay—”

  “No it's not, Emmaline,” he said firmly. He slumped to the ground and sat, one hand returning to the bridge of his nose. He sounded angry. He had been sad before, and distraught, but never angry at the situation. I looked at the ground and decided to sit, too. I crossed my legs. My father was quiet for a long time. Picking at the blades of fresh grass, I discovered a dandelion and promptly plucked it from the soil. I lifted my legs and rested my arms on my knees, holding the dandelion out in front of me. I wondered what I should wish for. Looking past the flower, I glimpsed my dad. Small droplets of salt water spilled down his face, reddening his tanned skin. He sniffed loudly and shook his head.

  “I'm sorry, Em. I haven't figured out how—”

  “It's okay, Dad,” I repeated, reaching out and touching his shoulder. “None of this is your fault. Mom died in a car accident, and it's terrible, but we can get through it together.” My dad shook his head and reset his gaze on the clouds in the distance.

  “I should have done something,” he muttered.

  “What are you talking about? It's not like you could have stopped the drunk
driver—unless you knew which bar he was at, I guess.” I laughed a little, then stopped as I saw my dad's glaring eyes.

  “I'm sorry, Dad. I just—I have to make light of this or I won't ever get over it. I'm not saying it's easier for you, but you can get a new wife—I can never have my mother back.” I shouldn't have said that. I knew I shouldn't have. But I didn't care. Why was he always depressed to the point of dysfunction? I lost more than he did. Crumpling the dandelion in my hand, I scowled. No wish could fix my life. I stood from my seat on the grass. The back of my pants was wet. Folding my arms, I began walking home without my dad.

  ****

  A knock sounded at my bedroom door. I sat up in bed and turned down the volume on the radio.

  "Come in!" I called, wiping at my eyes. The door cracked open and then opened all the way. My dad stood in the opening, a tentative smile on his face. I noticed he had a bowl of ice cream in each hand as he walked through the opening. He sat on the edge of my bed. I took the bowl he offered and dug my spoon in.

  "How you doin', pumpkin?"

  "Fine, thanks."

  "Well, it's about time to wipe those tears away," my dad instructed.

  "Why? I have nothing to be happy about today . . . or ever," I complained, my mouth full of ice cream and chocolate syrup.

  "Now you do. It's time to get dressed. I uh—I have to go out of town. My flight leaves in about an hour."

  "What! You can't be serious right now! I can't believe you're—"

  "I'll be home at six on Wednesday morning. Cephas is going to pick you up in two hours. He said to dress nice." An uneasy smile spread across his face as he stood. I sat, speechless.

  "But I thought you said—"

  "I know what I said. We talked it over, made an agreement, and—" he stopped at the door and turned to face me. "It would be safer if you weren't alone today." He bit his lower lip and walked out the door, stopping as an afterthought came into his mind.

  "Wear the black dress—he'll love it," he advised, looking at the ground. He smiled to himself and walked out, closing the door behind him. What did he mean safer? What was with the sudden change in his unwavering ultimatum? I waited for the door to click shut before I threw my covers to the side and jumped out of bed—he had only given me a two hour warning, and my eyes were terribly red from crying. My father's behavior was worrisome, but I had more important things to worry about. I turned on the shower and went to my closet to find something to wear. Digging through a pile of clothes, I pulled out dress after dress, throwing each one haphazardly on the floor. Finally, I discovered my black dress. It was the only black dress I had. I didn't want to wear it, but it was the only nice dress I owned. I'd worn it to my mother's funeral. The tears started coming again, but I pushed them away with my fingers. I was going on a date with Cephas. My dad was actually letting me go. A small smile crept across my face and, for a little while, I forgot about my mom sudden death, my dad's peculiar behavior, and my virtually destroyed teenage life.