by A. M. Hooper
Cephas’ hands gripped the edge of the table and his knuckles turned white. The man spoke rapidly in French, and Cephas responded. Each maintained their smiles and pleasant language, but both seemed edgy. The speed of their language increased, and the man nearly hissed at Cephas. I sat forward in my seat, uneasy at the angry conversation, though intrigued by the romantic language. While attempting to make out some of the words, I jumped as the man turned abruptly and walked away.
"Come on, let's get out of here," Cephas muttered. He stood to leave, slipping a few large bills into the tab folder. His eyes darted around the room and he grabbed my hand protectively. I allowed him to guide me to the car. We walked past the starry sky and glass atrium, past the tall columns and gracious hosts. One of the perfectly groomed hosts stepped in front of us.
“Excuse me, sir. I'm to ask you to wait here for a guest that would like to have a word.” The man smiled pleasantly. Cephas pushed past the host and continued walking toward the exit.
“Sir! Sir, please. He was very adamant. I—” his voice trailed off as we neared the door. Cephas pulled me faster, unwilling to stop for the numerous hosts attempting to stop us. Their gracious smiles followed after us, each waving his hands to hail us down. Walking through the oversized French doors, we didn't stop outside. Cephas pulled me toward the car. He was very edgy, his eyes moving constantly around the parking lot. I wasn't sure what was going on, but I didn't mind, because I needed to get outside—go somewhere, do something—to distract myself. I stepped into the expensive car and slid across the leather seat. Cephas stepped in and smiled nervously at me before igniting the low hum of the engine. In only a moment's time, we tore onto the street, our speed increasing exponentially. We turned up a canyon road, driving faster and faster around the turns. I felt exhilarated as we drifted around corners. I was completely invincible on this roller coaster without tracks. It was unnerving, though, the way Cephas kept glancing in the rear view mirror.
“Cephas, what's going on?” I asked. I saw the speedometer increase. Cephas didn't answer. I shut my eyes and felt my body glide with the turns, flying as it were through wispy clouds and vibrant stars. I imagined the scene in front of me—the trees whizzing past my face, distant mountains growing closer every second. After a few minutes, our speed slowed and eventually stopped. I relaxed against the new seat; this sports car was the complete opposite of my old beater. The watermelon tree that hung from my busted rear view mirror didn't waft to my nose. Instead, I inhaled the scent of new leather. My eyelids fluttered open and I looked around me, blushing, for I wasn't sure how long I'd been off in my own little world. Cephas flipped on the radio and turned the volume down low. We sat and listened awhile, neither of us speaking.
It must have been at least five minutes, because three songs had come and gone. I looked at Cephas out of the corner of my eye; he was staring straight ahead, his hands still on the wheel. He sat perfectly still, like he had been trained to sit perfectly still: no flinching, no talking. I resisted the urge to pull my knees up to my chin. Why, when I met the only guy I'd ever fallen for, did I show my emotions right away? I resorted to folding my arms and staring out the front windshield. I grit my teeth, angry at my inability to control my emotions and nervous at Cephas’ anxious behavior now and in the restaurant. And who was that man? I pushed away the tears as my heart went cold—cold like the leather seat, cold like the air conditioning blasting in my face. That’s just how I was: ridiculously emotional or cold to any and all feeling—I couldn’t change it. I had no control.
Goosebumps erupted on my skin and I rubbed my arms. I saw Cephas reach toward the dash to turn down the a/c. His face wasn't angry or annoyed; rather, it was dejected. I wanted to say something so badly. I wanted to tell him I was sorry, that this evening was just more than I could handle. But I couldn't say the words.
"Cephas, I'm sorry, I just—today's the day my mom di—"
"Don't apologize. Please, please don't apologize." The agony sounded in his voice, though I wasn't quite sure why.
"Cephas, it's not your fault. I just—I thought I had gotten over my mom, but I hadn't. And now you're acting weird, and I don't know what's going on.” I looked out my window, not wanting him to see me cry. He narrowed his eyebrows, the skin on his forehead wrinkling with worry.
"Who was that man you were talking to, Cephas?” I didn't dare look at his face, afraid of what his eyes might say. "And why wouldn't you stop for the host?" He didn't answer, just kept his hands on the steering wheel. The tears began spilling down my cheeks, and I lifted my hands to cradle my face. I cried until Cephas interrupted me.
"What happened?" his voice was soft, like it might disappear. I looked over at him; his hands were wringing the steering wheel.
"With my mom?" I looked out the windshield a while before answering. “She was killed by a drunk driver. She was just going to the store to get me some ice cream. I was really upset and she was—she was—just trying to make me feel better.” I began sobbing again. I wasn't sad anymore, or afraid. I was just angry—at myself. I needed to punch something. My thoughts were interrupted as Cephas suddenly unbuckled his seat belt. Leaning over to undo my seat belt, he pushed the red button and moved the strap out of the way. His car door opened. The headlights shone on his figure as he moved around the front of the car, fumbling with the keys in his pocket. My door clicked and whirred as the door lifted slowly upward. Cephas reached in and grabbed my hand, heaving me out of the low car. I flew into his embrace and he held me tight. The scent of his cologne calmed my racing heart. I didn't want him to hold me—he wouldn't tell me what was going on. But he smelled so good, and his body was so warm. I was scared of him, but I felt calm in his arms. Silent tears trickled down my red cheeks.
"I'm sorry, Em," he whispered. “You have to know it wasn't your fault.” He hugged me tighter still, running his hands through my hair.
"I wish I could tell you . . ." he began, his voice muffled against my head.
"Tell me what?" I asked, bewildered at what he could possibly have to tell me about my mother.
"That—" He pulled me away from him and looked into my eyes. A longing there held my attention. "That—" He looked away. "That everything will be okay." He shook his head and pulled my face back into his chest.
“Cephas, what were we running away from?” I asked quietly. He moved his head away from the top of mine and glanced off into the trees.
“No one,” he muttered.
“It was a person?”
“No. It was nothing. Don't worry about it.”
“Are we safe?” my voice was trembling.
“Yes,” he stated bluntly. I didn't speak. The crickets chirped; they were really close. I was scared to ask him any more questions, but nothing made sense anymore.
“Why did my dad forbid me from seeing you?” I finally asked.
“He was just worried. All dads worry about their daughters.” He was lying.
“Worried about what?”
“Well, he was a guy once, you know. He knows what we're thinking.” I felt my heart rise in my throat. What was he thinking? My blood pulsed rapidly through my veins. Then I remembered he was lying.
“Cephas, my dad's met lots of guys, and he never forbid me from seeing any of them—not even Chase.” Cephas was silent.
“If I tell you, you won't think of me the same.”
“Yes, I will.”
“No, you won't. I can't risk it.” I didn't respond. I just buried my face deeper into his suit jacket.
"Will you take me home, Cephas?" I said after a few moments of silence passed.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “In a minute. We can't go yet.”
"Why not?"
He didn't respond. I pushed away from his body.
"Cephas, I need to know I can trust you," I said in the sternest voice I could muster. His hands still rested on my waist.
"Emmaline, I need to know you're safe," he replied, staring deep into my eyes. His pupil was almost fully dila
ted in the dark night, and the moon reflected a small white dot in each eye. "They wanted to talk to me alone, and I couldn't let you out of my sight."
He raised his brows, expectant, I was sure, for one of my sassy comments. I nodded my head and buried my face in his chest. He held me still, moving his hand gently along my back. His fingers gently grazed the nape of my neck, tracing around my ear as he pulled my body closer to his. I felt the muscle lines in his abdomen through the thin material of my dress and a sigh escaped my lips. He was so warm—I relaxed against his chest. I wished he would kiss me, just to take my mind off of everything. But I knew he wouldn't kiss me—after tonight, he probably wouldn't want to see me ever again. I was a wreck. Who wanted an emotional girlfriend, especially one you had to protect all the time? And what was he holding back from me? I didn't trust him, yet being so close to his body made me feel completely safe
CHAPTER 8
The door handle moved, breaking the thick silence pervading the stale room. Pencils ceased scratching paper, and various head glanced toward the door. A tall, slender man walked through the opening. Mrs. Jensen hurried to the door and whispered something to the man. He sat at a desk between Eddy, the political guru of the class, and Sarina, the strongly opinionated, though tragically misled, student in the class. His salt and pepper hair showed an older age than his face. Small glasses sat on his slender nose, khaki pants suggesting some sort of formality. His casual top threw off the look, though. Overall, he seemed younger than most of the guest speakers usually invited into our classroom. He held a pencil in his hand. It flipped around his fingers, constantly moving. His eyes darted around the room as if he could decide a person’s character with a simple glance. Mrs. Jensen scurried to the front of the classroom.
“Students,” Mrs. Jensen began. “We have Mr. Nudd here to speak to us for the last fifteen minutes of class. He’s dedicated his life to humanitarian needs, and I’ve asked him to share some of his ideas with us. Mr. Nudd.” Mrs. Jensen clapped, backing away toward her seat. A few claps followed from the class. Mrs. Jensen chose a chair in the front right corner, sitting on the edge of her seat. Mrs. Jensen loved guest speakers and, consequently, invited them to come as often as possible. She somehow never tired of hearing people blabber on about their own opinions about how the world should be run. I was glad we had a guest speaker, though. Maybe I could stop thinking about Cephas for a minute.
Mr. Nudd stood from his chair and walked to the front of the classroom. He didn’t have a slide show prepared; he didn't even have notes to look at. He simply walked up to the board and began drawing a circular diagram. At the top he wrote the word farmers, followed by an arrow which led to the words paid not to farm. Another curved arrow pointed to the words keep supply low to make demand high. In the middle he wrote stable market = starving people. This all seemed familiar. Not too long ago, the class had had a discussion about how farmers are paid not to farm in order to keep supply and demand in order. This was how the capital market functioned. Mr. Nudd turned and popped the lid onto the blue, dry erase marker. He set down the marker and cleared his throat.
“You’re probably all familiar with this idea, though a lot of the world isn’t,” he began. He adjusted his glasses and began pacing in front of the whiteboard.
“About 2 percent of our country’s land is farm land. However, the government is paying farmers not to farm on it. This is their effort at keeping the supply of food low in order to make demand high, thus increasing the cost of food. In this way, farmers make more money and will continue to farm. This causes a few problems, however. People can’t afford food, especially healthy food. If food was cheaper, people would be more inclined to buy healthy food.” He folded his arms, then brought one hand thoughtfully up to his chin. He paused a moment, then continued.
“Right now, unhealthy food is cheapest, so the poor class buys unhealthy food. We know that the poor class presents the largest financial burden on our government. If these people could afford healthy food, obesity would decrease, and diabetes would, as a result, decrease.”
Elvin raised his hand. “Why is diabetes such a problem?”
“Elvin!” the teacher chastised. “Wait until the end for questions.”
“No, no—it’s fine. Please: ask me about any concerns or questions you may have about my ideas,” Mr. Nudd offered. “Now, to answer your question: diabetes is very costly. A diabetic has to buy insulin, which can be very expensive, and he must visit the doctor every so often. They must always check their blood sugar levels with new needles and supplies—a virtually infinite cost. Also, diabetes introduces, directly, a plethora of new health problems. If diabetes was eliminated, the savings would reduce government healthcare strains. If the government no longer needs to set aside so much money for health care, especially for those who can't afford the care, they won’t need to raise taxes. Thus, we help the lower class as well as the upper class. This would also raise the status of the lower class, thus bridging the gap between the lower and middle class. Therefore, people of every societal status will benefit.” He walked up to the whiteboard and uncapped a red dry erase marker.
“Now—this is only domestic," he continued, hitting the marker against the board. "Hunger is the unsolved worldwide problem. We are currently paying farmers not to farm, and people are going hungry. The government already buys food from farmers to support humanitarian needs. Here is my proposition.” He began writing words and arrows all over the other half of the whiteboard. The diagram actually made sense; that is, his idea seemed legitimate.
“If we pay farmers to farm, and half of the new produce goes into the market—thus lowering the cost of food—and half goes toward humanitarian purposes, we can eliminate some of our problems. Not only are we directly lowering food cost, but when we set aside land reserved strictly for humanitarian purposes, that food is no longer coming out of our market’s food. Therefore, more food is available in the market, thus raising the supply and lowering the cost.”
“But what about the market? Won’t farmers go out of business because they don’t make enough money on their produce?” I blurted out from my seat, trailing off in the end as I realized I hadn't raised my hand.
“Good question,” Mr. Nudd responded. “Many people will be skeptical of this idea for that exact reason: we can’t interfere in a stable market. However, the government is like the farmer’s client. They pay the farmers for their produce and do with it as they please.”
“But isn’t that big government?” I rebutted. “Most people don’t like the idea of the government controlling our market.”
Mr. Nudd smiled. “Excellent point,” he replied. “However, the government is currently controlling the market by paying farmers not to farm. They would simply switch their agenda and pay them to farm. Farmers would make the same amount of money, but food prices would go down. The farmers wouldn’t be forced to farm, but the government would be their biggest client. Our government doesn’t want the economy to fail either.”
He raised his eyebrows in a victory pose and turned to face the whiteboard, pulling the third board in front of the diagram he had drawn. He pulled out a black dry erase marker and wrote in all caps the word, Volition. He spun to face the class.
"Does anybody know what this word means?" he asked, replacing the lid on the marker. The class was silent. A few students probably knew the meaning of the word—I did, but I wasn't going to sound like a know-it-all. Mr. Nudd's eyes scanned the classroom.
"Volition," he stated, "is the ability to choose according to free will." He paused, probably for impact.
"The government has a choice between helping the economy . . . or helping the economy and the people. You have a choice," he added as if the idea was just coming to him.
"You can choose—of your own volition—whether you will contribute to the solution . . . or the problem."
The bell rang and students got up from their seats, filing noisily out the door. I remained in my seat and watched Mr. Nudd erase th
e diagrams on the board. He looked over his shoulder, then looked back at the board and continued his erasing.
“You’re quite a smart girl,” he commented, the eraser moving in circular motions across the whiteboard. Startled by his unexpected comment, I fumbled over a response.
“How’d you come to like politics?” he asked, turning away from the board as he saved me from an awkward reply.
“How do you know I like politics?” I responded. What an odd question.
“Well, I just figured as much since you were actually listening to a guest speaker in a high school econ class.”
I couldn’t suppress a smile and conceded, “My dad always enjoyed political discussions, so that was usually the topic at our dinner table.”
“Really? What did you usually discuss?” he asked, intrigued.
I stood to leave. “Oh, just normal stuff. Who was running for president, who had the best ideas for saving the world—kind of like the discussion we just had. He had some of his own ideas, too, though nothing ever came of them. Shocking, eh?” I smiled and picked up my book bag. “I’d better be going. I have class in a moment. Thank you for the discussion.” I smiled and turned to leave. I had nearly reached the door when Mr. Nudd called out to me.
“Do you have your own idea of how to save the world?”
I paused a moment and, without turning, responded, “Which part of it do you want to save?”
“Can’t we save the whole thing?”
“Impossible—you have to choose.” I paused as a smile crept across my face. "Volition only goes so far." With that I heaved open the heavy door and entered the busy hallway. Stepping into the crowd, I nearly fell forward into Cephas, who walked by just then; he looked startled, but pleasantly surprised.
