by A. M. Hooper
"Oh, just that something will be done Friday," I lied. "Sorry, I'm terrible; I enjoy eavesdropping." I smiled sweetly at him.
"Oh," he shrugged his shoulders. "Just that everything with my parents will be taken care of on Friday." He dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand. "Shall we?" he nodded his head at the bus.
"Sure," I replied, following his lead. What was going on? Cephas had sounded pretty angry. Perhaps his layer/guardian was a pain to deal with. I shrugged off the incident and walked up the commercial bus steps behind Cephas. I breathed in the bewitching scent of his cologne. He walked to the back of the bus and picked up a jacket, sitting in its place. I sat next to him in a gray bucket seat, watching as he shoved the jacket under his chair.
"So you did save a seat for me," I said, smirking a little.
"I said I would. I had to get here an hour early to do it."
"No, you didn't," I argued.
"Okay, you're right; only a half hour." His mouth turned into a grin, and he leaned forward, fiddling with the DVD player. "Nothing gets past you, huh?" he asked jokingly.
"Nope," I said firmly. He fiddled a moment longer without a response. After a moment, he leaned back and put his arm over my shoulder. He kissed the top of my head softly.
"What are we watching?" I asked, nestling against his shoulder. His scent was stronger now, and I resisted the urge to take a deep breath.
"I don't know," he replied. "I just pushed play."
"You're so weird," I responded. I leaned my head against his chest and his fingers played over my arm. He held out one side of a headphone and I took it, positioning it in my ear. I stared at the screen. I didn't know what this movie was, but I wasn't really watching anyway. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my dad walk down the aisle. Cephas’ head moved to look up at him, and I watched my dad's smile fade. He could be so overprotective sometimes. He looked at me and sighed, his frown turning into a smile. Then he tousled my hair and I groaned—how embarrassing. He situated himself two seats back, diagonal from where we sat. The bus lurched forward, beginning the journey to California. The seniors always went to California; I was never sure why, but that's what always happened at our school. While other seniors went to Mexico or some foreign country, we went to California.
"So what's first on the agenda?" Cephas asked. I removed my headphone. The movie was boring anyway.
"Let's see." I pulled a paper out of my purse.
"Well, first we check into the hotel, then we go to dinner at the museum."
"That should be fun," he said sarcastically.
"It will be, actually," I said, dragging out my voice. "It's very formal, with dancing and a huge meal and . . ." He was smirking. I rolled my eyes.
"Whatever. It's going to be great."
"What's so great about dancing around in uncomfortable clothing?"
"You seemed to prefer it the other night," I countered.
"Well, I preferred my partner. I mean, why would all of these teenagers want to waltz around with other teenagers who can't dance?"
"You're a teenager too, ya know," I laughed. His uneasy laughter caught my attention.
"You do act older than a teenager, though," I added. I had never really noticed it before.
"How's that?"
"Well, you know how to dance, for instance."
"Yeah, well, when your parents are rich, they hire someone to teach you the finer things in life."
"Why?"
"So you can enjoy them, of course," he smiled, tweaking my nose. He sat silent for a moment, looking straight forward.
"I would believe only in a God that knows how to dance,” he said in a whimsical tone.
I looked up at him, surprised. He mistook my surprise for ignorance and decided to explain.
“I'm not sure who wrote it, but it’s the reason my mother always gave for her brutal dance requirements. Something about becoming great or something, I don't know,” he muttered. I looked back at the small screen in front of me.
"Nietzsche," I muttered.
"What?" he asked.
"Uh, Friedrich Nietzsche wrote that." He looked surprised.
"You like philosophy, huh?" he asked pleasantly.
"Yeah, that's the great thing about philosophy and poetry and essays and stuff. You don't have to be rich to appreciate it. Just to write it."
"Why's that?"
"Well, nobody gets paid to sit around and write poetry anymore."
"But they still write it."
"Yeah, but it never amounts to much, so people who aren't rich have to do something to make a living. That's why they don't indulge in poetry and dancing and the 'finer things of life'."
"Is that why you're not going to be a reporter?" he asked. I closed my mouth, refusing to respond to his sudden demand of a question.
"Dreams are for people who've already made their livings," I finally said.
"To each his own, huh?" he offered. "But you know, 'Dreams create realities—through hard work.'"
"Who said that?" I asked, not entertained.
"It's not important. It doesn't matter who says it, as long as it's true." He chuckled a little.
"What?" I asked, wondering at his self-indulgent laughter.
"My mom always used to say that. I always thought it was just because she couldn't remember who said something."
"She probably couldn't. You don't remember who said that quote that you rehearsed a second ago." He chuckled again, just a little, before his smile turned somber. His voice was low.
"She loved poetry, my mom. She was always repeating some line of something to me. She always repeated one the most though." I sat in silence, not wanting to push him into divulging something he didn't feel comfortable exposing. He began talking, reciting something.
"Asleep amid an anguished cry,
Deny at dawn—a bitter lie.
Unworthy one to own the name,
Do not condemn—do not defame.
For secret love buries crime,
Prior words—Go, love mine.
A promise and a lie in one,
Rejected, mocked: Upturned he hung.
Mercy's eye forsakes the wall,
Light bids the rock fall.
Devotion in mortality
Amend the day thou wept for me."
He barely finished, his voice cracking.
"That was beautiful. Who wrote that?"
"My mom . . . well, perhaps my dad, but my mom always recited it to me."
"Wow. What does it mean?"
"Oh, it means a lot. I still haven't figured it all out," he replied, shaking the thoughts from his head. "Sorry, I've been off in my own little world for a moment, haven't I?" The left corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Trying to pull all the romantic side out of me, huh? Well, don't worry. I'm just like all the other guys."
"No, you're not. I've never met anyone like you before," I said.
"Oh, come on," he argued, rolling his eyes. "Well, I am pretty good at pulling off sexy basketball star and dashing James Bond, aren't I?" His voice was matter-of-fact sounding, and he nodded his head in self-approval. "Okay, you've never met anyone like me." He smirked and I shook my head at him. I leaned my cheek contentedly against the inside of his shoulder.
"You're so full of yourself," I declared. I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.
And everything went black.
CHAPTER 10
I moved the brush across my eyelid, then stood back from the mirror to evaluate my work. It looked a little dark and I decided to leave it. I smoothed on a layer of lip gloss and grabbed my purse.
“Mer!” I shouted. “Are you ready?” Marian came walking around the corner, lip gloss in hand.
“Aren't you so excited?!” she exclaimed.
“Yeah, I can't wait to tour the museum,” I replied, opening the hotel room door. It made a clicking noise and I stepped out into the red carpeted hall.
“Oh my gosh, girl. Are you insane? All you can ever think about is art! I mean
t for the dinner—and dancing!” She twirled around the room, nearly skipping down the hall.
“I take it you and Brandon are back on?”
“Yeah! On the way up here, he promised me every single dance!” she squealed in delight. "It's all going to be so amazing!" What was this, junior high?
“Yeah, I've never been to the Getty Museum. It should be great.”
“I hear they have amazing gardens. How romantic!” she replied, more to herself than as part of the conversation. It was a good thing she would be trying to seduce Brandon: then I could actually enjoy the artwork. We stepped into the elevator and pushed the number one button; it lit up. My eyes traveled around the inside of the elevator. Gold wainscot covered the bottom half of the walls, and red, ornate fabric covered the upper walls and ceiling. Everything was so elegant here. The doors began closing, but a hand caught the edge of the door, causing the doors to reopen. At the ding, a man dressed in a very expensive looking tuxedo stepped through the entrance. I saw Marian wincing out of the corner of my eye. She always did that when an attractive man was nearby.
“Good evening, ladies,” he muttered in a low voice, flashing a practiced smile. He pushed the door close button and stepped between us, his hands behind his back.
“Where are you girls off to?” he asked, looking at the numbers above the door. His voice was just loud enough to detect an English accent.
“Oh, we're going—” Marian began excitedly.
“Just downstairs, to look at the art,” I interrupted. I glared at Marian, who rolled her eyes. I looked the man up and down: his suit was perfectly tailored, and his hair combed just right. He seemed to have taken a lot of time getting ready. Something seemed vaguely familiar about his dark, sunken eyes and long, black sideburns.
“And where are you going, sir?” I continued. He kept this focus on the numbers above the door. He smirked and narrowed his eyes, a devilish grin spreading across his face.
“Just downstairs, to look at the art,” he replied, his voice still low. His hands moved toward his neck, adjusting his tie. The bell made a dinging noise and the elevator stopped at ground level. I stepped through the door, Marian close at my side.
“Enjoy your evening, ladies,” the man offered in his English accent, smiling with this hands behind his back. He nodded and reached toward the buttons, pressing one and allowing the door to close, the devilish grin still spread across his dark face. Why did he look so familiar? The doors closed and I turned to Marian.
“Wow, he was creepy,” I suggested. “Marian?” She wasn't even looking at me; her eyes lit with excitement as she looked across the room. High ceilings boasted beautiful chandeliers and light reflected off of tall windows that looked out over the ocean. Tables littered the border of a large dance floor, where endless numbers of couples danced in all their elegance.
“Girl, I see Brandon. Is it okay—”
“Of course! I'm just gonna go walk around the museum.”
“Are you sure? I could go with you if you wanted . . .”
“Oh, my gosh. Go have fun; I'll see you a little later.” Her smile grew bigger, if that was possible. She clapped her hands and all but ran to Brandon, who graciously bowed and offered his hand, the both of them giggling like pre-teens. She and Brandon sidled up next to Chase and another girl from my class. She hit him Chase flirtatiously before he flashed a smug, victory smile in my direction. I laughed to myself and turned down a hallway, then stepped through an opening that led into an oversized room with even higher ceilings than the last. My pink heels clicked on the white marble floor and I slowed my step. Thousands of pieces of art hung on the deep burgundy walls, baroque frames holding them in place. I wandered down the line, turning every once in a while to admire a statue set in the middle of the room. A few people crossed my path now and then, their low whispers cut through the dead air. I walked between a pair of tall, white pillars. A set of religious art stringently lined the walls, supplemented only by one statue, a Christus, on the floor. The room boasted pictures of Christ, pictures of his apostles, and pictures of Mary. One in particular caught my attention. It was an engraving, so the details were rather hard to make out at first. In the picture, people stood all around in chaos. One man hung upside down. I had never seen it before, and I stood, staring at it a while. The inscription on the bottom read Bourdon. Where had I heard that name before?
“It's a picture of Peter, Christ's apostle,” a deep voice said from behind me. I turned abruptly, relieved when I saw Cephas standing there.
“Cephas,” I stated, surprised. “You scared me.” He smiled and stepped closer to the painting. Staring at it happily, he spoke.
“It's believed that the apostle Peter was crucified upside down.”
“Why?”
“Some say it was because he didn't want to be mistaken for Christ.”
“Now that’s devotion,” I commented. The picture had so much passion.
“When Christ was sentenced to death, Peter denied that he was associated with him. He regretted the act so much that he spent his entire life making up for it, even in death.”
“I can see why this guy made a masterpiece out of the event.” Bourdon. That's where I had heard the name!
“Your last name is Bourdon, too!” I exclaimed in a low voice. "Just like the artist!" Cephas’ eyes glazed over and a nostalgic look crossed his face.
“Yeah,” he muttered, then his eyes flashed open. “I mean yeah, I—”
“Are you related?” I asked.
“Kind of,” he replied nervously. Clapping erupted from the room next door, and the orchestra began playing another song.
“How can you be kind of related to someone?” I asked, bewildered.
Cephas held out his hand.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked.
“Yes, I would,” I replied, taking his hand. He led me toward the dance floor.
“Your dress is gorgeous, by the way.”
“It's the same one I wore on our date.”
“I know.” We walked briskly onto the dance floor.
“It seems like forever since I kissed you,” he whispered in my ear as he pulled me into a dancing position. We had reached the dance floor rather quickly. I felt goose bumps run up and down my arms at the longing in his voice. We joined the throng of couples, floating across the dance floor in an upbeat waltz. Dancing in silence, I easily followed his cues, twirling and spinning to the music.
“Your dad doesn't seem to like our dancing together.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“He looks very tense.”
“How can you notice that while we're dancing? I can't do both at the same time.”
“Well, that's because following is a new thing for you.”
“Oh, and I suppose you're used to leading a girl along,” came my snide remark. He twirled me away from him and pulled me back, dipping me low to the ground.
“Now, now—that doesn't make me seem like much of a gentleman.”
“Perhaps, then, you're not who you profess to be,” I said breathlessly. His face was very near to mine. His furrowed brow highlighted his nervous attitude. He pulled me up and continued leading me across the floor, his frown lifting into a smirk.
“And who might I be instead?” he asked, pulling my body against his. The music had faded to a slower, unfamiliar piece.
“I—I don't know—I—” I felt Cephas’ abdomen press against mine, the muscles flexing through his navy blue tuxedo. I was suddenly aware of the muscles in his arm I was holding onto, as well as the roughness of his hand. My breath caught in my throat and I saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward again. He knew what he was doing to me. I stopped dancing and took a stubborn step away from him. He still held my hand captive, so I tugged on it, pulling him off of the dance floor.
“Shall we eat?” I suggested without looking at him, annoyed at his cocky reaction toward my emotions. He smirked and pulled me back into a close dancing position.
&nb
sp; “Don’t be mad, love,” he whispered into my ear. “I just love your reaction to my touch—you do enjoy it, don’t you?” he asked slyly. That feeling washed over me again and I felt as if my knees might give way beneath me. His voice was so alluring, his warm breath on my ear so tempting!
A sudden fire ignited in my chest, and I felt an unquenchable thirst for his mouth. I leaned my head backward and looked up into his eyes. They were smoldering just as mine, but they held a certain nervous cloudiness I had never before seen. I narrowed my eyes in question, but he only averted his eyes.
“You’re right—we should eat,” he more commanded than suggested. We walked over to the table where my dad sat, who stood, offering me a chair.
“Here, pumpkin. Sit by me.” I smiled at him and took the chair he offered. Cephas stood by the table. He pulled out a cell phone suddenly and began typing something on the buttons.
“Would you like to join us, Cephas?” my dad asked without much enthusiasm.
“Actually, I, uh—” he flipped his phone shut and stuffed it in his pocket. “I have to leave for a little while, but I'll see you later this evening.”
“Where do you have to go? This is a night of carefree fun,” my dad argued, glaring.
“Yeah, and I don't think we're supposed to go anywhere without somebody's permission,” I added. Cephas sighed and pulled out the chair.
“You're right,” he replied. “I should just enjoy myself tonight.” He smiled, though it wasn't a smirk. It seemed somewhat forced. “So, what are we eating tonight?” he asked, placing a napkin on his lap.
“Well, the waiter came by and I ordered for all of us. Steak sound okay?” my dad asked as the waiter walked up, setting steaming platters in front of each of us.
“My favorite,” Cephas smiled. I picked up my fork and knife and began cutting my steak. We sat in silence for a little while.
“Mr. Brickard! How are you doing?” Mrs. Puzmer walked up to our table in all her eccentricity, waving her hands wildly. “Don't you just love this art museum? So many things to admire, so many masterpieces to behold!” My father stood to greet her, taking her hand graciously.
“Mrs. Puzmer, so good to see you. And thank you for letting me come with your class on such short notice,” he said, all charm.
