Without Merit(16)

I wait in my room and listen for the front door to open and close and even then I wait several more minutes. When the house is finally quiet and I’m certain he’s gone, I open my bedroom door and slowly walk toward the kitchen to ensure the coast is clear. My mother is downstairs, but the chances of her coming out of the basement to ask why I’ve skipped school are less than the chances of the Cowboys beating the Packers tonight.

Speaking of. I’m a little disappointed my father or Victoria didn’t notice Cheesus before they left.

On my way into the kitchen, the marquee outside the window catches my attention. I squint to read the words Utah selected to display.

THERE ARE MORE FAKE FLAMINGOS IN THE WORLD THAN REAL ONES.

I sigh, a little disappointed in Utah. If it were me, I would have paid my respects to Pastor Brian. Either that, or I wouldn’t have updated it at all. But to update it without acknowledging the death of the man who erected that very marquee seems a little . . . I don’t know . . . like something people would expect from a Voss. I don’t like validating their negative perception of us.

I glance in the living room and then the kitchen, wondering what I’m going to do with myself today. Another crossword puzzle? I’m getting really good at them. I sit down at the table with my half-completed book of crossword puzzles. I flip it to the puzzle I finished on Friday and start on the next one.

I’m on the third question across before the doubt begins to seep in. It’s no big deal, this has been happening every day since I stopped going to school. A sense of panic rears its ugly head, making me question my choice.

I’m still not quite certain why I stopped going. There wasn’t a single catastrophic or embarrassing incident that influenced my decision. Just a bunch of small ones that continued to pile up until they were hard to ignore. That, coupled with my ability to make choices without giving them a second thought. One minute I was at school and the next minute I decided I’d rather be browsing antiques than learning about how terribly we lost the Battle of the Alamo.

I like spontaneity. Maybe I like it because Utah hates it so much. There’s something freeing about refusing to stress over stressful situations. No matter how much thought or time you put into a decision, you’re still only going to be wrong or right. Besides, I’ve accrued more knowledge this week by doing these crossword puzzles than I probably could in my entire senior year attending high school. It’s why I only do one puzzle a day. I don’t want to get too intellectually ahead of Honor and Utah.

It isn’t until I finish the puzzle and close the book that I notice the sketch left on the table. It’s placed upside down in front of the spot I was seated at this morning. I reach across the table, slide the sketch toward me and flip it over.





His drawings make no sense. What would possess him to draw a picture of someone swallowing a boat?

I flip it over and look at the back of it. At the very bottom, it reads, “If silence were a river, your tongue would be the boat.”

I flip the drawing back over and stare at it a moment, completely taken aback. Did he draw this of me? Was he the only one in this house to notice I haven’t spoken since Friday?

“He actually noticed,” I whisper.

And then I immediately slap the drawing on the table and groan. I just ruined my no-speaking streak. “Dammit.”





Chapter Four





How long will this last?” I ask the cashier, dropping the fifty-pound bag of dog food onto the counter.

“What kind of dog?” she asks.

“It’s for a full-grown black Lab.”

“Just one?”

I nod.

“Maybe a month. Month and a half.”

Oh. I was guessing a week. “I don’t think he’ll live with us that long.” She rings up the total and I pay with my father’s debit card. He said to only use it in emergencies. I’m sure food is an emergency to Wolfgang.

“You need help carrying it out?” someone from behind me asks.

“No thanks,” I say, taking my receipt. I turn around to face him. “I only got the one bag . . . what are you wearing?” I didn’t mean to say that out loud but I wasn’t expecting to be met with the likes of the guy I’m staring at right now.

Peeking out beneath his hat are sporadic pieces of red hair, too bright to be authentic. So bright, it’s almost offensive. His face is decent, a little imperfection here and there. But I didn’t give it much notice because my eyes went straight to the kilt he’s wearing. I guess the kilt itself isn’t tripping me up as much as the clothes he chose to pair it with. He’s wearing a basketball jersey and neon green Nikes. Interesting ensemble.

The guy looks down at his outfit. “It’s a basketball jersey,” he says innocently. “You don’t like Blake Griffin?”

I shake my head. “Sports aren’t my thing.”

He sets what looks like a lifetime supply of beef jerky on the counter. I wrap both arms around the ginormous bag of dog food and head to my car.

The car I drove here isn’t specifically mine, but that’s because my father never keeps a car long enough for any of us to claim ownership over it. Vehicles have always rotated in our driveway and the only rule is that whichever person leaves the house first each day gets first pick. I think that’s the true reason behind Utah’s extreme punctuality.