Without Merit(17)

Last month a faded red 1983 Ford EPX appeared in the driveway. It’s such a terrible car, they stopped making them almost as quickly as they started. I think my father has been having trouble selling it because it’s the longest any vehicle has lasted before it’s been sold. And since I rarely leave the house on time, this unfortunate Ford has been driven more by me than the rest of the family put together.

I place the bag of dog food in the trunk and am about to open my front door when kilt-guy appears out of nowhere. He’s chewing on a piece of beef jerky, assessing my car like he’s about to steal it. He walks toward the front of the car and taps his neon green Nike against the front tire twice.

“Think you can give me a ride?” He looks at me and leans against the car. Despite the kilt, there’s no trace of a Scottish accent. There’s also no trace of a Texas accent, either. But when he said the word you just now, he sounded a tad British.

“What kind of accent is that?” I ask. I open my front door and stand behind it to put a barrier between us. He looks harmless, but I don’t like his confidence. I need to shield myself from it. Overly confident people should never be trusted.

He shrugs. “I’m from all over,” he says, but he says, over with an Australian twang.

“Ovah? Are you Australian?”

“Nevah been there,” he says. “What kind of car is this?” He walks to the rear of the car to read the make and model.

“Ford EPX. They’re extinct,” I tell him. “Where do you need a ride to?”

He’s back from the rear of the car, but now he’s standing on the same side of the door as me. “My sister’s house. It’s a few miles east of here.”

I give him another once-over. I’m aware of how stupid it is to give a complete stranger a ride. Especially a stranger in a kilt who can’t seem to nail his own accent. Everything about him screams unstable, but my spontaneity and refusal to weigh the consequences of my decisions are my two favorite things about me.

“Sure. I’m headed east.” I sit in the driver’s seat and shut my door. He grins at me through the window and runs around to the passenger side. I have to lean across the seat to unlock the door so that he can open it.

“Give me a second to grab my things.” He takes off in a sprint across the parking lot until he reaches a pile of stuff propped next to the front entrance of the store. He grabs the backpack and throws it over his shoulder, then a thirty-gallon black trash bag and a small suitcase on wheels.

I agreed to give him a ride. Not him and everything he’s ever owned.

I pop the trunk and wait for him to finish loading his belongings. When he’s back inside the car, he puts on his seat belt and smiles at me. “Ready.”

“Are you homeless?”

“Define homeless,” he says.

“A person without a home.”

His eyes narrow in thought. “Define home.”

I shake my head. “You are the strangest person I’ve ever met.” I crank the car and put it in reverse.

“You obviously haven’t met very many people. What’s your name?”

“Merit.”

“I’m Luck.”

I shoot him a quick glance before pulling out onto the highway. “Luck? Is that a nickname?”

“Nope.” He opens his container of beef jerky and offers me a piece. I shake my head. “You a vegetarian or something?”

“No,” I say. “I just don’t want any beef jerky.”

“I have granola bars in my suitcase.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You thirsty?”

“Why? You don’t even have a drink to offer me if I am.”

“I was going to suggest a drive-thru,” Luck says. “Are you thirsty?”

“No.”

“How old are you?”

I’m starting to regret my spontaneity. “Seventeen.”

“Why aren’t you in school right now? Is today a holiday?”

“No. I’m finished with high school.” It’s not a lie. Finished and completed are two different things.

“I’m twenty,” he says, moving his attention out his window. His knee is bouncing up and down and he’s tapping the fingers of his right hand on his leg. All his fidgeting has me questioning my decision to give him a ride to his sister’s house. I make a mental note to look at his pupils if he faces me again. It would be my luck to pick up a random stranger who is coming down from a high.

“How many dogs do you have?” He’s still staring out the window as he asks me this.

“None.”

He faces me and arches a brow. I use the opportunity to assess his pupils. Normal.

“Why are you buying dog food if you don’t have dogs?”

“It’s for a dog at my house, but he’s not our dog.”

“Are you dog sitting?”

“No.”

“Did you steal him?”

“No.”

“What kind of dog is it?”

“Black Lab.”

He grins. “I like black Labs. Where do you live?” I must make a face that indicates what I think of that invasive question, because he immediately responds. “I didn’t mean your exact address. I just meant in relation to where I’m going.”