Without Merit(84)

I’d say the events that transpired after that have definitely given me a new focus.

I loosen my grip on my father and look up at him. “Why don’t you believe in God?”

He glances over at Jesus and contemplates my question for a moment. And then he says, “I’m just a pragmatic person.” He smiles down at me and tugs at my hair as he releases me. “That doesn’t mean you can’t believe in Him, though. We aren’t put on this earth to be carbon copies of our parents. Peace doesn’t come to everyone in the same form.”

He tells me good night and walks to his bedroom. I glance at the hallway and Sagan is leaning against the wall, watching me. There’s a faint smile on his face.

“It’s after midnight,” he says.

I look up at the clock on the wall and it’s almost one in the morning. Which means . . . it’s Saturday. “It’s Saturday! My tattoo!”

Sagan laughs. “Let’s go to the bathroom so you can see it in the mirror.”

I follow him to the bathroom, my heart pounding anxiously in my chest. I search for a handheld mirror so I can see it closer. “It better be pretty. If you gave me a poop emoji, I’ll kill you.”

He laughs quietly as he pulls down my shirt sleeve and works to remove the bandage. “You seriously haven’t peeked at it?”

I shake my head. “I promised you I wouldn’t.”

He takes the mirror from me and holds it up behind me. “Okay. Open your eyes.”

When I see it, I suck in a quiet rush of air. In small font are the words, “With Merit.” I stare at it for several seconds before the meaning really hits me.

In the letter I wrote to everyone, I signed off, “Without Merit.”

Sagan wrote the opposite.

“With Merit.”

Tears immediately cloud my vision as I run my fingers over it. It almost feels like a badge of maturity.

“Sagan,” I whisper. “It’s perfect.”

He smiles at me in the mirror. “I think it’ll look cool as a watercolor tattoo. I’ll add some colors to it once I get more experience.” He touches it and my skin feels like it ignites. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I love it,” I whisper.

I turn around to face him. He’s extremely close still, but he doesn’t back away. He’s looking down at me like he has something else to say. I wait with air stuck in my lungs, but he just clears his throat and takes a step back. My lungs deflate like balloons when he widens the gap between us.

“Good night, Merit.” He walks out of the bathroom, and I sigh.

I walk to my bedroom and sit down on my bed. I reach behind me and touch my fingers to my tattoo again. With Merit. I should have asked Sagan why he chose this tattoo. Did he do it to make me feel better? I’ve been wondering lately why he even seems interested in a friendship with me. Sure, we had an unusual connection the first time we met, but he thought I was Honor. And after that day, I was nothing but rude to him. He even said himself that the more he got to know me, the less he liked me. But despite all of that, he still invests in me. I don’t know why I automatically assume he must have an ulterior motive. Maybe he actually does find something appealing about my personality.

I glance across the room at the wadded-up piece of paper still on my bedroom floor. I walk over and pick it up, unfolding the paper as I sit down on my bed. I look at all the check marks and it makes me wonder if this list is in any way accurate. I don’t know a lot about mental health, but knowing that I might have inherited my mother’s instability fills me with an unknown fear. Am I going to end up like her?

I shudder at the thought.

I fold the paper in half and set it aside, pulling my covers over me. I leave my lamp on and stare at Sagan’s drawings for a while. I think about his family. I think about my family. I try to fall asleep despite all the thinking, but my mind has different plans. I lie wide-awake until I hear the front door open as everyone returns from the vet with the puppies.

I still can’t believe Wolfgang was a girl.

At least another half hour goes by while I stare at the ceiling. The wall. I listen to showers running and doors closing. The house finally settles, but then I’m startled by a knock on my own door. I reach over and find the list Luck gave me and shove it under my blanket. “It’s open.”

Luck walks in and I shouldn’t be surprised by his choice of clothing at this point, but I still laugh. He’s wearing a pair of Victoria’s pink scrubs.

“Do you need to go shopping?” I ask, scooting over on my bed.

He plops down next to me. “Nah. I keep finding plenty of stuff in the laundry room.”

He only allowed an accent slip on the last word of that whole sentence. He’s acclimating. I reach under the covers and grab the folded-up sheet of paper. I hand it to him. “So what does this mean?”

Luck opens the list and looks it over. I watch his expression carefully, but he gives none of his thoughts away. “It means you might be depressed,” he says nonchalantly.

I groan and dramatically fall over on the bed. “Can’t it just mean I’ve had a bad month?”

He lays the list on my chest and I grab it and wad it up again, sitting back up.

“It could,” he says. “But you won’t know until you talk to someone about it.”