Without Merit

I smile, knowing how much Victoria hates telling Moby the truth. He asks all the normal questions about life and Victoria makes up the most bizarre answers. She’ll do anything to protect him from the truth. I once heard him ask her what the word sex meant. She told him it was a terrible TV show from the eighties and that he should never watch it.

She places her hands on Moby’s cheeks. “Yes, he can get out of the ground when he wakes up. They’ll bury Pastor Brian with a cell phone so he can call them when it’s time to dig him back up.”

Honor sputters laughter and spews juice everywhere. Utah hands her a napkin and whispers, “Does she think this is healthier than telling him the truth?”

We’re all watching this conversation with fascination. Victoria can sense it because even though she’s failing miserably, she’s giving it her best effort to put Moby’s questions to rest. “Let’s go find your backpack,” she says, pulling on his hand. He stops following her right before they make it to the hallway.

“But what if his phone battery dies while his body is sleeping? Will he be stuck in the ground forever?”

My father grabs Moby by the hand, sweeping in to rescue the desperate Victoria. “Come on, buddy. Time to go.” Right when they round the corner to the hallway, I hear Moby say, “Isn’t it time for your body to sleep, Daddy? It’s getting really old, too.”

Honor starts laughing, and I think her boyfriend does, too, but his laugh is quiet and I don’t want to look at him. I cover my mouth because I’m not sure if laughing out loud counts against my verbal strike, but Victoria’s mothering skills are humorous at best.

Victoria is staring at all of us with her hands on her hips, watching us laugh. Her face turns as pink as her scrubs and she walks swiftly out of the room, headed toward Quarter Three.

I would feel sorry for her if she didn’t bring this on herself.

Utah and Honor begin to pack up their things. I walk to the sink and pretend to busy myself, hoping they don’t ask me if I’m going to school today. I usually take a different car than the two of them because they both stay after school. Honor for cheerleading practice and Utah for . . . whatever it is Utah does after school. I’m not even sure. I go to my room, mostly to avoid looking at Honor’s boyfriend because every time I do I feel a little bit of his mouth on mine from that day on the square.

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.”