"Sweetie, lighten up. Maybe Merit didn't know she wasn't supposed to give him a donut today."
Nothing irks Victoria more than when my father takes our side over hers. "Of course Merit knows not to give him a donut. She doesn't listen to me. None of them do." Victoria chucks the bowl in the sink and bends to pick up Moby. She sets him on the counter near the sink and wets a napkin to wipe donut remnants off his face. "Moby, you cannot eat donuts. They are very bad for you. They make you sleepy, and when you're sleepy, you can't perform well in school."
Never mind the fact that he's four and isn't even in real school yet.
My father sips from his coffee cup and then reaches over to Moby and ruffles his hair. "Listen to your mother, buddy." He carries his coffee and newspaper to the table, taking the seat next to me. He gives me a look that says he's not happy with me. I just stare at him with the hope that he demands I apologize, or asks me why I broke one of Victoria's rules again.
But he doesn't. Which means my no-speaking streak is looking good for day four.
I wonder if anyone will notice my taciturnity. Not that I'm giving anyone the silent treatment. I'm seventeen years old. Hardly a child. But I do feel invisible in this house most of the time and I'm curious how long it will take before someone notices I haven't spoken out loud.
I realize it's a bit passive aggressive, but it's not like I'm doing it to prove a point to them. It's simply to prove a point to myself. I wonder if I can make it an entire week. I once read a quote that said, "Don't make your presence known. Make your absence felt."
No one in this family notices my presence or my absence. They would all notice Honor's. But I was born second, which just makes me a faded copy of the original.
"What's going on the marquee today, Utah?" my father asks.
It's bad enough all the ex-parishioners of this church still hold a grudge against my father for buying this house, but the marquee digs the knife in even deeper. I'm sure the daily quotes that have nothing to do with Christianity get under people's skin. Yesterday's quote said CHARLES DARWIN ATE EVERY ANIMAL HE DISCOVERED.
I had to Google that fact because it sounded too insane to be true. It's true.
"You'll see in five minutes," Utah says. He downs the rest of his shake and pushes away from the table.
"Wait," Honor says. "Maybe you should hold off on updating the marquee today. You know, out of respect."
Utah stares blankly at Honor, which clues her in that none of us knows what she's talking about.
She looks at my father. "Pastor Brian died last night."
I immediately turn my attention to my father at that news. He rarely shows emotion, and I'm not sure what kind of emotion this will bring him. But surely it'll be something. A tear? A smile? He stares stoically at Honor as he absorbs the news.
"He did?"
She nods. "Yeah, I saw it on Facebook this morning. Heart attack."
My father leans back in his chair, gripping his coffee cup. He looks down at the cup. "He's dead?"
Victoria puts a hand on my father's shoulder and says something to him, but I tune her out. Until this moment, I had forgotten all about Wolfgang showing up last night.
I put my hand over my mouth because I suddenly want to tell them all about the dog showing up in the middle of the night, but I feel like I might choke up.
What does it say about me that I didn't have any sort of reaction just now to the news of Pastor Brian's passing, but realizing his dog came back to the only other home he's ever known makes me want to tear up?
Honor called me a sociopath once while we were in the middle of a fight. I'll make it a point to look up that word later. There might be some truth to that.
"I can't believe he's dead," my father says. He stands up and Victoria's hand slides off his shoulder and down his back. "He wasn't that much older than me."
Of course that's what he's focused on. Pastor Brian's age. He's less concerned about the death of a man he's been warring with for years and more concerned that he was close in age to someone who is old enough to fall over dead from a heart attack.
Utah is still paused at the door. He looks like he's in a state of disbelief. "I don't know what to do," he says. "If I don't acknowledge his passing on the marquee, people will accuse us of being insensitive. But if I acknowledge it, people will accuse us of being disingenuous."
What an odd thing to be worried about in this moment.
Honor's boyfriend tears out his drawing and stares down at it. "Sounds like you're screwed either way, so I'd just go with whatever you feel like going with." He says all this without looking up from his drawing. But his words reach Utah anyway, because after a brief moment of pause, Utah walks out the front door toward the marquee.
I'm confused by two things. One being the constant and repeated presence of Honor's boyfriend at our breakfast table. Two being the fact that everyone seems to know him so well that they're perfectly fine with him joining in on the family conversation. Shouldn't he be too nervous to speak? Especially around my father. He's only been hanging around for a couple of weeks now. Meeting his girlfriend's family seemed to sit really well with him. I hate it. I also hate that he doesn't seem like the type of person who talks a lot, but the few things he does say have more weight than if anyone else were to say them.
Maybe that's part of the reason I've decided to go on a verbal strike. I'm tired of everything I say not having meaning to anyone. I'll just stop talking so that when I do talk, my words will count. Right now it feels like any time I talk, my words circle right back into my mouth like a boomerang and I'm forced to swallow them again.
"What's a heart attack?" Moby asks.
Victoria bends and begins to help Moby put on his jacket. "It's when your heart stops working and your body goes to sleep. But it only happens when you're an old, old man like Pastor Brian."
"His body went to sleep?" Moby asks.
Victoria nods.
"For how long? When is he gonna wake up?"
"Not for a long time."
"Is he gonna get buried?"
"Yes," she says, sounding a bit annoyed with the natural curiosity of her four-year-old. She zips his jacket. "Go get your shoes."
"But what happens when he wakes up? Will he be able to get out of the ground?"
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."
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.
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 th
e 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?"