Without Merit

He laughs.

I don’t know why I’m making light of what he’s telling me. I’ve never been good with serious conversations.

“I sprained my ankle and got fired. But a few weeks later I had a new fake ID and a job with a different cruise line, so the firing didn’t really teach me a lesson.”

“Why did you do it? Did you hate your life that much?”

Luck shrugs. “Not really. I was mostly indifferent. I worked eighteen-hour days. I was tired of the monotony. There wasn’t really anyone who would have missed me. So, one night I was standing on the deck, staring out over the water. I was thinking about what it would be like to jump and not have to get up and work the next morning. When the thought of death didn’t put fear into me, I just decided to go for it.” He pauses for a moment. “A friend of mine saw me do it and he reported it, so they threw me a life raft and had me back on the ship within the hour.”

“You got lucky.”

He nods and looks over at me. He’s unusually serious. “So did you, Merit. I mean, I know they were only placebo pills, but you didn’t know that at the time. And I don’t know many people who would stick their hand down someone’s throat and then sift through their vomit to count the number of pills they swallowed.”

I divert my eyes and look back down at my lap. It occurs to me that I haven’t once thanked Sagan for that. He saved my life, got covered in vomit, and then cleaned it up and watched over me all night. And I haven’t even told him thank you. Now I’m not so sure I even want to speak to him again.

“I did learn something from jumping off that ship,” Luck says. “I found out that depression doesn’t necessarily mean a person is miserable or suicidal all the time. Indifference is also a sign of depression.” He looks me in the eye. “That was a long time ago, but I still take medication for it every day.”

I’m shocked. Luck seems like one of the happiest people I know. And while I do appreciate what he’s trying to do, it’s also annoying as hell. “Are you trying to turn this into an after school special?”

He shakes his head. “Not at all. It’s just . . . I think we’re a lot alike. And as much as you want to believe that it was a drunken mistake . . .”

“It was,” I interrupt. “I never would have swallowed those pills if I hadn’t gotten drunk.”

He doesn’t look convinced by my statement. “If you weren’t intending to take them . . . why were you stealing them?”

His question silences me. I break eye contact with him. He’s wrong. I’m not depressed. It was an accident.

“I really didn’t come in here to say all that.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “I think maybe I had too much caffeine at work today. I’m not usually this . . . sappy.”

“It’s probably the whole gay thing you’re experimenting with. It’s making you sentimental.”

He glances back at me and narrows his eyes. “You can’t make gay jokes, Merit. You aren’t gay.”

“Does being gay make you the gay authority on who can or can’t tell gay jokes?”

“I’m not gay, either,” he says.

“Could have fooled me.” I laugh. “If you don’t think you’re gay, you’re sexually confused.”

Luck rolls his head until his neck pops and then he leans back against the headboard again. “I’m not confused, either,” he says. “I’m very comfortable with my sexuality. It seems like you’re the one who’s confused by it.”

I nod, because I am definitely confused by it. “Are you bisexual?”

Luck laughs. “Labels were invented for people like you who can’t grasp a reality outside of a defined gender role. I like what I like. Sometimes I like women, sometimes I like men. A few times I’ve liked girls who used to be guys. Once I liked a guy who used to be a girl.” He pauses. “I liked him a lot, actually. But that’s an after-school special for another day.”

I laugh. “I think I might be more sheltered than I thought.”

“I think you might be, too. Not just from the outside world, but you might even be sheltered from what’s going on inside your own house. How did you not know Utah was gay? Have you not seen his wardrobe?”

“Who’s making gay jokes now?” I say, shoving his shoulder. “That’s such a terrible stereotype. And I didn’t know he was gay because no one tells me anything around here.”

“In all fairness, Merit. I’ve lived here less than a week and I can already tell you live in your own version of reality.” He stands up before I can shove him again. “I need to go shower. I smell like coffee beans.”

Speaking of showers. I could probably use one.

A few minutes later, I’m in the bathroom, trying to gather all the stuff I need to shower, but I still can’t find a damn razor. I look in all the drawers, in the shower, under the sink. My God, they overreact!

I guess I’ll just be hairy, then.

As soon as I pull my T-shirt over my head, a piece of paper is shoved beneath the door. I would assume it’s from Sagan since this seems to be his method of delivering art, but the paper looks like an article. I bend to pick it up when Luck speaks to me from the other side of the door.

“Just read it. You can trash it if you want, but I wouldn’t have a clear conscience if I didn’t give it to you.”

I roll my eyes and lean against the counter and read the title. It’s a Web page printed off the Internet.

Symptoms of Depression.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.

Below it is a list, but I don’t even read the first symptom. I fold the paper up and toss it on the sink because Luck is ridiculous. He really is a walking after-school special.

After I shower and change, I open the door to the bathroom. Before I walk out, I grab the paper and walk to my bedroom with it so no one sees it lying on the bathroom counter. I sit down on my bed and begin to open it, curious as to what symptoms Luck has if he’s been diagnosed with depression.

When I examine the list, there are empty boxes next to each symptom, waiting to be checked off. It’s a quiz. This might actually be what I need to prove to Sagan and Luck that I’m not clinically depressed.

I grab a pen and start with the first one. Do you ever feel sad, empty, or anxious?

Okay, that’s a stupid question. Check. What teenager doesn’t?

Do you ever feel hopeless?

Again. Check. They should just say “Are you a teenager?”

Are you irritable?

Um . . . yeah. Check. But anyone in this household would be.

Do you have less interest in activities or school?

Okay. You got me there, Luck. Check.

Do you feel less energetic than usual?

If less energetic means sleeping at random hours of the day and night and sometimes not at all, then yeah. Check. My heart starts to beat faster, but I refuse to take this list too seriously. It came from the Internet.