“Not unless I made a mistake during the flight?” I looked to Mr. Stewmon, who shook his head.
“Lieutenant Masters,” Major Davidson called from his office.
“Sir,” I said, stepping inside. It had been a year since I’d been here last, and he still hadn’t decorated.
“Have a seat.”
I did so, but didn’t lean back. He tapped his fingers on his desk, thumbing through a file. My medical records. Shit.
“I received a call today that made some very serious allegations about your health history, Lieutenant Masters. Allegations that, if true, would end your place in the flight school program.”
My fucking father. “Sir?”
“Are you dyslexic?”
Funny thing about ripping off a Band-Aid—it still hurts like hell. “Not that I’m aware of, sir.”
He sighed. “That’s what he said you’d say.”
“My father.” The words tasted sour.
“Your father.” He nodded. “Would you care to explain?”
“I can’t explain what there’s no factual base for, sir. I have not now, nor ever been diagnosed as a dyslexic. I was slow to learn to read in school, yes, but by high school graduated in the top two percent of my class, as well as at the Citadel. Neither location found a reason to believe I would be dyslexic.”
“Why would your father say this?”
“Because he thinks I’ll kill someone while flying.” Be brutally honest, it’s the only way they know you’re not lying. “The night of my eighteenth birthday party, I was involved in a car accident where the other party was drunk. I didn’t react fast enough. My girlfriend spent five years comatose. My father believes it was my fault. He’s never accepted my decision to become a pilot.”
Major Davidson nodded slowly. “Can you prove that you’re not dyslexic?”
“Sir, can you prove that I am? I take tests slowly, yes. I read slowly, yes. But take a look at the Order of Merit list for Primary, where I finished in the number one position, and the Apache course, and I can guarantee I’m in the top five percent. Five percent because I’m in the class with the walking 5&9 book of Jagger Bateman.”
“True.”
“Sir, there is no record of any concern of dyslexia. Not since I began my education, or before. These accusations are unfounded.”
He studied me, and I stared back, unflinching.
“Send in Mr. Stewmon as well as Lieutenant Bateman, and wait in the hallway.”
“Yes, sir.” I gripped my cover so hard I thought I might rip it, and walked into the hallway. “He’d like to see you both.”
“Everything okay?” Jagger asked me.
“Family is a bitch.”
He clapped me on the shoulder and looked me straight in the eyes. “Until you find your own, right?”
“Right.”
He nodded and then went into the office, shutting the door behind him. I’d take a polar bear over this shit any day. At least I’d done it, moved the fucking bear.
I tapped my foot while waiting, watching the minute hand pass fourteen times until the door opened. “Come on in,” Mr. Stewmon said, holding the door for me.
I took the empty seat while he stood behind us. Major Davidson was on the phone in the corner with his back to us. More than likely ending my flight school career because my father couldn’t trust me. Ever.
“Did you move Sgt. Ted E. Bear?” Jagger whispered.
“Not the fucking time.”
“Oh, come on. Like you weren’t thinking it.”
“Since the moment I walked in.”
Major Davidson hung up the phone and turned. “There’s no record of the word ‘dyslexia’ appearing in your records from the Citadel or high school.”