“Sir, I will say it again. I have never, in my life, been tested for, or diagnosed with dyslexia. I think my scores and grades speak for themselves.”
“I concur,” Mr. Stewmon agreed. “Lieutenant Masters shows exemplary knowledge base, as well as reflexes that make him a superior pilot. He has excellent spatial reasoning, communication, and judgment. I can count on one hand the number of times he’s answered a question wrong, and I’ll be the first to say that I ask a shitload of questions. Bateman is wrong more often than Masters.”
My eyebrows shot up. Jagger shrugged in my peripheral vision.
Major Davidson looked between all three of us, settling on me. “Are you aware that dyslexia automatically disqualifies you from this program?”
“Yes, sir. As does poor vision, epilepsy, and stupidity, though they’re still developing a test for that last one.”
Now Jagger raised his eyebrows.
“Your attitude is far better suited to Lieutenant Bateman.”
“He’s rubbing off on me.”
“Do you have dyslexia?”
Blunt honesty. “My doctor says no, and he’s a hell of a lot better educated for making such a statement.”
“If Lieutenant Masters were to have dyslexia, I’m comfortable saying that it has had zero impact on his ability to fly, or to not only maintain, but dominate academics as well as fulfill his duties as class leader,” Mr. Stewmon finished.
“If he were to have it,” Major Davidson added.
“Then he would in every way qualify for a waiver.”
“If there were a condition to waive, which you’re saying there isn’t.” Major Davidson leaned across his desk.
“It’s impossible to waiver something that’s never been diagnosed or even suspected,” Mr. Stewmon pushed back.
Major Davidson rubbed the skin between his eyes. “You two are killing me. You know that? Masters… You, Bateman, Walker, and Carter. You are my eternal damn headache.”
I hovered, one foot on each side of the scales, waiting to see which way he was going to tip me.
“This matter is closed. You have given me no reason to think there’s an issue, and we’ll let this go. You’re dismissed.”
The air rushed out of my lungs. “Thank you, sir.”
We filed out one by one, but before I could exit, Major Davidson stopped me. “Lieutenant Masters.”
I turned slowly. “Sir.”
“I have a great deal of respect for you, and even a dose of admiration for what you’ve accomplished.” He held out his hand, and I shook it.
“Thank you, sir.” I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
“Go ahead, Bateman, he’ll catch up,” Mr. Stewmon said as we walked toward the parking lot. Jagger gave me the sucks-to-be-you face, and basically ran.
“Thank you, Chief.”
“My son has dyslexia. Did you know that?” he asked.
I swallowed. “No, sir.”
“When he takes a test, he reads every question twice, taking a deep breath in between the reads.” His eyes bored into mine.
I nodded.
He sighed. “What I’m saying, is that I knew the first day, from that first test. But I also knew that you graduated top of your Primary class, which meant you worked your ass off and didn’t let it hold you back. If at any point I thought you were a danger to myself, or to your fellow officers, I would have turned you in myself. You have never given me a reason to, and I will always champion you. But, I knew. I know.”
“Know what, Chief?” I asked, deadpan.
He slapped me on the shoulder. “Exactly.”
“I think today deserves a beer,” Jagger said, heading to the fridge.
“Get me one,” I answered, which earned me two turned heads.
“Seriously?” Josh asked.
“I was accused of dyslexia by my father, nearly getting me kicked out of the program, the woman I love has disappeared, while the woman I used to love is catching up on the last five years of everything. Give. Me. A. Beer.”
Jagger popped the top on a Fat Tire and handed it to me. I’d barely gotten it past my lips when there was a knock at the door.