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“Well, our station had a ‘no pet’ policy. Baker said the guy was a snowflake, that he should just keep a candy bar in his pocket.”
Donoho snuffs. “Not surprised.”
“He then said he was going to make things purposely difficult for him.” I stand because I’m getting angry all over again. “Harder. On purpose. Just because this kid needed some extra help. He said he didn’t want ‘lazy firefighters.’ Said he was going to have the other guys do the same.” I look away. “What kind of stupid—”
He cuts me off. “And because of that, you didn’t ask for the accommodations you needed.”
My eyes flick to his, resigned. “Nope.”
“And you failed.”
I pause and sit. “Yep.”
I mentally kick myself, the way I do every time I think about this whole stupid situation.
“I. . .needed them. I can’t read so well. I needed time taking tests. Changes in the way I got the study materials. Hearing it, not reading it, things like that. So. . .”
I hold up both hands in a here’s what I did pose.
Donoho sits forward in his chair. “You told him you needed accommodations.”
“Yep.”
“And that didn’t go so well.”
I laugh ruefully. “Nope.”
Another pause.
“He asked me if I think there should be a special ed wing on the station house. I told him it’s not any different than a wheelchair ramp for a person with a physical disability.”
I ball up my fists. It’s taken me years of grappling with this to accept it, and Baker set me back—way back—tapping in to all the old garbage I’d had to sort through after my diagnosis.
“Then he said he didn’t want a—” I look away at the memory. It wasn’t the first time someone had used the R-word around me. Or to describe me. And I don’t even have to say it for Donoho to get it. I see the knowing in his eyes. “. . .to be lieutenant.”
Donoho’s jaw drops a bit. “He said. . .what?”
I grit my teeth and look away.
“He didn’t say much after that. And I never did re-take the test.”
I hate talking about it. I hate that I lost my temper, and I hate that there are idiots in this world who think like Baker.
But I don’t hate feeling his teeth through his cheek slam into my fist.
“Man. I knew Baker was old school, but. . .” the captain says. “I didn’t know he was like that.”
“Yeah, well, it’s more common than you think,” I say, thinking of all the ways I’ve been judged in my life.
“Well, you won’t get that kind of treatment here.”
I look up.
“I’ve got a dyslexic kid,” he says. “So, I get it. More than most.”
“You do?”
The captain nods. “And as far as I’m concerned, Baker got what he deserved. Plus, I’m more than willing to let you test with the accommodations you should’ve had in the first place.”
