Page 15 of The Write Off

If you can’t be the best at something, it’s not worth your time.

How many times have I heard that over the years? My father is known for a lot of things, but inspirational speeches are not one of them.

The problem with that platitude is that I’ve never been the best at anything. I did well in school, but was never at the top of my class. I was naturally athletic, but never had the drive or talent to play any sport after high school. I was good at everything, just never great at any one thing.

I’d started University with the classic pre-med course load, resigned to my fate of becoming a doctor like every other male in my bloodline. I’d needed three English courses to complete my degree requirements, which is how I wound up in Professor Davenport’s Literary Classics course during my first term.

He was a brilliant lecturer, able to take a two-hundred-year-old novel and make it feel like it was a living, breathing organism. Picture Robin Williams in Dead Poet’s Society, only he doesn’t get fired in the end. He could take a famous quote you’d heard a thousand times before and make you see it in a completely different light.

I’d always been an avid reader, but suddenly I had a newfound respect for what I was reading and all the work that went into it. I wasn’t just reading stories anymore, I was asking questions, exploring themes and styles, and peeling back the many layers that went into the characters themselves.

I’d managed to do adequately in all my science courses by Christmas, but his course was the only one that really interested me. Unwilling to give up the only bright spot in my academic life, I rearranged my schedule to take another of his courses the next term. He spotted my obvious enthusiasm and invited me to collaborate on the school newsletter. By the end of Winter Term, I was determined to change my major.

When my father found out, he hit the ceiling. I mean that literally. He’s almost as tall as me and he physically punched the ivory painted drywall above his head in a rare display of emotion. He ranted and raved. I took his angry outburst in stride; I was used to being a disappointment in his eyes by that point. When he’d finally yelled himself hoarse and threatened me with every consequence he could conjure, I used the only weapon with which I’d been left: Logic.

I showed him the downright average grades I’d gotten in my medical school prerequisite courses. I told him that even if I managed to get into a post graduate school, it wouldn’t be the one he wanted. I would be a mediocre doctor at best and how would that reflect on him and his legacy? He relented. It was the first time I’d fought him and won.

It was the biggest win of my life. By declaring a new major and refocusing my studies, I was following my own path for the first time. After I earned my degree in English Literature, I spent a year with a digital journalism company before making the move to Thompson And Daye. By becoming an editor I was able to combine my love of reading with my ability to problem-solve.

Manuscripts are like precious stones; no two are exactly the same. I scan them for flaws and inconsistencies and attempt to fix what needs fixing until they’re perfect, or close to it.

Aside from the increase in salary and a tidy bonus, the promotion will mean I will have my pick of clients. These things won’t mean anything to my father who has never forgiven me for not following in his footsteps. But maybe he’ll be impressed with my corner office and private bathroom? When the family name is as recognized and respected in the industry as any other? Maybe he’ll resent me a bit less.

“Uncle Logan?” Anne’s voice drifts out from the living room. It sounds scratchier than normal. “Can I have some juice, please?”

I stick my head around the corner, raising an eyebrow at her. “Something wrong with your legs, Analyzer?” She doesn’t answer me, just smiles softly before looking back at the antics of SpongeBob and Patrick.

I decide to indulge her. After all, she’s headed to her grandparents’ tonight and they certainly won’t. I open the fridge and peruse the three different types of juice I have on hand. There are also yogurt drinks, puddings, and cheese strings. All things I don’t even eat. And it doesn’t stop at the fridge. If you open up my cupboards and pantry, you’ll find fruit snacks, popcorn, and a half dozen boxes of cereal, all with different cartoon mascots illustrated on them.

It looks like the kitchen of a family of five, not a thirty-two-year-old childless bachelor.

I grab the orange juice because I know that’s Anna’s favorite. As I’m closing the door to the fridge, I notice I’ve still got last year’s school pictures displayed. Both kids wear broad grins. Anna is missing one of her front teeth, but it’s since grown in.

A lot has changed in the last fifteen months.

I’ve asked Shannon a few times for this year’s photos, but she says she keeps forgetting, which is understandable. She’s got a lot going on. I highly doubt updating my refrigerator art is high on my sister-in-law’s priority list.

I pour the orange juice in a mug. The little handle will make it easier for Anna to hold on to. As I return to the living room, I spot the cereal stain on Travis’ light-green t-shirt.

“Make sure you change your shirt before we leave for Grandma’s, okay, Travis?” The stain is small, but it won’t escape my mother’s judgmental eyes.

“Sure thing,” he drawls. “Want me to wear a tie, too?”

Smartass.

I ignore him, sitting on the couch next to Anna. “You’re going to have to sit up to drink this.” I watch Anna sluggishly prop herself up on one elbow and then struggle into a sitting position.

“Are you feeling okay, Anna?” I extend the cup for her to take.

“Just tired,” she rasps.

“How late did you stay up last–”

Anna pushes the cup away from me, leans forward, and throws up all over my chest.

Chapter 8

Logan

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