Nᴏᴛ Gᴀʏ {Tᴇᴇɴ/Jᴏʜɴʟᴏᴄᴋ}

№ 1

Everyone has a talent.

Whether it's music or art or intelligence, everyone is good at something. Dad was good at drinking. Harry was good at hiding. Mum was good at hoovering the carpet. On the flip side, I never thought I was very talented or gifted; not like most people. I always thought I was generic - a blank slate, blank merely because there was no plausible way for me to carve anything in. But what I would come to learn eventually was that I had one talent that was both extremely powerful and blatantly obvious.

I was damn good at lying to myself.

"Mum?" I asked as she drove me to the other side of town in her new car that we could barely afford. It was night, and the streets were dark and somewhat serene.

"Yes, John?" she asked, turning left on to a new street and waiting for my question.

"Do I really need another job?"

She pursed her lips and stared at the road ahead of us. "Sweetie, don't start with this."

"I'm already going to be balancing my studies on my shoulders," I said. "I'll be going to uni in two months, Mum. I don't want to work any more than I need to."

"John Hamish Watson," Mum said, parking in front of a small children's hospital and turning to face me. She always used my middle name when she wanted to have power over me. She likely knew I hated it. "I don't want you to end up like me. Every day I worry about not being able to keep our flat and not being able to pay for food. What if you suddenly end up needing specs? Hmm? What will we do then?"

"Mum," I said, "I, for one, don't have a drug habit. The reason you're not doing well off is because you snorted heroin for five years straight."

Mom closed her eyes and sighed. "Get your arse into that building," she snapped. "I set up an interview for you. Take it." She unlocked the car door and practically shoved me out of it, driving off as soon as my feet touched the Tarmac-infused floor of the car park. I put my hands into the pockets of my grey rain jacket and went inside.

The automatic doors rolled open for me, and I stepped into a room full of bright light, constant phone ringing, and crying children. I insecurely stepped forward to the front desk, where a middle-aged man stared me down.

"May I help you?" he asked groggily, and I nodded.

"John Watson here for an interview."

He flipped through some papers and crossed my name off from a list. "Down the hall to the right. Room 110."

"Right," I said. "Thank you."

He merely grunted and went back to his work, pushing his thin glasses up the bridge of his greasy nose. I turned and headed down the hallway, stopping at the designated room and knocking at the heavy, white door.

"Come in."

I pushed the door open, stepping awkwardly into the room and sitting down in a chair in front of my interviewer. She was a girl about my age, and she shook my hand. "Nice to meet you," she said. "My name is Molly."

"John," I said. "Watson. John... Hamish... Watson." I stiffly sat back in my seat as Molly looked down at her sheet of paper, her thin lips bright red and her eyelids tinted blue.

"Let's begin, shall we?" she said. "So you're here for an extra job?"

"Yes," I said. "I'm going to university in a few months, and my Mum wants to make sure my finances are..." I sighed. "...extra stable."

"Okay," she said. "And do you have experience with children?"

"Lots. Buckets and buckets," I said, remembering looking after my baby cousins with my sister Harriet, wincing as I thought of the screaming and crying and endless loads of poo.