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Perfect score.
I’ve been acing this class. Frankly, it’s easy and I like the material.
I give him a nod, my eyes scanning the quiz for lack of anything better to do, when I see a mistake. Rubbing my eyes, I read it over again. Yep, I’d answered question number 10 incorrectly.
Hanging back until everyone clears out, I head to Gephard’s desk. He looks up as I approach.
“How can I help you, Mr. Baylor?”
“There’s a mistake on my quiz, Professor. I have the wrong answer for number 10.” I point to the question. “It should be Charlotte Bartlett, not Freddy Honeychurch.”
Gephard doesn’t even glance at the paper but blinks up at me as though I’m speaking gibberish. The back of my neck goes hot. It’s just one stupid question. I shouldn’t push it. But it bothers me all the same.
I point to the page again. “I wrote that Freddy told Mr. Emerson about Lucy breaking off her engagement with Cecil. But it was Charlotte.”
Smiling, Gephard puts his palm over the quiz and slides it back to me. “It was obvious you’d read the work thoroughly, Mr. Baylor. I saw no reason to mark you down for a simple mistake.”
Something thick and ugly bolts through my gut. “But I got it wrong.”
“Yes, however, it was clear you knew the answer. The fact that you were able to discover the error tells me as much.” He smiles again. “Excellent game last week, by the way. Took my granddaughter to see you play.”
A pulse starts throbbing at the base of my neck. “That’s great...” I look down at the big red 100 scrawled over the top of my quiz. “Are you telling me that when a student answers a question incorrectly, you ignore it if you know they’ve ‘read the work thoroughly’?”
His smile slips a little. “You are an A student. Top of this class.”
Bile burns up my throat. I swallow it down but can’t control the way my heart is now pounding. “Did I get there on my own, or did I have help?”
Gephard sits up straight, his mouth thinning into a purple line. “Just what are you implying, Mr. Baylor?”
“I’m not implying anything,” I say evenly, as though I don’t want to grab hold of his lumpy wool sweater and shake him until his dentures rattle. “I am asking if you make the same allowances for the rest of my classmates.”
His watery gaze flickers away from mine. “My colleagues and I are aware that you have more responsibilities than your classmates.”
“You have got to be kidding me.” It takes everything I have not to smash my fist into the desk. “I never asked for your help. I don’t want it. Ever.”
“Oh, for God’s sake...” Gephard snatches the paper and makes a slash through the question with his red pen. His knobby knuckles tremble as he writes a spindly 99 on the top of the page. He shoves the paper back in my direction. “There. One whole point deduction. You now have a slightly less perfect A, Mr. Baylor. Are you happy?”
Rage pushes its fist against my breastbone. “Don’t you dare try to shame me.”
Gephard’s wispy brows rise, but I don’t give him a chance to speak.
“I have just as much a right to ask questions as any other student.” Holding the test up between us, I glare at him. “Apparently more.”
His face turns magenta. “You are overreacting.”
Bracing my fists on the desk, I lean my weight on them, bringing my face level with his. Fear widens his eyes, and part of me wants to laugh. He thinks I’m a thug. Lovely.
I keep my voice level and enunciate so he can hear every word distinctly. “I beg to differ.”
Snatching the quiz up, I turn and leave the classroom.
I manage to walk out on Gephard without screaming, but I’m far from calm. I can barely see straight as I leave campus and head home. My head is throbbing. There is a buzzing sound in my ears.
On the seat of my car, my quiz lies face up, mocking me with its false score. Yeah, I still received an A. But how many other times have I been helped out by my professors?
For the most part, English lit is subjective, the bulk of my grades coming from how well my professors believe I’ve handled the topic. I think of the hours I’ve spent hunched over my computer, trying to put my thoughts down in words. And the pride I felt when I got high marks on those papers.
My sweaty hands grip the steering wheel as a wave of humiliation slaps down on me. Was it all a joke? A fucking joke on me?
