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‘Oh. What about?’
His eyes meet mine and there is renewed speculation in them. ‘How many students were in your group?’
‘Five. You have the list, right?’
‘Yet you, and you alone, wrote the assignment.’
I blink at him, confused by his insight. He’s right, but he has no way of knowing that. ‘It’s a group assignment,’ I demur. ‘We all played our part.’
He expels a sigh. ‘You can’t let people take advantage of you like this. You’re starting your career. You’re very smart. If you’re not careful, you’ll crumble under the pressure of what becomes the norm for people to expect of you.’
‘No one took advantage of me.’
‘But you wrote the whole thing. Fifteen thousand words.’
I don’t answer at first. I reach for another cannelloni then realise I’ve stuffed them all. I lay the piping bag down without meeting his eyes. ‘It was a team effort.’
‘You have a certain style to your phrasing. A logic that is uniquely your own. This paper might as well have been a fifteen-thousand-word autograph, Miss Amorelli.’
I am flattered.
I should be more defensive, more outraged, more protective of my groupmates. But his intuitive familiarity with my writing sparks something in my chest. Pride, relief, gladness. They all tumble through me, making me smile.
‘It’s not funny. I’m annoyed at you.’
I laugh. ‘Why?’
‘Because you can’t let people walk all over you.’
‘I assure you, I didn’t.’ I bat my eyelids at him. ‘What did you grade the assignment?’
‘I’m giving you a high mark,’ he says. ‘But I’m severing you from your group. They’ll fail unless they can show me detailed research notes proving their involvement.’
All amusement drops from my face. ‘You’re kidding?’
‘No, Olivia. This is your final year. They can’t skate by on your hard work. I can’t let them.’
‘No one’s... Oh, God, Connor, please don’t do that.’ I move around to his side of the bench with urgency. ‘It was my idea for me to do the damned thing. Our schedules were so chaotic and we could barely get together. It was a topic I was comfortable with—so similar to a research piece I did last year. You can’t fail them. Please.’
I hover in front of him, my arms lifting around his neck of their own volition.
‘Are you actually standing between my legs, asking me to change grades for you?’
‘Not my grade,’ I mutter, knowing that I’ve moved into ethically questionable territory. ‘Theirs.’ My cheeks drain of colour. ‘Or fail me, too. Don’t sever me. Say you suspect it wasn’t a proper group effort and fail us all—let us resubmit in a month. Please.’
‘Jesus, Olivia, it doesn’t work like that. How many group assignments have you done at the LLS?’
‘I don’t know. Ten, maybe eleven.’
‘Enough to know that the approach is in the name. Nothing’s easy about group assignments. Everyone knows that. It’s preparation for the real world. Do you think I liked having to rely on other people? People who didn’t have my understanding of the law or motivation to work my arse off? It’s the worst. You suck it up. That’s as important as the content of the assignment.’
His lecture is striking every chord in my body and, absurdly, tears fill my eyes. Tears which catch us both off guard. ‘Let’s talk about it at school on Monday,’ he says gently.
‘No.’ My heart is twisting painfully. ‘I can’t... I can’t... This is not good.’ I move away from him, back into the kitchen. I sip my wine and then turn away from him, staring out of the window at the view I have of a brick wall, sprayed liberally with bright graffiti. It is a fascinating contrast—jagged and sharp, somehow beautiful, too.
There is loveliness in the defacement. Hope in the ruins.
* * *
