Page 33 of Ignition

Meanwhile, the unglamorous reality nearly made me snort:

Two hours spent in the library, redoing the notes that asshole had ruined, cursing under my breath and calling him every name under the sun, to Pri’s mix of stifled giggles and indignant gasps.

Two more hours of polishing the assignment for Professor Thorne’s Advanced Criminal Procedure course, making sure every comma was whipped into shape.

Papers rustled as they were passed forward, and an excited buzz wrapped around the lecture room as class drew to a close. My nerves fluttered in my chest as I handed mine to the person in front of me and tucked away my notebook.

Didn’t think much of it until a week later when—

A zero?

What the—

The afternoon light came in golden through the pale green gauze curtains in my room as I stared at the unforgiving square, heart sinking, thrashing, and bleeding all over the hardwood floor.

It can’t be.

My finger jabbed the refresh button on the campus portal, over and over.

No change.

My feet gouged a hole in the carpet as I paced, head whipping around to check the screen so often, it looked like I was possessed.

Not even the sweet scent of the candle I’d lit earlier could soothe my jagged nerves. A zero on a midterm assignment… it would drag my grades so far down, I might lose my scholarship.

I sank heavily into the upholstered chair, rolled it under the desk, and clicked the refresh button a hundred times more.

Still, nothing.

Not a mistake, then. But how?

A dozen theories swirled in my mind, each more unlikely than the next, human error the most plausible one.

My fingers shook as I pulled out my phone and checked his office hours. The plan formed almost on its own as I walked, laptop clutched to my chest, papers still warm from the printer. My hand trembled a little when it lifted to knock, the golden plaque by the door making my stomach twist.

Inside lay exactly what I’d pictured.

Light spilled from bronze sconces, illuminating the dark wood panels lining the walls and the shelves rising to the ceiling, crammed with leather tomes. A thick Persian rug warmed the hardwood floor, and the desk—massive, intimidating—gave me the impression of a dangerous animal lying dormant.

For a moment, Professor Thorne was a mere silhouette, backlit by the afternoon sun, until I shuffled closer, and a pair of sharp brown eyes took me in.

The green vintage lamp perched on the desk clicked on, and he gestured for me to sit in the chair opposite him.

No surprise flickered on his face, as if he’d… expected me. His hands steepled together, and his bushy, grey-tinged brows took on an inquisitive quirk.

“Miss Alcott.”

I shifted in my seat, sucked in a sharp breath and held it, but he said no more.

“Sir, there’s been a mistake,” I blurted out before I lost my nerve.

“There’s no way my assignment received a zero…” I ground my teeth together, biting down on the urge to dive into my conspiracy theory. Something sharpened in his eyes, but he didn’t speak.

“I didn’t forget to hand it in, I think it… got lost.”

He was silent for a lifetime.

Then, he took something out of the pocket of his impeccable grey suit: a pen, matte black with a hint of gold. It clicked open as he pulled a paper towards him, like a prelude to the sentence he was about to pass.