Page 11 of Ethan & Grace

“You didn’t write this paper yourself,” he replied matter-of-factly, as if it were a scientifically proven fact. “I hardly need to remind you that Imperial College has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to plagiarism. Submitting work that isn’t your own could cost you your place here.”

“Do you have any proof to back your accusation?”

He jabbed a finger at the paper. “This is all the proof I need.”

“I wrote that paper.”

“Lying won’t get you anywhere, Ethan,” he said in a tone so condescending it could have rivalled my dad’s. “We both know you didn’t write this. The author uses words you wouldn’t even know how to spell. Ambiguity, for example.”

“A-m-b-i-g-u-i-t-y,” I spelled without hesitation.

Professor Sattler’s expression darkened, as if I’d insulted his mother. “That proves nothing. You opened a dictionary. Well done. If you did so more often, you wouldn’t need to get other people to write your papers.”

I pressed my lips together. Professor Sattler was clearly not about to revise his opinion of me. He’d formed it long ago—probably on the day I’d vomited on his car. To him, I was just another spoiled trust-fund brat, with all the brains of a mayfly.

I could have given him a blow-by-blow account of how I’d researched and developed my thesis, and how I’d driven to the university library in the middle of the night to fetch a book that wasn’t available online. He still wouldn’t have believed me. He’d simply have found new ammunition to shore up the picture he already had of me. And I couldn’t really blame him. At the end of the day, I was exactly who he thought I was: a spoiled trust-fund brat who hadn’t exactly dazzled with his academic achievements.

“What happens next?” I asked instead of protesting.

Professor Sattler’s mouth twitched smugly. In his eyes, my question was as good as an admission of guilt. “You have two options, and only because I’m generous,” he replied patronisingly. “Option one: I report the incident to the examination board, who will review your work and, in all likelihood, reach the same conclusion as me—you can’t possibly have written it yourself. It would mark the end of your academic career at Imperial College.”

“And the second option?”

“You hand in a new paper on a different topic, written yourself, by next Monday. Your decision.”

Part of me wanted to drag Professor Sattler to face the examination board, just to see the fury on his face when they took my side. But although I truly had written the paper myself, there was still a small chance that the board would side with Professor Sattler.

I had no problem with being expelled from Imperial College, but if it came to that, it would only be a matter of time before the media caught wind, and the last thing my family needed was more negative headlines. Thanks to my dad, we already had plenty of those. I would have cared less if my dad had been the only one affected by it, but Henry was caught up in it too, and he didn’t deserve that. Not after everything he’d gone through in the last few months.

“I’ll write a new paper.”

“Wise choice. I’ll send you an email this afternoon with a new topic. I expect at least fifteen pages, and you’d better not fob me off with someone else’s work again.”

I gritted my teeth and nodded. There was nothing more to say.

Professor Sattler and I stared at each other for a few seconds, until I could no longer bear the sight of his arrogant face. Then I turned away and jogged up the auditorium stairs.

Heavy, dark clouds hung in the sky when I left the South Kensington campus. The people around me were hurrying to find shelter before the heavens opened. I looked around for Wallace but couldn’t see my driver anywhere. My gaze fell instead on a familiar figure leaning against a wine-red Maserati.

“James?”

“Finally! I thought you’d never show up!” he called, as if I’d kept him waiting on purpose. I hadn’t even known he was in town. James was studying at Cambridge and only came to London on weekends, if at all.

I greeted him with a hug. He returned it warmly, giving me a firm clap on my back. “My professor wanted to talk to me.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Not anymore. I took care of it,” I replied with an indifferent shrug, although it infuriated me to have to write the paper again—and do a worse job of it this time, to make it seem more believable that I’d written it. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see my best friend. What else? Get in!”

“Wallace was supposed to pick me up,” I said, glancing around for my driver, who was still nowhere to be seen.

“I gave him fifty quid and sent him away,” James said, circling his car to get in.

I dropped into the passenger seat. Although the Maserati was already a year old, the interior still smelled of new leather. James had probably hidden an air freshener somewhere that exuded that new-car smell.

The engine sprang to life with a gentle purr. James eased the car smoothly out of the parking space to glide into the hectic afternoon traffic just as the first raindrops began to fall.