Guilty Conscious by Oliver Davies (best ereader for students .txt) 📗

fingers through his hair. His was the casually mussed-up look that actually took a lot of effort to maintain, not that he’d ever let anyone know that. The clock on the desk ticked loudly.

“Right,” Altman announced, making Edward jump. “Good work, Vinson. Very good.” He handed Edward back the essay, smiling at him over the top of his glasses. His beard was turning grey in places, a stark contrast against his brown skin, and he constantly tugged at the stiff collar of his shirt and the sleeves of his tweed coat.

“You like it?” Edward took the essay back, looking down at it himself.

“I think the last two paragraphs need a little work,” Altman said, taking his glasses off, folding them up, and crossing his legs. “You start off strong, always do, but towards the end, we lose you a bit. Rework them, and then the conclusion will need a tweak, and you’ll have a star essay there, Vinson.”

“I thought the last two paragraphs were fine,” Edward protested. “I tied in my earlier thing,” he pointed to the second page, “the Virgil quote from the fourth paragraph. I thought it worked.”

“It does work,” Altman replied. “It’s just a bit clunky.”

“Clunky?” Edward repeated.

“Not as well structured as the rest of it. I’d hate to see you miss out on a top mark because of two paragraphs out of an otherwise brilliant piece of work. Work on them, bring them back to me on Thursday, and we’ll have another look.”

“Thursday?” Edward asked, putting his essay into his bag, his annoyance growing.

“Yes. I have a free spot, same time Thursday.”

“I have rugby on Thursday,” Edward told him. “And that’s only two days.”

“So?”

“So, I have other assignments to do,” Edward said, his anger rising. “I can’t put everything off and cancel rugby because you don’t like two little paragraphs.”

Professor Altman sighed heavily and fixed Edward with a disapproving stare. “Two paragraphs should not take you long, Edward. You’re a smart lad, and you know your stuff. You could get it done easily.”

“If I didn’t have other things to do,” Edward retorted. “Like rugby.”

“Rugby can wait, boy.” Altman waved his hand through the air. “A classical education is more important, anyway.”

“Then getting fresh air, physical exercise, and socializing with my friends?” Edward replied in a dead voice.

Altman somehow managed to look even more disapproving then. “You and I both know that, if anything, you could do a little less socialising.”

That was hardly fair. You get a little too drunk in a pub and a police escort home one time, and it’s all anyone can ever think about, even when it happened last year. Granted, there had been slight property damage in the spring, but that wasn’t only him. There were loads of other people around.

“You’re here for a reason, Edward,” Altman was carrying on, “and that reason is that.” He pointed a long finger to Edward’s bag and the essay inside. “You’re a smart boy, and you have a fantastic mind. I think you have so much potential, and you could do so well if you just concentrate a bit more. Stop being quite so reckless. It’ll only hurt you in the long run.”

Edward just nodded. It was a lecture he had heard before, and from more influential people than Altman. He had learnt simply to lower his head and nod, looking like a solemn little puppy until they left it alone.

“Thursday,” Altman repeated, clearly having had enough of giving him this particular lecture. “You can leave it on my desk,” he allowed, tapping the cluttered piece of furniture in question, “but it will be here on Thursday, Edward. No later than five.”

Edward grumbled under his breath, standing up from the chair, and threw his bag over one shoulder with unnecessary roughness. He walked away from Altman without another word, swinging the door open, muttering under his breath. Altman sighed behind him, but the door shut, cutting the sound off, and Edward turned, flipped his middle fingers at the closed door, then stormed down the narrow, winding staircase.

The air outside cooled him down, a welcome cold, clean change from the dismal room above. He fished his phone out, wanting to see if Freya had texted him again. He liked her, or rather, he liked the attention she gave him, more so than anyone else seemed to anymore. There was nothing. He supposed not, given that he’d see her face to face in a little while. Edward replied to a few others from his friends, trying to make plans for the weekend that they really ought not to do without him there. Their ideas were all so boring, vanilla. None of them would ever do anything exciting and story-worthy if Edward weren’t there to shepherd them in the right direction. Poor souls. Once he replied, he spotted a missed call from his father, and already glowering at the prospect of what this conversation might lead to, called him back.

“Edward,” his father greeted him after one ring. He’d have been sitting there, Edward knew. Sat on his leather armchair, the phone on the arm by his hand, glaring at the screen, muttering to his mum and the dogs about rude Edward taking too long to return a simple phone call.

“Hi, Dad. Sorry, I missed your call; I was in with Professor Altman.”

“Ah, your essay,” he cheered up instantly. Couldn’t be mad at Edward for making him wait, not when education was involved. “How did it go?”

“He wants me to rework the last two paragraphs by Thursday,” Edward grumbled.

“Is that a problem?” his father inquired.

“I have another assignment to do,” Edward told him. “And I have rugby with the boys on Thursday, you know that.”

“You can miss one day of rugby, Edward,” his father told him sternly.

Edward stopped walking and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply. His father cared more about his classical education than anything else. Edward had gone to school with colds, with the flu, almost once with an infection until his