"I gave you 65 per cent on this paper," he reminded her. "A passing grade—barely—but I've seen you do much better work."

Jill was beyond embarrassed by the poor job she'd done on the paper, and what she expected was an equally poor showing on the final exam. It certainly wasn’t the way she’d planned to end her graduate school career. She recited the answer that seemed to work best in these circumstances: apologetic, acknowledging fault, not at all defensive, basically throwing herself on the mercy of the court. She didn't want to argue with Czerny because she got the distinct feeling that she wouldn't win.

"Well, no one's going to write an A-plus paper every time, Jill, but I'm sure you realize that the final exam is quite another matter."

"Is that why I'm here?" Jill asked. Her voice was still even, but she felt another angst-y flutter in her abdomen.

"Not necessarily." He leaned back a bit in his chair, and tossed her paper onto the desk, face down. "I ask all my graduating students to come see me after the course has ended. So I can let them have their final marks before they are submitted, but also just to talk about their experience with the class. In case they have any suggestions or observations they'd like to pass on."

"Oh, okay. That makes sense." Jill breathed a little easier, and settled more comfortably in her chair. He’d said graduating students: that at least was reassuring. Maybe this lemon was going to turn into lemonade after all.

There was a pause, a tranquilizing silence that lasted only two or three seconds before Czerny sat up straight and fixed his stare, glassy blue and intense, on Jill.