Peyton’s Story

Everyone is entitled to a moment of uncertainty, a moment where the line between right and wrong blurs. I wouldn’t say that I’m proud of the position I’m in, but I, in no way, planned to sit here, contemplating whether or not I should plagiarise my work. I was never the type of student who would ever think to plagiarise my work, but I guess I'm not the person I used to be. I was the top of my class, I never had to worry about my grades or my work. This wasn't my fault, I never wanted to be so far behind that the only option that I can think of is plagiarism. Maybe plagiarism isn’t the only option, maybe I could... Oh, it's no use, I have no other choice. Maybe I could take bits of work from a few different reports, that way it would be considerably harder to detect the plagiarised work. The only problem with that is, how do I get my hands on that many reports?...

“Miss Reid, Peyton Reid. The richer characters in Oliver Twist were written to be happier than the poor characters. Is Dickens arguing that money leads to happiness?” Suddenly, I was brought back to my dark, uninteresting university classroom, where my teacher, Mr Harrison, stood out the front, staring at me. He was a funny man, Mr Harrison, sometimes he would prance around the room, completely engrossed in the world of literature. However, this time he was not prancing; quite the opposite actually. His usually cheerful face was now stern and unimpressed, his arms were folded tightly across his chest.

“Well Miss Reid, do you believe Mr Dickens was arguing that money leads to happiness?” It was at this moment I realised that I’d spent the entire lesson dwelling over committing the act of plagiarism, that I hadn’t paid attention to anything Mr Harrison was saying.

“Umm, well... Mr Harrison, I believe that Mr Dickens was trying to portray that... Well he said that, um...” I looked around suddenly becoming very aware of all the eyes fixed on me, eagerly waiting for my next move. I could feel my heart starting to race, I knew I had to respond with something that was in depth so people would believe I was paying attention.

“I believe that Mr Dickens was merely saying that money was an object of power. In the 18th century, power could lead to the appearance of happiness. I think, Mr Harrison, the question you should be asking is, were any of the characters really happy, or was it just disguised by wealth?”

Mr Harrison looked down at his paper, carefully straightening his pencils so they aligned parallel with the other ones. “Well Miss Reid, it appears you were paying attention after all. Thank you, you should speak up more often, you have a lot of really interesting ideas, I would like to hear more of them.” He went back to his desk and continued reading from the slides projected on the screen. I tried desperately hard to stay focused for the remainder of the lesson, but I found myself getting lost in my own thoughts.

Before I knew it, Mr Harrison was shoving his old, slightly torn textbooks into his leather Attachés briefcase. I took note of the immaculate way his desk was left; I almost envied the way he had time to attend to little things, such as his appearance and the way he organised his desk. I simply get up, attend to Elliott, head to university, return home to Elliot and study. There simply aren’t enough hours in the day.

If there were, I wouldn’t be sitting here envying my English teacher's ability to pack up his desk. I chose this moment in time to pack up my only belongings - which only consisted of a pencil, my laptop, a notebook and my water bottle - into my old muffled backpack.

To my left, was the class know-it-all Jenny, her notes were so conveniently placed that it wasn't my fault that my eyes just happened to catch a glimpse of what was written. I couldn't make out most of it, as despite her truly brilliant brain, her handwriting was nothing shy from atrocious.

I waved a half-hearted goodbye to Jenny and proceeded on my routine walk home. The old rubble path led from the front of the English block right around the university and over to the council flats. Just past the council flats lies a basic supermarket and a tiny toy shop.

I started the up-hill stroll to my flat, my single story, 2 bed flat, which I shared with my 15-year-old brother, Elliott. Elliott’s all I have. I became his caregiver 2 years ago, I help him with his school work and he never complained about the lack of toys or money he got. I wish I could give him more, but I shouldn't complain, Elliott and I manage just fine by ourselves.

As I neared the old oak tree at the top of the hill, my thoughts were drawn back to my current dilemma: Plagiarism. I very much disliked the word plagiarism, it sounded all too illegal, although I guess I shouldn't hide behind a synonym of plagiarism, that made me feel better about considering such a thing. I still can't believe I'm even contemplating such a thing, it takes one type of person to cheat on one question, but to plagiarise one's entire work is quite another. Maybe I should just explain to them that I need more time, that I have to take care of Elliott. I dare not think that would work.

The sun was beginning to move behind the tree line as I finally made my way up the steps to the front door of my flat. 2b Albert avenue. I found that if you say it with a posh English accent, it sounds like a rather nice place to live. In all seriousness it is, it's warm in the winter and cool in the summer, what more could we ask for? Elliott was sitting where he always sat at the dining table, doing his homework. I quickly discovered that year nine math homework was rather more difficult from when I was a year nine.

“You’re late,” Elliott said without looking up from his papers. I proceeded to the kitchen where I found the breakfast dishes neatly stacked away.

“I see you've done the washing up. Thank you. I have a gift for you,” I said, holding out a neatly wrapped present over the counter. His eyes looked up from his papers and over to me. “You really shouldn't have,” he said, as he moved over to the kitchen counter.

“I wanted to get you a present to thank you for your amazing work around the house,” I said, passing him the present. His eyes lit up as he pulled the present closer to his chest. He began unwrapping the present, slowly revealing more and more of the gift.

“No way, you got me a phone! I don't know what to say, thank you Peyton,” he said, as he removed the phone from its case.

“It's only a Telstra Essential, but it has all the features of an iPhone; it has a camera, you can message and call me, it even tells the time.” We both started laughing as we examined the phone. Dinner was spent laughing and discussing our favourite tv show, Midsomer Murder, Elliott can always work out who the killer is before it’s revealed.

Before I knew it, it was eight o’clock and I hadn't even started my study. I bided Elliott goodnight and headed to my room, where I would be studying until the early hours of the morning. A draft slowly drifted through my open window and infested my room with bitterly cold air. I closed my window, swiftly, taking a moment to admire the shadowed scenery, abstract in its starry solitude. Looking back at my room, my eyes slowly adjusted to the comparative brightness. After which, I sat down in my chair; slouching, habitually. I sighed, my head rested in my palm. My mind returned to the same dreadful feeling of uncertainty that had haunted me all day.

All the factors in making a rational decision seemed overwhelming. My mind went over the possible outcomes of either decision with frightening pessimism. Hours seemed to disappear in the blink of an eye, when finally, I made up my mind. I would plagiarise. That night was deafeningly quiet; I found it unbearable. Every murmur of sound was exceedingly amplified by the silence. My thoughts drifted into a surreal dream. I found my eyes hard to keep open, but I didn’t feel tired. I was lost; conflicting thoughts and feelings hammered away in my mind as I felt an urgency to complete the assignment.

I opened my word document. A string of words at the top of the page, read: Charles Dickens: His Background and Influence. The rest of the page was blank. vertical black line flashed in the upper left- hand corner of the page. I stared at it despairingly for moments; until I finally felt cold enough to plagiarise.

A few days ago, I had found a conveniently relevant and exceptionally informative article on Charles Dickens. It had been lingering in the back of my mind ever since. But now, it seized my thought; I could think of nothing else. Through the next couple hours, I sought, found and dissected the article, thoroughly. I found it most enlightening. I replicated it on my own word document, being sure to alter some of the words and phrases, until I was satisfied that it was distinguishable from its source.

For a while, I felt indifferent, until my eyes closed and I started to drift off into a regretful and guilt-ridden sleep. Mr Harrison was lecturing us on being responsible and referencing our sources. His tone of voice was assertive, almost aggressive. He paced up and down the front of the room as his arms shifted in response to his decisive tone. I found myself zoning out as seconds ticked, it almost seemed, anticlockwise.

At the sound of the bell, my heart sank. Students roared in relief, conversed at long last, and vacated the room, unhesitatingly. However, I didn’t share my peers' enthusiasm. I was terrified at the thought of getting caught. I stood up, my breath, laboured. I was to hand in my plagiarised assignment that day, but I was horribly reluctant. I wandered toward the front of the room, a physical copy of my plagiarised assignment buried within my books. My mind screamed at me to reconsider handing in the assignment, but I ignored it to the best of my ability. Mr Harrison’s eyes met mine and, immediately, my head bowed in shame. “M- Mr Harrison,” I stuttered.

“Miss Reid,” he called, surprisingly cheerful.

I smiled, numbly, rifling through my books to retrieve my plagiarised assignment. “Here,” I said, as I finally found and held out the assignment. He took it. I wished for it back. “Thank you,” he said. He examined the assignment briefly before placing it neatly on his desk. On my way out, I took one final glance at the classroom, with the belief that it would be the last time that I would be permitted to.

The next morning, I was called into Mr Harrison’s office. I thought existentially for the fleeting moments of silence until my teacher broke it: “Your assignment-” he began. I felt dread throughout my body. I knew what he was going to say: Your assignment is plagiarised; or: Your assignment troubles me. That’s the end of my education... I thought, and I deserve the demise.

“-is amazing!” he exclaimed. I smiled, dubiously. “...Thank you,” I said. My feeling of dread slowly subsided as Mr Harrison praised me for the work that wasn’t mine. I nodded along modestly to his praise for quite some time. When he had finally finished awarding me my undeserving praise, a thought of mine became lucid: I had gotten away with it!

By the time I had stood up and was ready to resume my lessons, I heard gentle knocking on the door. Mr Harrison walked over and opened the door with a warm grin. “Professor Camellia!” he said, surprised. My eyes shifted toward the doorway; there, stood Professor Camellia, ominously silhouetted in the light. They wore a smile of uncertainty and their eyes wandered the room.

“Peyton Reid,” they said, almost inaudible. “I would like to speak to you in my office.” Their office felt unusually cold and looked to be unused. The overhead light blared in a dull, incessant hum. I sat, tepid, as my mind writhed.

Professor Camellia stood over me, hesitating. More undeserving praise, I thought, as the feeling of guilt washed over me. What’s worse is that, even in my confidence that I had gotten away with stealing, it was on the tip of my tongue to confess; but silent I sat, in wait of Professor Camellia to declare that my assignment was incredible, enlightening and completely original.

“Your assignment...” they said at last, “it’s really good.” That dismissed all of my doubts that they knew that I was a thief.

“But there is one thing that needs to be addressed...” My heart stopped. They sat down beside me. Now on my level, they spoke roundly: “A graduate of mine wrote an article very similar to yours. “The two shared points, structure and examples.” I gulped as I tried desperately not to look distressed.

“I’m just wondering... is this your own work?”

As I sat, pathetically quivering in Professor Camelia's office, being questioned on my assignment’s authenticity, my mind left my body, horribly regretful. Everyone is entitled to a moment of uncertainty... but my moment was invalid. A misjudgement that could have been avoided had I been less ignorant. If only I could take it back. If only I could. I’ve trapped myself and now I don’t know how to find my way out. I’m going to be expelled - and I deserve it. And Elliott, oh, how I’ve failed you. I am sorry; most dearly, I am.