It was no use. When she walked into her classroom she was greeted by whistles and catcalls from her students, and saw the reason why. An enormous bouquet of deep shell-pink roses, two dozen at least, stood on her desk, and Grant and half his class peered around the door that connected their rooms. The words “mea culpa” had been written in foot-high calligraphic script with colored chalk on her blackboard. “That means ‘my fault’, right? C’mon, Ms. Fairchild. Whatever he did, you have to forgive him. Those are the most gorgeous roses I’ve ever seen,” gushed one of her students. “Thank you, Kelly, your translation is correct. How would you say, ‘I’ll think about it’ in Latin?” she replied crisply, picking up an eraser and ignoring Grant. The entire room groaned. After class Grant sidled back around the door. Theo shooed away her remaining students, mostly girls, who looked disappointed as she closed the door behind them. “And?” Grant said.She studied him for appropriate signs of contrition as she put her books away, and decided to let him stew a little longer.
