I had only art-class scissors, with blunted edges. It took nine tries to chop off a long-stemmed red rose. The second came more easily—but the third I yanked off in a rush: the gendarmes had spotted me and started shouting.
I ran home.
With thorn-bloodied hands, I presented my bouquet. “Sorry for the B+.”
“Stop stealing municipal flowers,” growled mom, as the gendarmes came banging on our door.