The Moral of the Story

The phone rang on Angela’s desk.

“We need you to visit with Bart. He’s admitted to me that he’s smoked grass and I confiscated a baggie full of the stuff.”

Angela quickly agreed and said she would be right over. As she drove to the house, scenarios kept playing in her mind. Bart was 11 years old, and had come to CPS from a terrible drug environment. He knew the risks associated with the lifestyle. She would have never have guessed he would do something like this.

She pulled into the drive and the door opened.

“He’s in his room. I’ve spoken with him, but who knows if I got through.” Doug, Bart's foster father handed her the baggie.

Far from being full there was a dried grassy substance in the bottom. Angela opened the bag and smelled it, didn’t smell like marijuana, but it did look similar.

She shut the bag, handed it back and sighed. “I’ll go get him and we’ll take a little ride and I’ll see what he has to say.”

She disappeared into Bart's room and came out seconds later with him. He looked at his dad and said “Ms. Angela’s taking me for a ride. Is that okay?”

“Yes, it is.” He bent down and looked him in the eye. “I want you to be straight with her you understand?”

Bart nodded. “Yes, sir.”

They got in her car and drove through a fast food place where she got them both a drink. “So, I hear you’ve been smoking grass. Is that true?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How many times?”

He thought for a minute. “Three times.”

“Where?”

“Behind the garage.”

“How did you feel?”

“Felt fine, I ain’t been sick.”

“No, Bart, after you smoked the grass, what did you feel?”

“Nothin’.”

“”Nothing? At all? Any of the times?”

“Nope. Nothin’.”

“Bart, with your background, you know what smoking marijuana can do . . .”

“Oh, Ms. Angela, I ain’t been smokin’ no weed. I smoked grass.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “What kind of grass?”

He pointed out the window. “Like that.”

“The green stuff you mow?”

He nodded his head. “Ms. Angela, I know better than to do weed.”

“The stuff that’s between the curbs there in the street?” He nodded.

She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “What kind of paper did you use? Did you have cigarette papers?”

“No, it was pink. And one was white.”

“Pink?”

“Yeah, had writing on it. It was hung on the door.”

“You mean a flyer?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And the other was white?”

“Uh-huh. Real thin. Found it in the trash can.”

She fished in her purse and handed him a slip of paper. “Like this one?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So you used a pink flyer that you found on the door and a credit card receipt you found in the trash?”

“Yep.”

“Who taught you to do this?”

“The girl next door.”

“Was it her idea?”

“Yep, but I went along with it.”

“Did Doug talk to you about this?”

He sat up straighter in the seat. “Yes, ma’am. He did. He told me I don’t never need to do that again and I told him I wouldn’t. ‘Sides it was a lot of work for nothin’.”

She looked out the window to hide the smile. “Well, I’ll take you back home, but you can’t smoke anything again, ever. I think you understand that. You need to listen when Doug talks and do what he says.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They parked in front of the house and Angela followed him in. “Go on to your room now and do your homework. And keep out of trouble.”

He grinned at her. “Yes, ma’am.”

She turned to face Doug. “It was grass and he did admit to smoking it.”

Doug’s face fell. “Did you take it to the police sub-station on the corner?”

Doug shook his head. “I didn’t want to get Bart in trouble.”

“Give it to me and I’ll take care of it.” She started for the door. “And next time you mow your lawn, rake up the clippings to keep temptation out of his way.” As she closed the door she heard laughter.

The moral of the story is: Things aren’t always what they appear to be and jumping to conclusions is only good as exercise.


Stevie

Copyright Fort Worth, TX 2005