His son Hawk, his baby, is all him. Too much like him. Like watching a runaway train right before the derailment and be powerless to stop it. Not that he'd tell Mary that. Hawk's her baby.

The classroom's bright. The yellow butcher paper sun on the window can't prevent the real sun from poking through. Setting half the room in a blinding glare. Everything in bright primary colors. Tiny red and blue chairs.

"Soda, look." In the second row, left hand side: a truck, drawn with a wild scribble. Crayon spurting outside the lines. If Soda's a different kind of dad he'd notice the other drawings are neater, tidier. He leans forward. Looks intensely at his son's picture. At two stick figures. One with detached arms holding the steering wheel. The other stick figure, smaller, a mess of brown hair, a big grin. The larger figure, with those detached arms, an even bigger grin.

Soda knows it's him because of the truck.

His heart hurts.

Mary notices the other drawings and fumes, "why the hell is his drawing hidden away in the corner? No one can see it. She hates Hawk."

"You found it. Ain't that the important thing?"

She rolls her eyes.

But when Miss. Avery comes in, she welcomes his hand. The way he wraps it around. They are a united front.

Mary wants to be hostile. The entire car ride, Soda every now and then nodding and giving vocal tics of affirmation. She ran her mouth. Who the hell was this woman telling them there was something wrong with Hawk? That's not how she phrased it over the phone, but it's what she meant. Mary learned that from Soda, how to read people. The paranoia, is all hers.

Miss. Avery has unkempt red hair, dazed blue eyes, a voice enthusiastic in all it's nerves.

"Mrs. Curtis, Mr. Curtis, thank you so much for coming." Smart enough to know who's running this show.

Her pit bull mother instincts take a weary half step back. This could be her daughter. Sure, she'd had to screw Bozo to make it happen, but she's young enough to be her daughter. And Mary old enough to be her mother.

Which means Mary Curtis feels, for a second, old. Even though she has a son in Kindergarten who can't color inside the lines.

She'll listen to the lies coming out of Miss. Avery's mouth. Then she'll pounce.

Mary clenches and unclenches and reclenches her fists. She wants Soda's hand. They're in his pockets.

Forty-three when she had Hawk and the entire time she was pregnant, most of it on bed rest, she feared Hawk would have problems, a bigger fear that he wouldn't be born at all.

But he was and the joy he brings to her can't be measured. He is kindhearted and funny, boisterous and rough and tumble and gave the best hugs. The kind that when his arms squeeze around her with all that love she doesn't think it's possible for her to love another person as much or as deeply; even as she does.

He drives her nuts with worry. Climbing things of great heights and jumping off things of greater heights. Once, put a pot on his head and began spinning in a circle, imitated a monkey. "Little man was dropped on his head," Soda deadpanned. But put a spaghetti strainer on top of his own head and joined their son. Mary wheezed from laughing so hard.

She moves towards a blue chair. Pictures it stuck to her ass, like something on a sitcom.

"Think we're supposed to sit in those chairs," he points to the desk and in front, two, adult sized chairs. With pillows for backings.

Soda waits for Miss. Avery and his wife to take a seat. Runs his palms down his thighs.

Hawk is friendly and enthusiastic (she says that twice). Mary listens for the but. Keeps her fist clenched.

Fidgeting.

Hawk's parents sigh with relief.

That's all?

Miss. Avery looks at them with pointed concern.

"He's a boy." Mary says, unusually condescending and curt. Drawing a look from Soda.

Miss. Avery blushes a sort of pink and Soda feels sort of sorry for her. Not easy dealing with parents like him and his wife. No one wants to hear bad news about their kids. He can see the wheels turning, Miss. Avery trying to figure out how to say what she really means. Instead it sounds like she's on stage, trying to recite lines of a script.

Cut the bull and get to the damn point. But he wasn't raised, isn't raising his son, to talk to a woman that way.

They want to test Hawk for something called ADHD. Which stands for something called Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Which sounds like Hawk. Who's a lot like Soda.

Mary makes a noise something like a hmm when she hears disorder.

Why isn't Soda? Soda is the peacemaker-usually, but ruthless when it comes to protecting his family. Why is he just staring?

"Who's they?" Mary lunges forward, a fierce look in her eyes.

Miss. Avery, meek, nervous, blinking; continues talking, "the guidance counselor and Special Education Administrator."

"There's nothing 'special' about my son." It's the only time Mary Curtis will say that her children aren't special. "What, he's eating paste now?" Her laugh is almost catching.

When she gets riled up, she can misfire, aiming them at people she'd never in a million years want to hurt. And before she can say more, he speaks.

Not sure what to say. What he's supposed to say. He used to know. But thinks of the drawing and wants to defend his wife, his son.

"Miss Avery, we appreciate you taking time to talk with us. But, we know him, he's high strung..." (Mary snorts), "but," he adds with emphasis, "he's a real smart kid and..."

"He can write his full name."

"Few other words too," he adds slyly.

Course the son of Mary Curtis would know how to write (and spell) a cuss.

"It has nothing to do with intelligence, Mr. Curtis." Despite her kind tone, despite the fact that Soda knows there are many different kinds of smarts, he feels like he did when he was in school: dumb.

His children aren't dumb.

"But it's got to do with our son," Mary yanks the conversation out of their hands. "It's Kindergarten, think kids are needing to burn off some energy?"

Her question ends in an exclamation.

Soda nods. Hawk's confined to a small room. Soda feels terrible sympathy for his little boy. He pictures him, legs kicking under the table, his little body fidgeting, looking out the window at the playground. Patrick and Hazer needed, thrived, in the quiet; not Hawk. In the periphery he sees the orange and yellow paper rays. Reminds him of bars on a cell. He needs freedom.

There's a conversation going on, and on Mary's "maybe this isn't your line of work." he's jerked back into it.

Soda's teeth grit together, air slurping in between. "Jesus."

Miss. Avery blinks. He's afraid she's going to start crying. He doesn't want to feel sorry for her. Doesn't want to see her cry. Doesn't want to feel anything too complicated. If he still can. Used to be he felt too much, the way he picked up on others emotions like they belonged to him.

The way he was so many different people.

Selfish-that's what he was.

Looks closer. Realizes what at first could be mistaken for the beginning of tears is a type of seething waiting to come out.

He recognizes it.


A/N: S.E. Hinton owns.

Thank you for reading. :)