Chapter One

The phone rang four times before there was a mumbled "'Lo?"

"Sodapop, you ain't sleeping, are you?" Darry scolded. "It's almost noon."

Soda yawned, trying to get his bearings. He was alone in the king-sized bed and the house sounded quiet. He tried to focus. Saturday, right? Saturday. His family could be anywhere.

"Hell, yeah, I'm sleeping," he answered. "I was out half the night towing a wreck offa 75." He rubbed his face, trying to wake up. "I hate wrecks, man."

Darry sighed. "Sorry."

"Ah, it's no big thing, you didn't know." Soda stretched. "What's up?"

"I have a message for you." Darry still lived in the old Curtis house, where they'd all grown up. Over the years, he'd fixed it up considerably and now it was modern and neat and bore little resemblance to the messy, shabby home of their childhood. He looked around the kitchen. Nothing was the same, not even the appliances, but he could see traces of his teenage brothers, sitting at the old table, and a tearstained letter falling to the floor. He sighed, then asked, "Do you remember Sandy Hinton?"

"You never forget your first love," Soda said easily. "Or your first heartbreak. Gosh, I haven't thought of her in years. What about her?"

"Some woman left a message on my machine for you. Maureen something … wait a minute." Darry rummaged through the papers by the telephone. "Here it is. Maureen Tull. Said she's a friend of Sandy's and Sandy said to look you up. Want the number?"

"Sure. Hold on." Soda pushed himself out of bed and, clad only in his boxers, padded to the kitchen. His wife, Corrine, kept a memo board on the fridge. Soda picked up the marker. "Tull, like Jethro?"

"I guess. She didn't spell it." Darry recited the number.

"Okay. I'll give her a call. Lemme wake up and I'll call you later."

"I thought we were coming by later. Barbecue, Cory said."

"Oh, yeah, is that today?" Soda yawned hugely. "Okay. Bring potato chips or whatever she told you to bring. I'll see you later."

He hung up and rummaged through the fridge, looking for cake, which he still ate almost every morning. Corrine hadn't minded until the kids got old enough to ask to join him, and then cake was the source of most of the arguments they had. All that changed when Soda saw Bill Cosby do his routine about feeding his children chocolate cake for breakfast. He taught Shayne and Liz to sing "Dad is great! Give us the chocolate cake!" whenever Corrine objected.

There was a lone piece, wrapped carefully in Saran Wrap, with a note on top.

Hi Daddy, I am at Wendy's Wendy Garrett's, not the burger place and Mom took Shay to get cleats and then to practice and then she's with Aunt Miranda. Don't forget the uncles tonight. Can you pick me up at 2? Call me and tell me, OK? I love you. I'm sorry you worked all night. Lizzy

Soda smiled. Liz was 12 and still thought he was the greatest thing since sliced bread. She'd been Daddy's little girl since the minute she was born. Shayne was 15 and thought he, himself, knew everything and consequently, Soda and Corrine were stupid. At least twice a week, Soda wondered if he should call Darry to apologize for his moments of idiocy as a teenager. He'd once been arrested for walking around on his hands.

A Pepsi, the cake, and a shower later, Soda dialed the number Darry had given him, figuring he might as well while the house was quiet. Or before he forgot completely.

Sandy Hinton, he thought as the line began to ring. How about that.

"Hello?"

"Hi, is Maureen Tull there?"

"This is," Maureen answered. Her heart was immediately pounding. It was him. She just knew it was him. Oh. My. God.

"This is Sodapop Curtis. My brother said you called – something about Sandy?"

"Yes, I …" Maureen sat down on the hotel bed. "I … does the date June 11, 1968 mean anything to you?"

"Nope," Soda said cheerfully. "Should it?"

Maureen's heart sank. He didn't know. He didn't even know. "I … it's … oh boy. I'm sorry, Mr. Curtis, I … just …"

"Soda. Call me Soda," he said gently. "Just take a deep breath. It can't be as bad as all that."

"I just … I thought she might have called you."

"Who? Sandy?" Soda said. "Gosh, I haven't heard from Sandy since … well, since she moved to Florida back when --" His breath caught in his throat and he said slowly, "What's June 11, 1968?"

"It's my birthday," Maureen said in a rush. "I was born June 11, 1968, in Kissimmee, Florida, and I was given up for adoption. My birthmother was Sandy Hinton. I think … I think you're my father."