He hadn't always gone to the private school with the swimming pool and the sweeping staircases that resembled a ballroom more than an education building. He could remember a time, when he was very young when he'd gone to a public school in the city. It was horribly run down and half the windows were covered over with boards because kids kept throwing rocks through them and the school didn't have enough money to pay for new ones. It was typical city elementary school- the older children trying to behind they didn't care because it was easier than admitting they did and the younger children trying to imitate the older in order to be accepted. It was like that in almost every classroom, except one.

First grade. Now there was a lark. Ms. Beaden was the first grade teacher and they all loved her. She drew pictures, she sang songs, she took them on walks to look at old buildings and during art time she let them post butcher paper to the walls and paint on them. She seemed to see them all as individuals and not as a group, and she had compassion even for the lowest, smelliest, dirtiest kid with the runny nose.

And in comparison to that kid was Ziggy, the hyperactive five year old.

At home he had to put on his best clothes and sit at a table and use the right fork and never speak unless spoken to. When he went home there were swim lessons and soccer practice and a private session with a French tutor. At home, he had to go visit his father every Thursday and listen, unmoving as his Father read to him the business section of the New York Times. And when Myron Myers, the famous industrialist of the world finally reached the last word on the last page, he would pause, look at his two children sitting side by side, completely motionless on the burgundy loveseat and ask them what they thought about it. And if-God forbid- Marisol answered before Zignafta did or said something more witty and intelligent, then little Zignafta would ride home in his mother's jeep in complete silence and wait for the inevitable punishment.

You see, the classroom was the only place he could be himself. And at first that freedom was so overwhelming that he became a holy terror. Still, love as a way of conquering all, and so Ms. Beaden was able to capture his heart as well. Every day when other parents would come to the classroom to pick up their child from school they would hug them and ooh and ahh over their stick figure drawings and macaroni and paste projects. Then they would leave together, smiling and holding hands… sometimes the father or mother would pick up their child and balance them on their hip as they left, both less than inch away from each other's faces, the adult engaging himself in his child's world.

Ari Grover was always the last one to pick up. One day, Zignafta had been a holy terror. He had thrown things, screamed, jumped up and down, climbed on top of the table tops and danced. As the end of the day approached he became sullen and quiet, and finally it was just he and Ms. Beaden alone in the room, waiting for Ari. Ms. Beaden was taking down their latest art project from the wall; a picture of your family.

"Here Ziggy," she said holding it out to him. "Why don't you take this home with you?"

Zignafta shook his head. "I don't want to," he said quietly as he looked out the window.

"Perhaps tomorrow?"

The boy shrugged.

Ms. Beaden turned back to the wall. Zignafta glanced out the window to where a child and a parent were walking down the sidewalk.

"Do all parents hug their kids?"

Ms. Beaden turned to him. "Hm?"

"Parents," Zignafta reiterated. "Do they always hug their kids?"

"Most of them do."

"Why?"

Ms. Beaden assessed him with a careful eye. "I suppose… it's because they love them."

"So if your parents don't hug you, does that mean they don't love you?"

Ms. Beaden's eyes softened. "No, not necessarily. Some people just don't like to touch one another."

Zignafta nodded slightly. Ms. Beaden knelt in front of him. She looked at the picture he drawn of his family.

"You have a very big family Ziggy," she said softly. "Is this your father?" she pointed to the man in the suit.

Zignafta nodded. "Yeah."

"And this is your mother… and your sister… Marisol is her name?" Ms. Beaden's fingers traced over the curls that he'd drawn on his own portrait's head. She looked at the woman standing beside Myron Myers. "And who's this? Is this another big sister?"

"No, that's my father's wife."

Ms. Beaden's eyes widened slightly as she looked up.

"I didn't know if I should draw her or Mari, but I see them every day so I did."

"Ah, I see." Ms. Beaden look at him closely. "Is that why you don't want to take your picture home? Are you afraid to show your Mommy?"

Ari had never been his Mommy and never would be. Zignafta shook his head.

"No. I didn't want to take it home because Mother makes me throw away all my artwork. She says that it clutters the house."

The first grade teacher smiled, through her eyes looked a little sad. She gently patted Zignafta's arm. "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think it's a beautiful picture. A very honest picture. Don't you think so Ziggy?"

The boy shrugged.

"I love it. And I'd be honored if you'd let me take it home and put it on my refridgerator."

The little boy's eyes brightened. "Really?"

"Oh of course!" Ms. Beaden stood up. "I'll make sure I put it by my things so I don't forget it."

At that moment there was a knock at the door. Zignafta's expression darkened. The young teacher noticed.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning Ziggy," she reached out and ruffled his hair. "And I know you probably don't want to, but would you mind giving me a hug? You see, I live alone so I don't get very many of them."

Without hesitation the boy threw himself into his teacher's arms and hug her tightly. Ms. Beaden smiled as she hugged him back. Another sharp rap at the door made them both stop.

"I'll see you tomorrow Ziggy," Ms. Beaden said smiling as she stood up.

"Goodbye ma'am," the boy said smiling.

After that, Ms. Beaden never had any behavior problems with him again.