Jason

He wears a baseball cap with a Redsox insignia on it though he doesn't like baseball and has no special affinity for Boston. He keeps it tucked in his back pocket in class because most of the teachers don't let him wear it. A few do. He spends most of his time in school sitting in the back corner writing profanities on the desks and cracking abhorrent jokes with his friends. Those closest to him know that he lives only with his father and that his mother either died or abandoned him years prior. But he doesn't talk about that, nor does he talk about his old man who works as an auto-mechanic and always smells like motor oil and comes home every night to drink a six pack and fall asleep on his recliner. Mostly he talks about how much he hates school and its rigidity and the illicit substances he procures. His favorite topic, however, are the girls he sees every day. Each and every one of them do not escape his judgment, silent or otherwise, and to the ones he deems worthy he undresses with his eyes before making his move upon them. He's charming when he chooses to be and undeniably handsome with a softness and clarity in his face marked only by a round patch of hair under his chin. Some of them have seen the inside of his beaten pickup truck. It has a red paint job that became anemic and flaky in the years that it was driven by his father before he handed it down to him like a rusted family heirloom that he couldn't wait to replace. The steel toe boots he wears did not belong to his father. He stole them from a pile of unguarded belongings in the locker room. On one occasion he used them to loosen the teeth of a fellow classmate who talked with an effeminate pitch. He is eighteen and still a sophomore  If you ask him about it he won't respond with shame or directed anger. He truly doesn't care. And for as long as he walks and presides in those halls he never will.