Evan – with fidgety feet and bouncing knees, whose wardrobe boasts names such as Gucci and Supreme, who sobs when Mrs. K. hands back a B and laughs when he hits the tiled science lab floor from leaning backward in his chair, – wakes up at daybreak. He grabs his Nutella packet from the walk-in pantry stocked with grains, cereal, and sugary snacks, smothers peanut butter and jelly on two (soon to be crushed by school books) slices of white bread, rolls his rolly backpack to the car, and waits for the younger brother and sister to get ready.

Every day, Evan and his family drive through “the drop off” lane in their SUV. Evan hastily unloads his siblings’ book bags while the impatient driver behind them shakes her head. During Social Studies, extroverted Evan, seeking attention, answers Mr. Kenward’s questions with the right answer or a joke.

Like always, at recess, Evan stuffs himself with his crushed peanut butter and jelly sandwich and some Nutella sticks, not caring about the consequences of an empty lunchbox. And later, starving, Evan begs his fellow eighth graders – seated with their lunches along the row of green metal, crosshatched benches outside – for any scraps of food. When a kid says, “No,” Evan shrugs and moves onto the next target.

When we are gossiping about something new that has happened, Evan will stick his head into our huddle, eager to find out what we’re talking about. “Hey, guys, guys, guys, guys. What happened?” He’ll most often hear, “Go away Evan, this has nothing to do with you.” But he persists. “C’mon, guys … you always do this. You keep excluding me. Can you just tell me this once?” We’ll send him off and he’ll sulk around for a minute, then get over it and become that same old Evan.

At the end of the day, waiting like hungry baby birds for our parents to stop chatting in the parking lot, Evan, who must first go directly to fencing practice, shares his eagerness to get home and play “Apex Legends.”