Jackson Avery.
He stands there, in the door of the family dining room, his expression cold, his dress the semi-formal required for Avery family dinners. His sister looks up from her book. She is pale and brown eyed. She has glasses. She looks studious. She smiles at him, but looks back down to her book. It is his brother that extends a greeting.
"Hey, Jacky." His smile is sarcastic, mocking, his A's might have well of been marked in red ink all over his face for how obvious they were to Jackson.
"Dad, now that the pretty boy is here can we eat?"
"Of course, Phillip, now, more importantly, I know you already have three but I really think you can pick up another AP class. You can do it."
Or how obvious they were to his father.
He has three AP courses too. He doesn't think his father knows, or his mother. Her blue eyes, the ones he inherited, are staring at Melissa, who is engrossed in War and Peace. She never looks that proudly at him.
He sits and at his father commands, helps himself to potatoes, meat, gravy and broccoli. It turns to green specked mush as his dad praises his siblings, pushes them, pressures them. He would do anything to get the kind of pressure that his friends complain about at school.
He doesn't speak, and nobody really makes conversation with him. He is done eating before everybody else and, halfway through a description of a project that his sister is doing (he did it two years earlier and aced it), asks to be excused. He is.
His bedroom is typical of a boy his age, granted a more well off one, but still there is shelves of Video's and DVDs and CDs and Lucy Liu has pride of place on his wall. But it is the open school books on his desk he goes to.
He is more than pretty.