Fishy Mouth

He's one of the few kids at this school that I have literally known since preschool.

In the first grade I used to call him Fishy Mouth, because his mouth always hung open just a little bit, and it reminded me of a dead fish.

It's funny; we haven't spoken since then, but to this day, sometimes his mouth hangs open just a little bit.
Some things never change.

In English class, as the teacher does a powerpoint and every pair of eyes in the room slowly glazes over, Fishy Mouth rests his elbows on his desk, his fingers laced together with his pencil entwined in the middle, his hands up by his mouth. Covering up the mouth as it droops slightly open. Every once in awhile, he seems to realize that his attention is wandering, and he jolts back to life, glancing around with cautious eyes--especially over to the Girls section of the classroom, making sure none of them were watching him.

Fishy Mouth and I both went to a smaller elementary school, and while we're both aware that we've been in the same place at the same time for years and years, we don't know each other.

He does sports. He's well-known at this school, but maybe not incredibly well liked. He's one of those people that everyone sort of knows, but nobody's really that aware of him. Most people just feel indifferent about him--sort of disregard him.

He's not one of those people who commands a strong feeling of like or dislike. He's just kinda there.
He has a few close friends, but other than that, he's just one of the masses.

His friends, who are more attractive, more athletically successful, could easily be labelled "popular." Fishy Mouth isn't popular, though. He's in the group, he's got the "I'm-an-athlete" swagger when he walks, but he's not popular.

He's not that attractive, not as attractive as most of his friends. Though, he's certainly not unattractive, either-- The girls on track and swim team like to flirt with him, but they never date him. They like his friends more.

Fishy Mouth is just their way of working up the food chain.
He's hardly worth their time.

He taps his eraser against the page of the textbook, very fast as though he's trying to wake himself up. Looking back up at the Girls section with cautious eyes, he strokes at both his cheeks with the backs of his fingers, surreptitiously checking for stubble. He's probably got his eye on one of the girls, over on that side of the classroom. But I can't tell which one.