He Will B.O.Y.

Everyone knew him as Bootleg, and Bootleg wasn’t human. He was a stumbling, sputtering, chain-smoking trashcan. There was puke on his breath, and puke under his gnawed fingernails, and puke in his unkempt hair, and puke in the fabric of his sweaters. There was puke in his denim backpack, and puke under his mattress, and puke in his brown-bagged lunchbox; everyone was certain there was puke in his heart, too.

Maybe even in his lungs.

And when Bootleg managed to come to morning lectures his eyes were bloodshot — and when he managed to come to evening lectures his knuckles were dug down through the flesh.

And everyone feared that he may have even been crazy enough to B.O.Y.