He strolled into the classroom fifteen minutes after the late bell had rung, iPod headphones plunged into his ears as they clearly blasted “Bleed It Out” by Linkin Park while said iPod was currently being scrolled through by its owner. A black My Chemical Romance sweatshirt was over his even darker black shirt that was a size too large for him labeled with an anarchy symbol. His pants were black outlined with red, silver chains crossed at the back. A black side bag was hanging off of his shoulder, an “I’m Surrounded By Idiots” pin easily spotted on it. His obviously-dyed jet black hair flew out in multiple diagonal directions, standing out from his smooth and abnormally pale skin. His cerulean eyes were deeply outlined with black eyeliner, and his nails were painted black.

Yep, that was definitely Benjamin Conway, the number one rebel in the school district of Trinity.

“Mister Conway, you are fifteen minutes late for class!” the teacher, Mrs. Luft, told the oblivious male who continued to listen to his MP3 player. “This is the seventeenth time you’ve been late this semester for this class alone, and you are always late for all of your other classes! Haven’t you…” Mrs. Luft was your stereotypical teacher; mid-fifties, at least two-hundred pounds, five foot three inches, wrinkles all over that make her look twice her age, huge bust that you wish was on you girlfriend (or not), carries around a ruler and smacks your hand when you’re wrong, loud, self-centered, know-it-all, et cetera.

And Benjamin Conway simply walked over to his seat, leaned back on his chair (right side, third one up out of five), propped his feet on his desk, shut his eyes, and unconsciously rocked his head back and forth to the beat of the LP.

“Did you hear me, young man?!” Mrs. Luft screeched, ripping out the left headphone roughly. He opened his blue eyes and glared at her for a moment, and silence overcame the classroom (still, anyway; it’s been silent since he fucking entered the class), and then calmly took the headphone from the teacher’s seemed-to-be paralyzed hand and placed it gently back into his ear, zoning off into his own little world yet again.

Mrs. Luft pursed her lips and glared at him again, he albeit oblivious to the torture named Mrs. Luft, and scribbled a note with a cheap blue pen. Gruffly, she tore it off of the almost-depleted pad and wobbled her way to Benjamin Conway’s desk and placed it on his already-written notes he had finished the day before. He opened his eyes narrowly, reading the slip, and sighed. He pounded his sneakered feet onto the cheaply-carpeted floor, stood up, walked to Mrs. Luft’s desk , looked the stereotypical teacher in her beady black eyes, and smiled.

“I already have one that day,” he stated bluntly, placing the slip onto her desk, infuriating her even more then he usually doesn’t. She’s usually throwing a tantrum at 12:48 PM at Benjamin Conway; then again, he usually responds to the teacher with a) the middle finger, b) words that make up a rainbow, c) both, or d) a witty sarcastic remark that earns him two slips instead of just one.

“Well then, young man, how about Tuesday?”

“Taken.”

“Wednesday.”

“Still taken.”

“Thursday.”

“Do you see a pattern yet, Mrs. Luft?”

His smile turned into a smirk as he saw Mrs. Luft’s face grow red of obvious anger, knowing he had won (again; he always wins, he’s Benjamin Conway), and took note of the IOU she had just written him on a yellow sticky note and thrusted into his sight. He takes the sticky note with a swan-like grace, spins around on his sneaker’s heel, sighs lightly, and strolls back to his seat as usual.

(He has so many “slips” that they give him IOUs for them nowadays. Some call it pathetic, but they don’t know him personally. Not like she does, or he, or he, or she, or he, or he, or he.)

And thus begins the biography of Benjamin Conway.