FOSTER, Fredrick Jeremiah

[FREDDIE FOSTER]

... Fredrick Jeremiah Foster *
* And Peter laughed, and when he did, all the Devils grinned, because Peter's laugh was a most contagious thing.*

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...basics*

name
Fredrick Jeremiah Foster
nickname
Freddie or Fred is fine, just as long as you don’t say Fredrick. Never, under any circumstances whatsoever, will he be called Fredrick. You’re not his mother, so don’t act like it, thanks.
age
Sixteen
gender
Boy
grade
Baum Junior
hometown
Denver, CO
sexuality
Straight
personification
Peter Pan
status
DORMANT
face claim
Logan Lerman

...appearance*

hair color
Dark chocolate brown. It usually lightens up a bit in the summer, when he spends a lot of his time outside.
eye color
Bright, light blue
build
Slight, although tall. He’s got the lean sort of muscle that lends itself well to both swimming and soccer.
height
Five feet, eleven inches
clothing style
Freddie’s fairly average. He wears brand name clothes, although not so much because they’re brand name as because that’s what everyone else wears. Jeans, hoodies, t-shirts, Converse, whatever. Slightly preppy is probably the best way to describe it, but really, he’s just…normal.
distinctive traits
Freddie has an exceedingly innocent, charming quality to his smile that somehow manages to simultaneously compliment and clash with the words coming out of his mouth.

personality

“All children, except one, grow up.”

To call Freddie immature would be equivalent to calling a mule stubborn, or a mole blind. It’s obvious—almost painfully so. He’s impulsive in all the worst ways, flirting with different desires and pastimes each day of the week. Just as easily bored as he is entertained, Freddie is as likely to find excitement in a jack-in-the-box one day as he is a drink, a smoke, or sex in another. Things change easily and simply with him, and the moment they do, that’s the way they’ve always been. He’s one for arguing with the sort of logic that wins five-year-olds all their major conquests—persistence. Fred doesn’t drop things. Ever. Not until he’s proved right. Once he reaches his goal, the argument is more than welcome to float away and never be spoken of again, unless he needs it for future evidence as to why he’s correct at any and all points in time.

“Oh, the cleverness of me!”

Freddie’s cocky. He’s brilliantly charming, popular, and generally looked up to, and he knows it just as well as he knows he’s handsome and funny. Although he might not come outright and say such things, there’s always a certain glint in his eyes which makes it seem like he’s laughing at you, which manifests even when thanking others for compliments (which, in itself, doesn’t happen all too often). Somewhat of a narcissistic prick, Freddie carries himself in a way which would suggest he feels the world owes him a great debt for his gracing the ground with his feet. Apparently, some (a lot) people are attracted to that sort of thing. He likes attention—craves it, in fact—and can’t stand to think that at any point in time, he might be outdone by someone else. So, he shows off. Almost constantly. Really, it’s probably the overly charming demeanor and fact that he’s legitimately very good at the things he chooses to show off at (it’s all subconscious strategy. Why the hell would he pretend like he could hit a baseball when he can actually juggle a soccer ball one hundred times or break records for most goals scored in water polo?) which keeps him from getting beat into a pulp. While well-liked among the female population, those who don’t look up to Freddie on the male side of things tend to despise him. It’s very much one way or the other with him, in all things he does.

“Nobody really wants us. So let us watch and say jaggy things, in the hope that some of them will hurt.”

Freddie’s a bit of a prick. A sore loser on a good day and a horribly egotistical winner on a good one. He acts out almost constantly, and is an adrenaline junkie of sorts, taking great pleasure in everything from fights to trespassing to drinking to sex to the occasional drug. He acts out largely because he wants a reaction, being of the subconscious (but no less twisted for it) belief that in doing so, his rehabilitated mother will forget worrying about her own problems and start concerning herself with his. When asked about the whole thing, however—which is never, as Freddie flat out refuses to talk about it in the most obvious ways—he’ll respond with something simple and straight to the point about how parents are a ridiculous waste of time, anyway, and if they’re not around that only means more opportunities for fun and games and general rambunctiousness. Of course, he’s also wonderful at lying through his teeth.

“Wendy,’ Peter Pan continued in a voice that no woman has ever yet been able to resist, ‘Wendy, one girl is more use than twenty boys.”

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Freddie likes girls. A lot. He likes the way they laugh at things he says, and how they smell when they lean in close to whisper in his ear during movies and that weird, bubbly way they right and really, he just really really likes them in the same way he likes…shiny toys. Or getting ghostface wasted every other Friday night. They’re fun while they last, but they get boring just like everything else and then it’s time to move on to bigger, better things and other, different girls who still find him half as charming as those he’s already invited to RJ’s boat and hooked up with. He likes adventures. New, bright things full of potential and possibility.
past
In all honesty, Mary and Michael Foster never should have had children. Freddie was an accident, a product of three months of dating and a drunken night gone too far. The couple married hastily after the pregnancy was discovered so as to avoid any unwanted attention, settling down in Denver, Colorado, where they’d met. The little family lived in an apartment downtown, not more than three blocks from Mary’s mother, who was surprisingly supportive of the whole thing. Then again, she’d never been quite right in the head since her husband died, so neither of the seemingly-happy couple put too much value in her opinion.

It was a miracle their little boy came out perfectly healthy, the doctors said, considering the amount of drugs Mary had been on before pregnancy; Michael managed to convince her to stop once they were positive the baby was coming, with a promise that he would still love her just the same if she started again when they brought he kid home. When they brought her and their son, named Fredrick Jeremiah, home from the hospital, Mary wasted no time in getting back into habits, insisting she “deserved it, for carrying the thing for nine months.” For three years, Michael put up with her spontaneous personality and cocaine addiction, keeping Freddie as shielded from his mother as he could. Eventually, however, the man’s patience wore thin. He’d never wanted to get married. Not at the age he had, and certainly not with a child.

So, after a few days spent thinking about it, the man did the only thing average people do in times of struggle: he ran.

Freddie was left with his drug-addicted mother at the age of three and a half, and has not seen nor spoken to his father since. For the next six years following his father’s disappearance, to say his mother’s condition entered a downward spiral would be a kindness. She broke. Cocaine turned to heroine, which in turn turned to meth, and more often than not, Freddie found himself either taking care of himself or shuttled off to his crackpot grandmother’s house for days on end so his mother could “tidy up” or, as he came to realize, entertain others for the price of their meager living and her addiction. Largely, of course, the funds were used for the later.

At school, Freddie was a normal child. Average grades and average attendance paired with a cocky little smile to round out a very, very talented athlete from the age of seven, which was when he first joined the neighborhood soccer team per his “mother’s” (grandmother, but she’d insisted her daughter had told him to encourage it) request. As he grew older, Freddie branched out into more athletics, dabbling in baseball (dropped after a season because he couldn’t hit a curve ball to save his life), basketball (too many jammed fingers, not enough height), tennis (dumbest sport he’s ever heard of—what the hell are you supposed to do if you can’t hit anyone?), lacrosse (played for three years, until it started interfering with soccer) and finally, track and water polo, which are his current sports in addition to soccer. Funnily enough, Freddie was never particularly bad at any one thing. He just got bored. Horribly, obnoxiously bored to the point where he had to quit or he seriously considered just throwing ever match or game until the end of time.

When Freds turned ten, he found his world turned very far upside down by this incredibly foreign thing known as a “drug bust.” In short, he found himself officially passed along into his grandmother’s care and his mother officially drawn from his life by a program known as “rehab,” in which he was only able to see her once ever few months, and talk to her only slightly more frequently. As time wore on and Freddie began to understand the fact that his mother wasn’t coming back any time soon and wasn’t talking to him, either, he began to act out. Little things like playground fights and red cards on the soccer field escalated into back-talking and shoplifting, until eventually there wasn’t a day that went by when Emilia didn’t get a call from Freddie’s school saying he’d done something wrong that day. Eventually, the boy got to be so much of an inconsiderate, misbehaving little shit that Emilia felt herself drawn to her wit’s end (which according to Freddie, had already been reached long ago, so really none of this was his fault), with no choice but to look for a place to send him away. Maybe boarding school would teach him some manners. She doubted it, but at least then he wouldn’t be her problem.
present
The only issue then, came in finding a school that would take him. Freddie didn’t have wonderful grades—he passed, but not with flying colors. He didn’t have a clean record or a particularly good recommendation letter from any one of his teachers. What he did have, however, was a poor family situation and an exemplary talent for athletics. Both of those mixed together equaled scholarships. In short, Freddie was admitting to Baum by none other than the skin of his teeth and the seat of his coattails, all in the nick of time.

When he arrived, he found he fit in tremendously. Freddie, being the cocky, charming little extrovert he was, made friends quickly and easily, the two first and best being RJ Teach and Willow Fayette, who remain his closest to this day. He’s currently a member of the soccer team (as well as co-captain), track team, and water polo team (also co-captain). He attends and throws parties by the dozen, and can more often than not be found with a new female every few weeks, depending on what strikes his fancy. Freddie is a flighty thing, ever-so-keen to put in his letters to his mother exactly what sort of trouble he’s caused that month—and honestly, he can never manage to fit quite all of it in—just so see what sort of reaction it will get him. Secretly, he hopes one will be tremendous enough to wrench her out of her own addiction to com help him get rid of his, although on the surface he couldn’t care less. It’s a beautiful thing, life, and he hardly wants to waste it wibbling about the likes of mothers and fathers anyway, so really, he’d rather just forget they exist all together. More often than not, he’s discovered, forgetting about rules is where one meets the biggest of adventures.
family
Mary Foster, 37, mother:
Currently in a drug rehab clinic back in Denver. Freddie is in communication with his mother through letters sent to him every few months, or whenever she feels like writing. He detests his mother for loving her addiction more than him, but can’t bring himself to stop thinking of her all together, either. Typically, his feelings for her settle into quiet resentment, and when he does speak of her, it’s with contempt. He prefers to think of her as some distant piece of a past life not worth the time of day it takes to conjure the memory.
Michael Foster, 45, father:
This asshole of a so-called parent took off just after Freddie turned three. He hasn’t spoken to him since, and as no desire to. Why would he?
Emilia Foxworth, 83, maternal grandmother:
Freddie’s lived with his grandmother from the age of ten, and very much believes that calling her batshit crazy doesn’t do her half the justice she deserves. It’s because of her complete lack of anything resembling rules that he really began to become such a handful.
likes
1) Sports. Or, more specifically, the sports he excels at. In this case, those would be soccer and water polo. Really though, he’s fairly decent at most things. Just that annoying sort of kid, really.
2) When people follow his orders. Not directions. Orders. That’s what they are, half the time.
3) Girls. They’re pretty. He likes pretty things. Especially when they kiss him.
4) Will. She’s like his sister. Without her, he’d totally be at a loss for what to do, even if he’ll never admit it.
5) Drinking. Well, it’s really more of the thrill of it, knowing that it’s illegal and still doing it anyway, which thrills him the most.
6) Having a rich friend—Freddie’s a total moocher, whether he’ll ever admit to it or not.
7) His reputation. With an ego like his, how could you not?
8) The outdoors. The smell, the feeling of grass and the sound of wind in the trees, and the way you sort of feel a little bit sticky when you come back inside after a long bout of summertime sneaking around.
9) Dusk and dawn. They’re the best times of day because you can start to see things, but still imagine they’re something else. Freddie likes imagining things.
10) The Party Boat, and all the subsequent shenanigans that occur on said boat.
dislikes
1) Losing. Like, hates it with a passion. Besting him will result in a Freddie-style tantrum of sorts, and more likely than not, revenge later on.
2) Being told “no.” Actually, he really just hates limits.
3) The indoors. It smells like dust, tastes like soap (he’ll insist this until he dies, so don’t bother trying to contradict him), and really reminds him far too much of visiting hours at the rehab center. It’s just better outside, alright?
4) Nagging adults asking him what his “post-high school plans are.” How the hell is he supposed to give a flying fuck?
5) The letters his mother sends him. Can’t even read the handwriting half the time, and he really doesn’t care what the hell new food they’re serving at the center or whatever shit she’s decided is more important to talk about than the fact that he just got three weeks’ worth of detention for sneaking beer onto school grounds.
6) Baseball. He sucks at it. Therefore, it sucks too.
7) That he has to co-captain the Water Polo team with RJ, because everyone knows he’s better, and he should just get the position all to himself.
8) Snow. It’s just not half as fun as summer, is all. Plus, it reminds him of home.
9) His grandmother. She needs to up and kick the bucket already, honestly. It’s getting a bit unnatural.
10) His father. Although he remembers no more of the man than a laugh, Freddie loathes him with all his heart and soul.
other notes

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...literature*

book title Peter Pan
backstory
Peter Pan is the boy who never grew up. He lived in Neverland with mermaids and pirates and fairies and Indians and had grand adventures that other children could only ever dream about, save the Lost Boys, who he lived with. Then one day he heard Wendy Darling telling her brothers stories about him, and he couldn't help but listen, as he was very interested in anything having to do with himself. After an incident with losing his shadow in Wendy's nursery, Peter persuades the Darling children to return to Neverland with him, where they have many grand adventures (and several near-death experiences), the most notable being Peter's defeat of the vile Captain Hook. Wendy eventually travels home, however, and brings with her all the Lost Boys from Neverland, save Peter, and so he remains the boy who can never grow up, no matter how much in his heart of hearts he may secretly believe he wants to. AND DAMN, HE’S A SEXY BITCH.

...roleplayer*

name Scout
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[MOLLY]

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