CHARACTER
The Teacherby Freida McFadden

Hudson Jankowski

Hudson Jankowski

Quick Facts

Who They Are

On the surface, Hudson Jankowski is the classic small-town success story: the blonde, almost-white-haired quarterback dating the school’s reigning queen and leaving his past behind. But the persona is a costume. Beneath the letterman swagger, Hudson is also “Jay,” the shoe-store clerk entangled with an adult woman, Eve. He isn’t merely navigating high-school politics; he’s orchestrating parallel lives that never quite touch—until the novel’s twist reframes every earlier scene through the darker lens of secrecy and control. Hudson turns a high-school subplot into the novel’s hinge between teenage drama and adult transgression, making him a precise embodiment of both Appearance vs. Reality and the novel’s broader network of Deception and Manipulation. Physically, he’s described as conventionally attractive and athletic; as Jay, Eve notes the “muscular forearms,” “strong-looking hands,” and a “slightly chipped incisor”—details that ground the slick performance in disarming realism.

Personality & Traits

Hudson’s appeal is inseparable from his performance. He reads as conflicted because he plays conflicted well. The small kindnesses toward Addie complicate our view of him, but the epilogue insists on a harsher truth: Hudson’s empathy may be another mask, a tool to manage risk across identities.

  • Duplicitous and calculated: He sustains two convincing personas—popular boyfriend at school and secret lover as “Jay”—without alerting either sphere. The cafeteria non-confrontation and later smooth explanation of the “Jay” nickname show how reflexively he manages suspicion.
  • Opportunistic: Dating Kenzie secures social cover, while the affair with Eve offers intensity and adult power. He uses whichever identity grants leverage in the moment.
  • Seemingly conflicted: He avoids Addie’s eyes, offers tepid interventions, and appears weighed down by shared history. The reveal recodes these as tactics to keep Addie compliant and quiet, not pure remorse.
  • Secretly loyal (with an asterisk): He buys Addie lunch and rescues her in the middle of the night—acts that feel protective. Yet in context, they also keep her bonded to him, reinforcing his position as her sole reliable lifeline.
  • Physical presence as persuasion: Athletic build, blond hair, and strong hands render him credible in both worlds—golden boy at school, capable, seductive “Jay” with Eve.

Character Journey

Hudson’s “arc” is really our education in how completely we’ve been fooled. He enters as the familiar ex-friend-turned-jock, the boy who traded history with Addie for high status. But minor gestures—covering a lunch shortfall, a late-night rescue—suggest depth and guilt. The slow-burn reveal culminates in the Epilogue, which collapses the boundary between teen drama and adult intrigue: Hudson is Jay. His coy, coded references to an “old friend” confirm that the performance continues even as we watch, implying he hasn’t evolved so much as perfected the art of moving from one secret to the next without consequence.

Key Relationships

  • Addie Severson: Their shared childhood and private trauma bind them even after Hudson publicly abandons her. His small, carefully timed acts of protection function as both care and control, ensuring Addie still turns to him when everything else collapses—most dramatically in the pumpkin patch rescue.
  • Eve Bennett: As Jay, Hudson offers the heat and attention Eve lacks in her marriage, but he’s no passive fantasy—he actively steers events and becomes a co-architect of her Revenge and Justice. The affair is the book’s hidden engine, and his role in disposing of Nate ties his teen identity to the novel’s darkest adult plotline.
  • Kenzie Montgomery: Publicly, Kenzie is his perfect-cover girlfriend: their pairing cements his throne at Caseham and diverts attention from his nighttime life. With Kenzie, Hudson rehearses charm and compliance—the same social fluency he deploys more dangerously elsewhere.
  • Nate Bennett: The irony is razor sharp: Hudson-as-student sits in the classroom of the man he’s betraying after hours. Navigating proximity to Nate without slipping reveals the nerve and discipline behind Hudson’s double life.

Defining Moments

Even as Hudson plays innocent, these scenes reveal the shape of his design and the pressure points of his conscience—or its imitation.

  • Confrontation in the cafeteria: He murmurs, “Come on, Kenzie,” rather than stopping the cruelty. Why it matters: He signals decency without risking status, demonstrating how he calibrates each move for optics.
  • Buying Addie’s lunch: Quietly covering a missing dollar keeps Addie fed—and indebted. Why it matters: A small kindness that functions like a tether, deepening her reliance on him.
  • Rescue from the pumpkin patch: He responds immediately, no questions asked. Why it matters: This is loyalty, but it’s also strategic triage; he remains the one person Addie can trust, consolidating his influence.
  • The epilogue reveal: Friends call him “Jay,” and his shoe-store job surfaces. Why it matters: The twist retrofits earlier scenes with intent, proving that Hudson didn’t fracture into two selves; he curated two stages and directed both.

Essential Quotes

“For a second, my eyes make contact with Hudson’s, and he quickly looks down at his dirty sneakers. He’s been doing that for the last six months. Avoiding me. Pretending like he didn’t used to be my best friend in the entire universe since we were in grade school.”

This physical aversion reads as shame—until the ending reframes it as performance. The downcast gaze maintains plausible deniability: he looks guilty enough to keep Addie’s hope alive while never risking his standing.

“You’re still my best friend, Addie.”

A line designed to soothe, not to change behavior. The claim keeps Addie emotionally attached, allowing Hudson to keep both identities intact while denying her any public acknowledgment or real protection.

“Addie and I are going to get some milkshakes before I have to get to work. See you later, Walsh?” “Later, Jay,” the other kid says to Hudson. As Hudson climbs into the driver seat next to me, I say to him, “Okay, I’ve got to ask. How come all your football buddies call you Jay?” “Well, you know, we all call each other by our last names,” he says. “But Jankowski? That’s a mouthful. So they just call me J for short. I kind of like it.”

Hudson’s off-the-cuff explanation is too neat, a preemptive cover for the alias that anchors his adult life. The moment plays casual on first read; on reread, it’s a polished lie that shows how far ahead he thinks.

“She…uh…she really liked shoes and used to come to the shoe store all the time, and, um, yeah.”

The hesitation—“uh,” “um”—mimics vulnerability, but it’s also classic misdirection. In the epilogue’s light, the vagueness signals a man who narrates just enough truth to conceal the rest, merging charm with obfuscation.