CHAPTER 1

Levi's POV

"Listen up, brats," I said as I walked into the music room. The brats showed no sign of quieting down. "I said listen up."

They gradually quieted as they caught sight of my stoic expression. When the room was silent and thoroughly intimidated I spoke again.

"My name is Mr. Ackerman and I will be your music instructor for the year. Now, I wanted to be a professional musician, not a teacher, so don't expect me to be happy to be here five days a week. Secondly, don't expect this to be a class you can take just to raise your GPA. I plan on making this class as difficult as a music class can possibly be."

I heard several groans.

"Shut up," I told them. I turned to my new desk and picked up a stack of papers, then put it in the hands of the first student I came to. "Pass these around. This is your syllabus. I expect you to actually read it, not just sign the little waiver at the back and turn it in without ever looking at it."

The class mumbled an intimidated "yes, sir" and I went to stand by the whiteboard at the front of the room, picking up a black marker and drawing a music staff on the board. I turned to the class.

"Who out of you little shits can actually read music?" I asked.

Several hands went up.

"Then the first lesson of the year is just going to be a review to you." I eyed a brown-haired student, one who had raised his hand, who was doodling on a piece of notebook paper. I tapped his desk with my marker. "That does not mean that you don't have to pay attention, Mr…"

The boy looked up sheepishly.

"Jaeger," he said quietly.

"Jaeger," I repeated. "I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Jaeger."

I walked back to the board and continued the lesson.

Being the last class of the day, school was dismissed when the bell rang. I left the room behind my students to take a piss. When I returned I opened my door and stopped in my doorway.

In my room sat a girl with long brown hair and a red sweatshirt even though it was August. I recognized her as one of the students from my last period. She sat with her back to the door in front of the electric keyboard, her hand barely grazing the keys. She pressed the power button at the top of the keyboard and turned the volume down to a whisper before hovering her fingers over the keys again.

"And what exactly do you think you're doing in here after school hours?" I asked from the doorway.

Her hands slipped and she slammed a quick dissonant chord into the keys before clicking the power button off. She turned partway towards me, her long, thick hair shielding her face from my view.

"I asked what you were doing in here, brat."

"I'm sorry, sir," she said. "I just- last year Miss Hanji- she-"

Hanji was the woman who had previously taught the class. She was now the head of the music department, teaching the band class and overseeing the varsity choir.

"Let me guess," I said. "Last year she let you stay after school to fuck around with the instruments."

She nodded quickly.

"That shit don't fly here," I said. "I want to go home."

"Yes, sir," she said, picking her backpack up from beside her feet and standing up. She kept her head down as she attempted to leave through the other door. Finding it was locked, she came to the doorway in which I stood and attempted to pass me. "I'll just be going now, sir," she said shakily.

I moved out of her way and she darted into the hall, speed-walking down the hall until she reached the front entrance.

Devon's POV

I exited the building and darted down the front steps, looking for my bike at the bike rack. I found it at the end of the rack with a bent wheel and a pair of feet beside it. Trailing my eyes up I saw him.

Pieter Jones.

"Well, what do we have here?" he asked rhetorically. "A little mouse?"

I didn't say anything, instead opting to look for his two cronies that always hung around him. I found that they were leaning against the side of the steps I had just descended. A hand suddenly gripped my chin. Pieter yanked my face around to face him.

"You will look at me when I talk to you, freak," he spat. I looked at him with my one visible eye, the other hidden behind a thick curtain of hair. "That's better."

"You're only hitting me because you know I'm right and you can't prove me wrong!" a new voice said. I recognized it as Armin Arlert's, and from the sound of it he was getting beaten up by Pieter's cronies. Pieter averted his gaze from me, his hand still wrapped around my chin.

I heard the door open.

"Hey!" Eren Jaeger's voice yelled.

"Calm down, Eren," someone said. Probably Mikasa Ackerman. "I'll take care of this."

"Like hell you'll take care of-"

I heard a punch land and saw the cronies running from the corner of my eye. From the other corner of my eye I saw Mikasa, Eren, and Armin walking down the sidewalk together, talking and completely ignoring me, if they had even seen me in the first place. When they were gone I spoke.

"What do you want, Pieter?" I sighed, not bothering to take his hand from my chin.

"Scum like you will not address me by my first name," he laughed. "You will call me Mr. Jones."

I was silent. A hand came down and slapped me hard across my face.

"Say it!" Pieter hissed.

"Mr. Jones."

It wasn't my voice.

Both Pieter and I whirled around to see Mr. Ackerman standing on the sidewalk. He still wore his slim pants and button-up, but his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his tie hung undone around his collar. The bully's face contorted into a smug smirk.

"And who are you, short-stuff?" Pieter mocked. Mr. Ackerman seemed to bristle at the insult, but kept moving forward until he was between me and the bully.

"I happen to be the new music teacher at this fine establishment," he said sarcastically. "And you will address me as 'Mr. Ackerman,' not 'short-stuff.'"

If there was one thing Pieter was afraid of it was authority, and Mr. Ackerman was an especially intimidating authority figure. Pieter looked down at Mr. Ackerman in fear before glancing back at me.

"Next time I see you you're dead, Quill," he spat before running off to join his cronies.

"Thank you, sir," I said to my feet after Pieter had turned the corner.

"Not a problem," he said.

He began his walk to where I assumed his car was. I, on the other hand, looked down at my mangled bike. The wheel was bent beyond repair, the spokes nearly crushed. Seeing as my bike was my only real method of transportation, I was stuck with walking. While partially carrying my bike.

Pieter was an absolute asshole.

I let out an irritated huff and hefted my backpack further onto my shoulders before I grabbed my bike by its handles and pushed. It would hardly move thanks to the goddamn bent wheel, so I had to lift the front end in order to push it along.

I turned the corner and passed a sleek black car which Mr. Ackerman was getting into. I tried not to attract his attention, but apparently I did a shit job of it. The teacher called out to me.

"Oi!" he said. I stopped walking but kept my face hidden behind my hair. "What happened to your bicycle?"

"I don't know, sir," I lied. He caught on.

"Did that asshole kid do that?"

I didn't answer, which he must have taken to be a yes.

"How far away do you live?"

"A thirty minute bike ride, sir."

"Do you have any other way home?" he asked.

"I can manage, sir," I said to the ground.

"I didn't ask that. I asked whether or not you had another way home."

I shook my head. He sighed.

"Put your bike in the trunk and get in," he said, nodding in the direction of the passenger's side door. "I'll take you home."

"Aren't you supposed to offer me candy first?" I said before I could stop myself. My eyes widened and I covered my mouth with one of my hands.

"Would you like me to offer you candy-"

"No, sir," I said quickly. I thought I heard him chuckle lowly, but his face was straight when I looked at him. "Are you really sure this is okay?"

"Just get in."

I wheeled my bike around to the back of his car and popped the trunk, sliding my bike in. It was a tight fit, but when I closed the trunk it fit. When I got into the cab of his car I closed the door, buckled my seatbelt, and looked at my lap.

"Are you going to tell me where you live, brat?" Mr. Ackerman asked after a moment. I jumped in my seat.

"Sorry, sir," I said. "I live on Parsons."

"You're going to have to give me more distinct directions than that," he said.

"Sorry, sir. It-"

I noticed my right hand was shaking in my lap.

"It's what?" he asked.

"Nothing, sir," I said shakily. "It's nothing. My house is-"

I braced myself against the dashboard and took calming breaths. I felt a hand on my back and flinched, curling deeper into myself. The hand was removed.

"It's very obviously not nothing," he said.

"I-I-" I stammered. "I get anxiety attacks very easily, sir," I said.

"And you're in the middle of one, right?" he asked. I nodded.

"Yes, sir."

I dug my phone from my pocket, fully intending to type my address into its GPS feature, but my hands were shaking so much that the phone fell to the floorboard, landing with a soft thud.

"I'm so sorry-"

"I can wait until you're done. I don't have anywhere to go but home," Mr. Ackerman said.

Why is he being so nice to me? I thought. There has to be a reason.

"T-Thank you, sir."

"And you can quit all the 'sir' bullshit," he said. "It makes me feel old."

"O-Okay, s-" I stopped myself from saying sir.

My shaking eventually stopped to a degree where I could actually type my address into my phone and hand it to Mr. Ackerman. He put the car into drive and started the drive. I put my head against the window and closed my eyes. The car eventually slowed and I opened my eyes to see my house.

My house was a beautiful two-story colonial in historic downtown, one of the richest and most enviable neighborhoods in town. When Mr. Ackerman saw the house he let out a low whistle.

"With money like that why don't your parents send you to a private school?" he asked.

"I don't know," I lied. I knew.

I got out of the car and popped the trunk, hauling my mangled bike from its depths and setting it on the sidewalk. I closed the trunk and walked back around to the open passenger's side door.

"Thank you, Mr. Ackerman," I said. "And…"

"And what, brat?" he asked.

"Please don't treat me any different just because I get anxiety attacks," I said quickly. "I don't really… want to attract much attention."

He made a noise of recognition.

"Okay," he said. "Now get going. I'm sure your parents are expecting you."

"It's just parent," I said before I could stop myself. "It's my father this week."

I almost winced.

"Well then I'm sure your parent is expecting you."

I nodded and closed the door before dragging my bike to the garage. Mr. Ackerman drove away.