Falling In Love With A Teacher Is The Least Fun A Teenage Boy Can Have Without Taking His Clothes Off

When I woke in the morning, I half-expected pop music to still be blasting downstairs. Thankfully, it was completely silent, save for the pounding in my head. My back popped as I sat up in my bed, staring into the darkness my room. I wasn't exactly eager to wake up so early in the morning, the LED clock beside my bed read 5:56, but Mikey had yet another party last night, and I knew if I didn't clean up, no one would. This time, it was to kick off the school year. Y'know, with his dorky demeanor and awkward knees, you wouldn't think he's as popular as he is. It's not like he has girls hanging off of him, he's not the king on the fucked-up hierarchy, but he does have a lot of friends and throws a shit ton of parties. A bit of a player, may I say. He's popular compared to me. I sighed as I threw my legs over the side of my mattress and stood up. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I walked over to my closet. I rummaged through it for a minute before pulling out a black long-sleeve shirt and some jeans. I paid no attention to the red and inflamed scars running down my wrists as I slipped them on. I glanced outside of the small window above my bed to see the sun was already rising. I opened the hatch in the floor and just jumped down. The second my feet hit the floor, I began sneezing. Damn allergies. You would think I would be used to all the dust from living in the attic, but nope. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and reluctantly trudged through the house. Mikey only ever held parties when our parents were gone, like this past weekend. They were on a business trip to California. They work for a company called Better Living Industries, which focuses on inventing new technology to improve big cities in the sense of their resources and housing. Or something like that. I dunno, that's what mom told me when I was little. But anyways, yeah. Mikey loves to have house parties.

The living room looked just as I expected. Trash and beer bottles strewn about. A few people were lying on the floor, none that I recognized. Mikey was lying on the couch with a girl on top of him. His arm was poking out from beneath her and he was clutching a beer bottle. I tugged on the girl's hair a bit to see if she would wake up. Nope. I sighed and left her. She'll wake up on her own. I ignored the people lying on the floor (they've lashed out at me before for waking them from their drunken slumber) and worked on cleaning up all the condom packets and bottles scattered about the living room and the kitchen. I don't enjoy doing this, despite what Mikey and his friends may think. But I mean, I don't want him to get in trouble. Ugh, it sounds so stupid when you consider how he talks to me. Or, rather, how he doesn't. He won't speak to me unless I talk to him, which even then it's kind of rare. That doesn't mean I don't care about him, though. I have to, he's my little brother.

After cleaning up, I went into the bathroom to get ready. I carelessly brushed my greasy black hair before brushing my teeth and then applying eyeliner. I was what you could call "emo". God, that sounds cheesy. It's just that I don't really bother with labels. That's all. I went back to my room to put on my "signature" black combat boots. I grabbed my phone, slipping it in my pocket, and my backpack. I jumped back downstairs, shutting the attic hatch behind me, and headed back to the living room. The girl and the rest of the slumbering drunks had left by now. It was just Mikey on the couch, still snoring away. I placed a bottle of aspirin next to him on the coffee table. He'll just get mad if I wake him. Then, I shoved my earbuds in, turned on Pax Am Days, and started my walk to school.

There's one main school here in the great town of Summit, New Jersey. If you can't detect that sarcasm, you've misunderstood. Anyways, that main school is Belleville. It's a big school divided into two buildings, one for preschool to 5th grade, and the other is 6 to 12, with a sports field in between.

It's a seemingly cliché high school. The clique hierarchy are that of any other school. There's the jocks and cheerleaders, the kings and queens of the school. Then, you have the attractive ones, the people who are only popular because of their looks and have boys or girls hanging off their arms as they walk through the hall. Below them are the spoiled rich kids, the preps, who have no real talent or intelligence and are only getting into college because of their parent's money. The rest you can just guess. The artsy hipsters, goths, nerds, druggies. Then there's me. I'm below the fucking druggies. The loner, the wallflower, whatever you want to call me. The lowest of the low in high school. Aren't I just pitiable?

I grabbed my pack out of a side pocket in my backpack, pulled out a cigarette, and quickly lit it. I took a long drag, watching the smoke billow out of my mouth. The bitter taste made a smile crack on my face. The coffee machine broke last week, the morning my parents left town, so this is the next best thing. My stomach growled as the school ground came into view, but paid no attention to it. I was too overwhelmed by the smoke filling my lungs and the taste it left on my tongue.

I managed to navigate through the crowd of students without anyone noticing me or calling me out and to the administration. I approached the secretary sitting at the front desk, I still don't know her name by now. She didn't notice me until I cleared my throat. "Uh, Gerard Way," I told her. She nodded and started typing away at her computer. Eventually the printer next to her came to life and started printing a sheet. She took it from the tray and handed it to me with a courteous smile. I took it from her hands and looked at it. The schedule wasn't much different from last year. The only thing that caught my eye was a new name on the list, under my art class. Instructor: Iero, Frank. Ugh, I can imagine him now. A balding, 50-something man who's either extremely creepy or hates kids. That's 3/4 of the teachers here. The other 1/4 are female teachers who meet almost the same criteria. I fold up the paper and stuffed it into my pocket. I stepped into the warm late summer air and back into the crowds of kids. I made my way to the highschool building.

When I stepped into the school, I immediately felt all eyes on me. It's always been this way. Everyone stops what they're doing to stare at me. Whispers and murmurs begin. I can guess what they're saying as I walk to my locker. Fag; why hasn't he killed himself yet?; emo; do you think he still slit his wrists?- anything you can guess, they've said about me. Surprisingly, no one tried to trip me when I went upstairs. I found my locker on the third floor, the junior/senior wing, locker 623. I keep my backpack on my knee as I put my notebooks and textbooks away. Maybe today I won't get a fist to the face? I think, considering the worst I've gotten is hushed insults. But when I hear a soft chuckle from behind me, I know I've spoken too soon. "Mornin', Way," a voice speaks. I freeze, and he laughs again. "What's wrong?"

He grabs me by the hair and forces me to turn around and look at him. His lip ring glints in the bright lights as he smirks. "You haven't changed one bit over the summer." He tilts his head and his blue eyes flicker around, as if he's analyzing me.
I somehow find my voice in the few seconds of silence. "Leave me alone, Bob," I told him through gritted teeth. He just laughs again.
"Cute."
He knees me in the stomach, making me groan. His smile widens. The fucking bastard.
"I'll be back later," he murmurs before letting go of my hair, letting me slip down against the lockers and hit the floor. As he walks down the hall, he's suddenly surrounded by his friends, tall and burly just like him. My stomach already feels a bit sore. You would think my body is used to the stress from these nearly-daily punches and kicks, occasional full-blown beatings, but nope. I eventually force myself to stand up and I grab my backpack from the floor. The bell rings, startling me. I grab my notebook and slam the door of the locker shut. I hurry to my first class, writing. Once again, I hear the whispers around me, the murmurs of insults. The stares I still haven't gotten used to either. I don't like to stand in the halls, or else I can feel their eyes boring holes into my head, and even just the thought of it makes me squirm. I manage to make it to class with no one trying to trip me or touch me.

I take a seat into my usual seat in the back, near the window. I can still feel their eyes on me. Someone laughs at the way I flinch when I notice they're staring right at me. One more year, I remind myself, one more year of school and I can finally leave this hellhole.

Notes

I, fifthperiodmassacre, the same one who wrote Counting Down The Days To Go, am back with another fic! This time, a teacher/student Frerard inspired by several different fics I've read before. I don't know how often I can update however, since school starts on August 4 for me. If the updates are irregular, please forgive me! I also want to say I have NO idea where I will be going with that story, so many hiatuses are possible for both academic reasons and the fact I have to think about the story line.
I'm going to try and make every other chapter be in Gerard's P.O.V., and the chapters in between those Frank's.
By the way, the titles will almost always be unrelated song titles/lyrics. 'Cause I've realized I'm too lazy to think of actual titles. And other people do it so... yeah. The title for this chapter is a Fall Out Boy song.

xo