Chapter Text
Chapter 1
First Day of School
Here he was, year 10. Finally. It had taken fucking long enough. But he’d made it. Now, now the world would open up for him. Tommy Riley dodged between the abundance of kids going the opposite direction down the hall he needed to get through to catch a seat in his band class. It was like a flood had been opened up on him and not a bloody one of them seemed to believe that they could share the space.
There was a new band teacher this year. Mrs. Prellis had retired. Boring old bitty that seemed hellbent on playing the same miserable numbers year after year, like any other new kids were transferring into a class that they had to at least know their bloody fucking scales to get into. No. If she wanted new kids who didn’t know how god awful it was to play the same fucking music over and over, then she needed to hit them at year 5 or 6. Then they were young and naive. Ah. Those were the years. No, now they had all of the stupid friggin holiday tunes memorized for at least the last three. He played sax. That should at least guarantee him some jazz or something funky, something different. Nope. Just sit there and keep time piping in a note or two to one of Brandenburg’s easier pieces or squeak off some noise for the football team.
Bloody fucking waste of his time and effort. But wasn’t that all that secondary school was? Someplace to ship kids off to so they didn’t end up in jail because they were bored and getting into trouble and still too young to convince anyone to give them a fucking job?
Tommy shoved his way into the band room, letting the door swing shut behind him with a satisfying thud. At least this space was familiar, even if everything else about the new year felt like fresh bullshit.
He slung his backpack down and opened his saxophone case, fingers running automatically over the familiar brass. Tommy navigated to his usual spot in the back row where the advanced horns sat. No need to worry about placement yet. They'd have to play for seating in the first couple of classes, but he'd been through this routine before.
“Oi, Riley! Survived summer, then?” Max Duncan, a year 10 with perpetually messy hair, was already adjusting his reed.
“Unfortunately.” Tommy replied with a half-smile. “See they let you back in too.”
Ethan Henderson, a year 11, leaned over from the other side. “Heard the new teacher's some bloke from a jazz conservatory. Might actually play something decent this year.”
“Ah'll believe that when Ah hear it.” Tommy scoffed, though something hopeful flickered in his chest.
The three of them made up the entire saxophone section now. Their year 12, James, had graduated over summer, taking his impressive bass sax skills with him.
“James sent me a text.” Max said, lowering his voice. “Says university bands actually play decent music. Lucky bastard.”
Tommy nodded while assembling his instrument. He could handle the bass parts if needed, he was versatile that way, but he preferred the alto. Ethan was still working on his embouchure for anything beyond the standard repertoire.
The classroom steadily filled with the cacophony of instrument cases opening, chairs scraping, and the dissonant sounds of half-hearted warm-ups. Tommy caught Melissa from the flute section glancing his way, then quickly turning back to her friends with a giggle. Not the first time today a girl had done that. He'd grown nearly six inches over summer, and his dad had insisted on a proper haircut that apparently worked for him, though he'd never admit he'd noticed the attention.
“Check it out.” Ethan muttered, nodding toward the door. “That must be him.”
The classroom door flew open, slamming against the wall with a bang that cut through the chaotic warm-up noises like a knife. Tommy nearly dropped his mouthpiece.
A bloke who looked like he'd walked straight out of some underground Glasgow music scene strode in, confidence radiating from every step. His mohawk caught Tommy's eye first, longer than dress code would allow, falling slightly to one side rather than standing at full attention. The man had clearly made some concessions to school rules, but not enough to completely surrender his identity.
“Right then, settle down, the lot of ye.” he announced, and the room fell instantly silent. The accent hit Tommy's ears like an electric shock. The thick, unmistakable Scottish brogue that somehow commanded attention more effectively than Mrs. Prellis's shrill whistle ever had.
“Christ, he's Scottish.” Tommy whispered to Max, who nodded with wide eyes.
The girls in the flute section were practically falling off their chairs. Tommy followed their gaze and noted the teacher's outfit. Tight dark jeans that hugged muscular legs, a deep blue henley that stretched across broad shoulders, and a suede jacket that softened the edge just enough for a school setting. His boots clicked sharply against the floor as he moved to the conductor's podium.
“Name's John MacTavish.” he said, writing it on the whiteboard with quick, precise strokes. “Three rules in my classroom. One: respect the music. Two: respect each other. Three: respect me.” He turned back, scanning the room with eyes that seemed to evaluate each student individually. “Do that, and ye can call me Soap. Don't, and it's Mr. MacTavish. Yer choice.”
Tommy exchanged glances with Ethan. A teacher with a nickname? That was new.
“Sir?” Melissa's hand shot up, her voice higher than usual. “Why Soap?”
A smile tugged at the corner of MacTavish's mouth. “Army nickname. Stuck with me through eight years with special forces, then through conservatory, and now here.”
Tommy sat up straighter. Special forces? This was definitely not Mrs. Prellis.
“Been teaching for three years now.” MacTavish continued, rolling up his sleeves to reveal forearms covered in intricate tattoos. “And Ah ken promise ye this, we won't be playing the same tired arrangements ye've been suffering through.”
A ripple of excitement passed through the room. Tommy felt a spark of interest he hadn't experienced in band class for years.
“Right, then. Everyone up. Push these chairs back. We're starting with something different today.”
“What about seating auditions?” asked Bernard from the trumpet section, always the one to worry about protocol.
MacTavish grinned. “Oh, Ah'll be hearing every one of ye play today, but not sitting in neat little rows. Music isn't meant to be all lined up and neat. It’s meant to be expressed. Ta be felt.”
“Everyone grab your instruments and find a spot.” MacTavish instructed, waving his arms to usher them forward. “Make a semicircle up front here.”
Tommy hesitated, watching as eager students scrambled forward with their instruments. He preferred his spot in the back, thank you very much.
MacTavish seemed to notice his reluctance. “For those of ye who like your space, find wherever ye're comfortable. Just be able to see everyone else.”
Tommy caught Max's eye, and they both shrugged before moving to the outer edge of the forming semicircle. At least the teacher wasn't forcing them into the spotlight.
“Now,” MacTavish said, leaning against the piano, “bit about me. Ah play guitar, bass, drums, bit of everything really. Had to learn all the bloody horns to teach band properly.” He picked up a trumpet from a nearby stand and played a quick, impressive riff before setting it down with a self-deprecating smile. “Though Ah reckon some of ye year elevens could show me up proper. Been a while since Ah've had to perform on these.”
Tommy watched as several students sat up straighter, clearly intrigued by a teacher who admitted he might not be perfect at everything.
MacTavish scanned the room, his eyes landing on a girl in the clarinet section. “Ye there, Sophia, right? Year eleven?” When she nodded, he gestured toward her. “Play us something. Anything ye like. Just a wee bit that sings to ye.”
Sophia looked terrified for a moment, then raised her clarinet. After taking a deep breath, she played a hauntingly beautiful melody that Tommy recognized from some film score. It lasted only about fifteen seconds, but the room fell completely silent.
“Brilliant.” MacTavish said with genuine appreciation. “That's exactly what Ah'm looking fer. The soul of it.” He pointed to the boy next to her. “Your turn. Just a snippet of something that moves ye.”
The boy played a jazzy little riff, and MacTavish nodded approvingly before moving on to the next student. Around the semicircle they went, some playing scales, others attempting show-off solos, a few nervously squeaking out simple melodies.
Tommy's palms grew sweaty as MacTavish worked his way toward their section. What would he play? He'd been practicing some Charlie Parker over the summer, but that might seem like he was trying too hard. Maybe just a bluesy improv?
Max went before him, playing a complicated run that showed off his technical skill. MacTavish gave him an approving nod.
“And you?” MacTavish's eyes locked onto Tommy's.
Tommy raised his saxophone, heart pounding. Fuck it. He closed his eyes and played the opening bars of “Careless Whisper,” the cheesiest sax riff known to mankind. His dad loved it though, so he played it pretty frequently.
When Tommy finished the last note, MacTavish burst into genuine laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“That's what Ah'm talkin' about!” he exclaimed, pointing at Tommy with approval. “Not afraid to have a bit of fun with it. Music's not just about showin' off yer technical skills, it's about makin' people feel somethin'. Even if that somethin' is a good laugh.”
Tommy felt a warmth spread through his chest at the unexpected praise. Maybe this class wouldn't be complete rubbish after all.
MacTavish moved on to Ethan, who nervously played a few bars from a pop song that had been overplayed on the radio all summer. The rest of the class took their turns, some impressive, others clearly needing practice, but MacTavish found something encouraging to say to each of them.
As the period wound down, MacTavish checked his watch and frowned slightly. “Right, almost forgot.” He walked over to his desk and pulled out a stack of papers with visible reluctance. “Got these flyers for the parent night next week. Apparently, Ah'm meant to hand these out.”
He sighed, shuffling through the papers. “Seems like the sort of thing that belongs in a regular classroom with, ye know, actual paper assignments. Not in band. But whatever the administration wants, aye?”
Tommy snorted quietly. It was refreshing to have a teacher who didn't pretend to love every bureaucratic task thrown their way.
MacTavish moved through the semicircle, handing each student a flyer. “Same as Ah did fer my previous class. Take one, don't lose it, make sure yer parents see it. New year kickoff and all that.”
When he reached Tommy, their eyes met briefly, and MacTavish gave him a slight nod that felt like a private acknowledgment of their shared musical sense of humor.
“Don't forget to bring these home.” MacTavish called out as the bell rang. “Right, off ye go to yer next classes. Good session today.”
Tommy stuffed the flyer into his backpack without looking at it and carefully packed away his saxophone. As he filed out with the others, he caught snippets of excited chatter about the new teacher.
“Did you see his tattoos?”
“Special forces, can you believe it?”
“We're definitely playing better music this year.”
For once, Tommy found himself agreeing with the general sentiment. He headed toward his next class, math with Mr. Martin, who was about as exciting as watching paint dry. But somehow, the prospect didn't seem quite as dreadful now. The day was looking up. Maybe year 10 wouldn't be complete garbage after all.
Max caught up with him in the hallway. “What'd you think?”
“Could be worse.” Tommy admitted, which was high praise coming from him. “At least we won't be playing the same Christmas shite for the fifteenth time.”