A/N: i'm actually very proud of this one. this can be alternate universe/all human, if you want. but it's also (could be) a headcanon of sorts. if our leading lady fudges a bit.

basically, i don't own any book, movie, or cat. so why would i own pjo?

Let it be known that while no one particularly likes European history—who cares about dead white guys hundreds of years old?—as an offered advanced placement course, it's hard for academically inclined students to resist adding it to their schedules, in hopes of scoring well on the final and getting valuable college credit. It doesn't hurt, really, that the instructor is easily one of the most cogent teachers at Leighton High School, and well liked among the nearing adults.

At least, that's what Peyton's always heard. Sure, she's seen Ms. Chase around campus—at least, she's almost certain she has—but she's never interacted with her in any way other than a shared smile at the beginning of freshman year when she was given the orange half sheet of page detailing her daily courses, but honestly she was so anxious about being that kid that has to carry around a map of the multiple buildings that make up the school, to really ask her about herself. Or exchange words other than her last name, Ayer.

Peyton's already struggled through the monotony of the regulation rules of the chemistry lab, and has been handed three syllabuses and it's barely noon. The soft curls in her hair have probably fallen out by now, because of course she had to forget hairspray this morning—she's never really been a fan of the nearly suffocating mist, making her skin sticky and nine miles from acceptable. Instead of freaking, because that's definitely something she feels like doing, she finds a seat near the left of the room, already planning possible emergency exit routes.

Placing the pale red bag that she's been hefting on her shoulder all day, she scopes out the stream of students that move through the doorway up until the blaring chime from the overhead speakers that warns of a minute until the start of the next period. The sophomores and juniors trickling in, stopping to shake hands with the woman standing in the hallway—whom the girl must have missed—are mostly recognizable to Peyton, but only a handful of them has she ever had conversations that lasted over thirty seconds with.

As everyone situates—while trying desperately to sit next to friends and coercing those who don't want to budge to maybe pack their stuff up and haul it to a few desks down the aisle? — Ms. Chase quietly pads to the space in between the desks and the whiteboard, holding a stack of white printer paper in her arms that she must have grabbed from one of the metal cabinets lining the walls.

She introduces herself, though she doesn't really need to—everyone knows who she is—and beckons for a student in the front row to pass out what are probably more syllabuses.

"As you know," their instructor begins, perching on the edge of her own desk, which is off in the corner of the room opposite the door. Blond ringlets, which fall just below her shoulders, sway with the movement. "this is an advanced course. I expect you to not only try, but to excel."

Then the dark haired girl she'd asked to hand out the sheets returns with the extra copies, so she gratefully takes them and sets them down beside her, and continues. "I'm sure you're well aware of how a syllabus works—and if you're not, hopefully you can figure it out before the first assignment. Which, of course, is right now."

There's a collective groan from her peers, but Peyton finds herself remaining quiet, instead looking to the piece of paper. September 2nd — Oral Speech. God, maybe this class isn't what it's been cracked up to be.

The disappointed sighs around her let her know that they've read it as well, and her eyes flick back up to the teacher who made all of their days considerably worse.

"You guys are so negative. It's a shame that this generation doesn't care for oral presentations." She grins. "If you'd like, we could all get in a circle, and pass a ball around."

Eyebrows are raised and scoffs escape lips at the sarcasm that laces her words. Then she claps, ordering everyone to push their desks to the edge of the room then form a ring with their hard plastic chairs.

Peyton almost feels like saying really? but the woman's being serious, so she drags hers to the center of the carpet, choosing to sit between a girl she's pretty sure is a senior—though she definitely doesn't look it, considering she could pass for fourteen—and boy with way too much gel in his hair. She smoothes her charcoal gray skirt down, then crosses her legs, shifting her backpack to rest beside her.

On the other hand, Ms. Chase has grabbed a spare seat, settling into a cross-legged form and holding an azure ball in her lap, passing it from one hand to the another, like she couldn't sit still for more than a few moments.

Once everyone has placed their rears on the plastic, the older woman—though she's probably just nearing twenty five—smiles gently. She explains that when they are given the ball, they're to state their name, share either something they'd like to learn more about—she makes sure to stress that it isn't necessary for it to be about European history because even she's on board with it not being enticing to teenagers—or something they're looking forward to this upcoming school year, then they relinquish it to someone else.

"I'll start," she offers. "Annabeth Chase. I'm looking forward to the last few weeks of this course, after the AP tests. When you guys don't have anything else to do, neither do I."

Peyton laughs—numerous people have told her about the time following the tests, a supposedly blissful state, almost like a free period. She hopes it's true.

A girl she knows—Rebecca Staling, a brainiac who probably could get a four on the essay without even taking the course—holds the ball now, so she must have missed the exchange. Rebecca blabs on about discovering more about her ancestors, who were apparently Dutch royalty some hundred years ago, so didn't that make her a special snowflake.

She talks so long, Peyton's sure that Ms. Chase is agitated—and she isn't wrong, because she's twitching her foot somewhat impatiently, but with a sort of resigned look, like she has become accustomed to this.

When Peyton's zoned out, a small sphere of rubber hits her chest squarely, but she has the sense to grab it without much fuss. Her fingers curl around it as she considers what exactly she desires to learn or do in the next year, and she's tempted to just say something about homecoming, but bites her bottom lip to keep the shallow words from wriggling their way out.

"I'd like to—" She cuts herself off, pausing. She racks her brain further, but she's left with the simple answer. "I'm looking forward to having this class everyday."

She hears someone cough out some sort of insult, about how she's a suck up; it doesn't bother her, not at this moment. This could be attributed to the wide grin that graces her teacher's face.

So then Peyton tosses it to another student, a boy with a plethora of freckles dusting his nose and cheekbones, complimented by strawberry blond hair. The following responses all sound similar—some about wanting to learn about ancient Greece, or the Roman empire, others about trips they're taking or plays that are coming up.

When it's all finished, and the ball has been returned to Ms. Chase, she scrunches her nose.

"How was that? Too middle-schoolish?" She asks, and she gets a slur of eh's and it's interesting's from those on the chairs.

Peyton furrows her eyebrows. "Is this the first time you've done that?"

She answers that, yes, it's her initial endeavor in this sort of ice-breaker. "I have only the level two kids before you guys, and I already know them pretty well. My friend's been pressing me to do this—"

"What kind of friend made you do this?" A male voice pipes up—he introduced himself as Adam, though Peyton already knew him from a couple of shared classes last year.

Ms. Chase—Annabeth—laughs. "The kind you can't get rid of."

;;

Peyton hears the rumors four days later—something about Ms. Chase and another faculty member, and the bathrooms by one of the practice gyms? She doesn't really believe it, until, of course, one day after a few weeks have passed when the woman arrives after the bell had sounded.

It was strange, considering she was normally either parking herself on top of her desk while greeting those who walk in—she's fidgety, and doesn't like to sit normally, Peyton observes—or writing down notes on the whiteboard with a pale blue marker.

Her face is also flushed, and she looks like she had just taken down her hair and released it from a tighter bun. The lipstick she's taken to wearing—a sort of coral shade, which is actually very flattering, though there isn't much that doesn't look envious on her—is slightly smudged, and it takes Peyton embarrassingly longer than it should to realize what had happened.

Ms. Chase, unperturbed by the stares she's receiving, moves to make a few clicks on her laptop and flipping a switch on the mechanical panel next to her, turning on the projector.

"Peyton, would you mind pulling the screen down?"

Over the course of the week, she'd migrated to the second row, as she discovered that she couldn't really see the board—she has a nasty habit of leaving her contacts in their case on her bedside table. She's also the only one able to reach it, as Ms. Chase is only an inch or two taller, even with the pumps she often wears.

Peyton does as requested, and when she returns to her seat, she's given a grateful look from her teacher. Who then scans the room, and holds their gazes.

"This never happened."

;;

Taking the position as an office aide for seventh period may have been the best idea Peyton came up with all last year. She spends the hour either catching up on homework—particularly this one essay for Chase due next week, which is crucial to her high maintenance grade point average. On the off chance she actually has to do something, it's typically simple and quickly done, like shredding private papers or playing messenger for teachers.

Which is what she's just been asked to do.

The slip of paper that beckons for a student by the name of Aiden Keighly—she has no idea who that is—gives its destination, room 411. She recalls that it's probably a few doors down from European history, which is at the end of an eclectic hall, peppered with courses ranging from Human Practicum to Photography, to Sports Medicine.

She wonders whose class this is.

A long stroll past the library and the cafeteria, then a flight of stairs and a right turn puts her in front of a wooden door, covered in cerulean butcher paper and flimsy fish, underneath "Mr. Jackson."

Peyton knocks twice, before turning the cool steel handle and pushing it open. Surveying the room quickly—hey, she's curious—she notes that it's an array of youth on the older end of the spectrum independently working, ear buds in place as they click away on school provided laptops, and then her eyes land on a slender blond figure, perched atop a cabinet, throwing her head back in laughter as her scarlet heels lie on the floor below her.

"Ms. Chase?"

She can't help it. Why is she here?

Ms. Chase's body twists to her, a delighted look falling upon her face, making her grin waxing to a half moon.

"Ms. Chase?" A deeper voice is laughing, too, and when Peyton bends her neck in a rather odd angle to see a man roughly the woman's age, but probably a head taller and sporting shaggy, coal-black hair that'd better fit the football players than a teacher. "I can't believe you still make them call you that."

She turns to glare at him. "It's inappropriate for them to call me anything else, Mr. Jackson."

"I still say you should let them call you Annabeth," he teases. "Or Annie. I feel like they'd like that."

Ms. Chase rolls her eyes. "If any of them call me that, my hand might slip while I'm grading, and they fail the semester, Percy."

"You still grade by ha—"

"As much as I enjoy the tennis match," Peyton interrupts, "but I have a message for one of your students?"

She hands him the paper, littered with pen scratch from the secretary in the front office, then turns on her heel, but not before bidding farewell to her teacher and her friend.

;;

"What does he teach?"

Peyton finds herself asking this, as she's cross-legged on top of one of the metal desks and sorting through the different class periods, trying to put everything in order before she deposits them in the filing folders for pick up. She's taken to coming in, before classes began, after Ms. Chase had asked her for some help grading and organizing one day during a lecture. And now, she can't find a reason why she shouldn't be in here, as she doesn't have much else to do.

Ms. Chase hums in response, grading the last of the aforementioned essays. "Who?"

"Mr. Jackson." This is the closest she's come to talking about him, and Peyton isn't going to let it slip through her fingers. She's pretty sure she knows why the rumors started—and they definitely weren't false, for the most part.

"He runs the Independent Studies program." Ms. Chase scrunches her nose, which she has a habit of doing, in thought. "And he coaches the swim team, I'm pretty sure."

Peyton nods, placing Brooks above Brown. "Are they any good?"

Ms. Chase shakes her head.

The brunette is about to ask something else—what, she isn't quite sure—but there's a knock on the door followed by a cheerful "Morning!"

A dark haired man practically skips in, a white, cardboard box—probably donuts—tucked under one arm and his right fingers curled around the handle of a drink carrier, three of its four compartments filled.

"What brings you here?" Ms. Chase asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Just bringing around coffee and breakfast." Then he stills, dropping his eyes down to the carton he carries and staring at the label. He smiles as he hands one of the brown paper cups—devoid of any labels—to Peyton with a flourish, who's been watching the spectacle quietly. "A hazelnut macchiato for the young lady."

Peyton can't stop the grin from overtaking her face as she puts the papers down beside her and takes the drink into her hands. She asks how he knew what to get for her—she's only met him once before.

"I'm just awesome like that." For that, Ms. Chase rose from her desk, hitting him lightly on the arm.

"And by that, he means he used to work as a barista at Starbucks back in college." She explains, then bends down to take her own coffee. "The only thing he could do was figure out people's preferred drink. Got him more tips."

Mr. Jackson shrugs, moving to sit on a desk opposite Peyton. "I got pretty good at reading people. Like how I knew that she wanted an iced coffee."

With another roll of her eyes, the blond teacher takes a sip of her drink. "I also get the exact same thing every time."

"But I still knew you wanted it."

Over the next half hour or so, Mr. Jackson manages to scarf down three of the chocolate topped, crème filled donuts he brought, and drink the rest of his coffee, some sort of drink he claims is in Spanish that he conveniently can't pronounce, though Peyton suspects it's partially chocolate and caramel, based on the smell that surrounded her.

It's nice to see the pair together, without social inhibitions and it's a possible that she could be convinced that they're just really good friends. If it isn't for the fact that the way that they gaze at each other when they aren't looking is something she's never seen before.

;;

Peyton picks at a stubborn piece of lint that's stuck on her pale cardigan, then sighs. Around her, people are cheering—for what, she has no clue. She only agreed to come to this stupid game because Haley had begged her—something about how she was so helping her get some tall Asian guy she'd fallen head over heels for earlier in the year, whose name the brunette wasn't even sure of. She thinks it starts with an F, but she's probably wrong.

Sometimes, she wishes she had more of a backbone when it came to her friends. Canceling studying all night for a pizza outing's one thing, but making her be the dreaded third wheel to an idiotic game played specifically by neanderthals—even if those prehistoric humans were totally hot—is something else.

When Haley stops jabbering, clearly nervous, to the boy on her right, Peyton basically knows where she is already without even having to move to see the empty space on the bleachers on the row.

She sighs, not for the first time tonight, and removes her phone from her purse. It isn't surprising to her when the only missed call is from her mother, probably asking if she could watch her brother tomorrow while she drank herself shitless—ahem, stupid. Barbaric, under the table—whatever you wanted to call it.

The woman wouldn't be able to form coherent sentences, much less take care of her young son.

Peyton's about to traipse down the metal stairs, find a quiet section of the arena and ring up a friend to pick her up—it was just some worthless football game, not even homecoming.

Instead, she hears the rustle of fabric and the creak of someone sitting down next to her.

"Crappy game, isn't it?"

The voice, of course, is easily recognizable and she doesn't have to turn her head to see her

teacher, taking her place and pulling a dark colored pea coat tighter around her slender frame.

"Yeah, not a fan."

"Then why are you here?"

Peyton purses her lips, absolutely miserable. "Friend ditched me for some guy."

There's a light tone in her voice as she says, "Her loss" and offers a hand to her as she stands. At her puzzled look, Ms. Chase furrows her eyebrows. "Need a ride?"

;;

They find themselves at Great Mars, of all places in town.

It started out as a space-themed family owned restaurant, and somehow morphed into a little burger joint with the most heavenly milkshakes on the planet. Grabbing one of the stools and leaning on the counter—something Peyton's always wanted to do, but it's normally packed—they sit side by side, looking over the battered lamination that is the menu, even though they both already know what they want.

When the waitress decides they've had sufficient time to mull over their choices, she glides over, pulling a pencil from the large front pocket of her maroon apron, and asks if they're ready to order.

Peyton responds with a desire for an extra large chocolate milkshake, with bits of fudge added into it to make it even more envious. Similarly, Ms. Chase asks for a strawberry shake, before tacking on a basket of fries.

"Thank you, Ms. Chase," she says, and she's so honestly grateful.

The older woman smiles. "Call me Annabeth outside of class. Propriety's never been my forte."

"Okay, then, Annabeth." Maybe Mr. Jackson got to through to her after all.

Due to the rather slow night—the only other patrons are a father and son pair, who seem to have more burger than they know what to do with—they receive their food, drink, whatever, rather quickly and that first sip Peyton takes, she'd die happy.

Her—friend? guide? —laughs at the euphoric look stretched across her face. "Good, huh?"

Leaning back, she nods, and almost chooses to go on a long spiel about how utterly amazing the shake is, instead popping a fry in her mouth as she asks the next question. "Are you from around here?"

Annabeth shakes her head.

"I'm from Virginia, originally. Moved to New York when I was seven, I think, with my uncle," she says, dragging one of her own fries through a sheer mountain of ketchup. "But yeah, I live in Leighton. Down near that old hair salon."

Peyton grins. "YOLO salon?"

"That's the one."

They finish their impromptu meal lazily, and it's well after nine before Annabeth's dropping the girl back off at her house, a quant home with light yellow paint.

;;

It's December before Peyton catches more than a glimpse of the instructor down the school hall, other than the handful of times over the two months when he's needed to borrow a stapler—he's awful with keeping up with his—before staying a great deal longer than necessary, talking with Annabeth about the wonders of this book he's reading, until she shoos him away because honestly he has a class right now.

In response, he'll shrug and say if the students weren't willing to do things on their own, then the title "Independent Studies" would just be a lie. To that, Annabeth'll smile, before saying that she currently has a class.

But Peyton's staying after the end of the period so she can finish her test, and he's in full on flirt mode, sitting backwards on a dark blue chair, chin resting on the back of it. If there was any ounce of doubt left in her mind that they weren't taking extracurricular activities to a whole different level, it's most definitely crushed.

"I'll be lonely." Mr. Jackson's honest to God a child, lamenting about how unfair the whole situation is as he burrows his head into his arms.

Behind her desk, scrounging for a pen, Annabeth tsks. "And you'll just have to deal with it."

"And I'll have to be in a suit, and you know I hate suits."

Thank the heavens above that this is another free period of hers, because if there was any other student in the room aside from Peyton, her twitter feed would be churning the rumor mill even more heavily.

"Plus, you'd look gorgeous in that blue dre—"

Annabeth cuts him off, instead speaking to her. "Hey Peyton," The girl in questions looks up from her bubble sheet, "would you be willing to stay after school tomorrow, until around four? I need to make a few posters for the trip to Rome next year, and I'd appreciate the help."

"Will you provide food?" She asks, tapping the end of her erasure against her mouth, and when the blond nods, she grins. "I'm in."

Mr. Jackson's trying to desperately grab his friend's attention, even going so far as to wave his hand in front of her face, to which she smacks it back down. "But Annabeth," he bemoans, sticking his lower lip out into such a pathetic pout Peyton can't hold back a snicker.

"You might as well," she advises, and Annabeth gets this sort of look in her eyes, which definitely signals to him that she's admitting defeat.

She mutters a barely there "sure" and he's so excited he presses his lips into her hair, even though there's a student there. Again, they're absolutely lucky that it's her and not anyone else.

;;

"Are you going anywhere for spring break?"

"With all these papers to grade?" Annabeth laughs over the test she's grading. "Yeah, I'm heading out to Montauk for a couple days."

Peyton puts the rest of her papers in a stack on her desk, but not before binding them with a light blue paperclip to keep them together. She asks whom she's going with.

Annabeth responds with, "A friend."

"Sure." She's sarcastic, something that she hadn't really been the previous year, but now—after hanging around Annabeth and Mr. Jackson so much—she couldn't help but integrate it into her own personality. "He's definitely just a friend."

The blond glares at her. "That's not to leave this room."

"What's there to do in Montauk anyway?"

Annabeth finally smiles, truly. "We rent a cabin out on the beach—used to do it with his mom."

"How long have you known him?"

Her nose scrunches up, in a way that's definitely not flattering. "Why are you so interested in my personal life?"

"It's the mystery that all the guys want to know—why no senior's bangi—"

"I get it."

"Plus," Peyton starts, "you're my friend, and I'd to know if my friend's boyfriend is a good guy."

The teacher rolls her eyes. "He isn't my boyfriend."

"Fiance then?"

She doesn't even flinch when that rubber ball from the first day of school is hurled at her unsuspecting face.

;;

Peyton's minding her own business, working diligently on a quiz in her now favorite class—but shh, don't tell—along with the rest of her peers. She's just gotten to the last question, something about some Eastern European country, and she's just about solved it when the door slams open.

"I am so getting you back."

In comes Mr. Jackson, covered head to toe in glitter—it'll probably be stuck in his ears and fall out every time he shakes his head for days—and he's definitely not in anyway happy.

On the other hand, Annabeth doesn't even look up from her rather thick book that she's reading, instead humming bemusedly. "I haven't done anything."

"April first, I'm covered in—gah! —and no one in my class has any clue what happened." He's attracting the attention of nearly everyone in the room, aside form Peyton who's pretty used to this by now and is just working on her answer.

Bored, her teacher replies, "I haven't a clue what you're talking about either."

"Gah!"

He leaves with a flourish, and all of the students in the room don't know what to say, other than Peyton, who simply finishes her quiz and places it on the instructor's desk for her to mark.

When she's turning back, she drops her voice down to a whisper. "I told you it was a good idea."

;;

The three weeks after the AP test were, as promised, blissfully relaxing. There was simply nothing to do, so Peyton found herself involved in so many card games she could probably go to Vegas right now and be decent.

Annabeth's taken to playing movies on the projector—typically set in Europe, but in no genre in particular, as the array includes an animated film about a really lame Viking boy who gets a pet dragon in some Nordic country, or that one black and white with Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn, Roman Holiday.

But they often have another member in class—Mr. Jackson, sitting diligently in one of the desks because his seniors and juniors for some reason get early release so early in the day. He's typically really into the movie, always one to suggest the next one.

If they're trying to hide any relationship they have—which Peyton is beginning to think they aren't—they're doing a shoddy job at it. Her feed is often full of Oh my God have you see the hotties together lately? and God, they're so cute together.

It's getting rather annoying. She just wishes that they'd go ahead and get hitched so everyone would stop freaking out about it so much.

;;

Maybe she shouldn't have spoken so soon—actually, maybe it was a good thing she did—because during final's week, in one of her morning visits to class 419, she notices something rather sparkly on her teacher's ring finger.

"Did he propose?" Peyton's surprised she's not squealing.

She doesn't really need an answer, though, because the wide smile gracing Annabeth's face gives it all away.

Peyton just hopes she's invited to the wedding—she has to be, considering all next year during AP II she's definitely going to be pestering her about it, probably the entire time.