Chapter Text
“Narancia, we need to talk after class, okay?”
The gentle voice snapped Narancia’s eyes away from a really fat pigeon he’d spotted out the window and to the speaker, a concerned math teacher who, as Narancia looked further down, was handing him a completed test covered in red marks. “Aw man, did I fail again?” he scanned the paper and his eyes widened when he saw his grade. “Wait, a 19?” he yelped, looking back up to his teacher in shock. There was a sudden moment of quiet while a few kids let out muted giggles around the room, as they usually did when Narancia got a comically low grade, but he gave less than two shits about that. The professor gave a slight smile with frowning eyes and nodded in confirmation, his bobbed hair bouncing along as if to reaffirm the action. The rest of the class had moved on from this increasingly common occurrence, and the students had gone from low murmurs to normal speaking voices again, no tension in the air whatsoever.
“It’s alright, Nara, I failed like three classes last year, and now look! I’m doing great,” came a voice from behind Narancia, joking but somehow supportive. “Bucci, tell him he’ll be fine!”
“Guido, I’m sure Narancia isn’t set on following in your footsteps-- and shouldn’t you be working on an assignment of your own?” retorted the teacher, who to most was known as Mr. B, but was lovingly nicknamed “Bucci” by his more ‘troublesome students,’ not that he considered them to be so. He tucked some errant hair behind his ear and continued passing out graded tests. Mista, who was stationed on an old couch at the back of the room, grinned and held up a sloppily filled out worksheet.
“Already done, Mr. B! Am I quick, or what?”
“I don’t care if it’s done quickly, but those answers had better be correct. I don’t want you here for another year.”
“Yeah, okay, Mom.” Mista stuck his tongue out at the man, and went back to whatever he’d been doing on his phone before speaking up.
Narancia groaned loudly and draped himself backward over his seat. His head lolled to the left to face Mista on the couch by the teacher’s desk, who glanced up and gave him a smirk. Narancia blinked lazily back at him and leaned forward once again, head resting in his hand and gazing blankly out the window, where there was now another pigeon joining the first. “God, I need to bring a charger to class," he thought, his boredom punctuating the weight of a dead phone in his pocket. The last few minutes of class passed slowly, the soft tap of Narancia’s leg bouncing contributing to the collective ambience of an antsy class with nothing to do.
After what felt like ten minutes but was probably more akin to two or three, the room was filled with the sounds of shuffling papers and bags being zipped shut. Mr. B spoke up from his desk, “Everyone have a good afternoon, don’t do drugs, and please remember a pencil for tomorrow, we’re starting a new unit of notes and I just ran out of extras for you kids to use.” As if on cue, the dismissal bell rang as soon as he finished. He wore a self-satisfied grin, clearly proud of his ability to give his speeches with such impeccable timing. The room was soon cleared out save for Narancia and Mista, who still lounged on the couch. Narancia stood and tossed his backpack onto Mista, who let out a startled cry.
“What the hell, man? You’re lucky your bag is so fucking light!”
“Move, bitch! I gotta talk to Bucci!” Narancia declared. Mista gave a bemused, “Ha!” and arranged himself into a sitting position. Narancia plopped himself next to Mista on the side of the couch closest to the desk, leaning onto the teacher’s workspace.
“What’s the problem, teach?”
‘Teach’ looked up at the boy with a smile, putting aside the papers he was grading and giving Narancia his full attention. “You know what I want to talk about, right?”
“Of course, Bucci, I’m not that stupid.” The teacher flinched at that, and his expression softened a great deal.
“You’re not stupid, Narancia. You just have more interest in other subjects. Ah- Mista?” he shifted his gaze to the older boy. “Would you mind giving us some privacy?”
Narancia spoke up, perhaps a bit louder than he needed to, but this was true for most everything he said. “Mr. Bucciarati, sir, anything you say to me, you can say to this man!” he punctuated himself with a dramatic gesture to Mista and a fist brought down on Bucciarati’s desk. Bucciarati laughed, and conceded.
“Alright, alright. So you already know that you’re failing my class, I take it?”
Narancia nodded enthusiastically. “Yessir! Sorry, sir!”
“Yeah, yeah.” Bucciarati turned his laptop to face Narancia, showing the class’s grades with Narancia’s row highlighted. It took him a second, but Narancia eventually focused in on his overall grade for the semester: 44. Suddenly, Mista gasped from behind him, genuine horror on his face.
“Nara, that’s bad luck! Oh man, oh man ohmanohman!”
“Shut the fuck up, Mista! Your number thing doesn’t mean shit to me!” Narancia matched Mista’s volume, grinning at his sudden freakout.
“Actually, Narancia, Guido is right. This is incredibly bad luck.” Narancia turned back to his teacher, who now matched Mista’s intensity, albeit a quieter kind. “This grade means that you’ll fail to get your math credit this year, and you’ll have to either retake my class next year or even attend this school for a fifth year, just like Guido.” Bucciarati’s eyes got wider and wider as he spoke, and his voice devolved to one you might use to tell a ghost story late at night. “I know you don’t want that, Narancia. I mean, look at Guido- do you really want to end up like him?”
“Wh- Oi! Do you wanna start something, Bucci? I’ll throw hands with you, man, don’t matter that you’re a teacher!”
Bucciarati’s composure broke and then he was laughing with his whole body, and the two boys soon joined in. They tried to calm down many times, but then, as laughing fits usually go, they would make eye contact and someone would break out into more giggles and everybody would join once again. The endless loop was finally broken by the classroom door slamming open and a girl’s shout of, “Hey!”
Mista’s head shot up at the sound of the voice and shouted, “Trish!” He threw his and Narancia’s bags off of the couch, scrambling closer to Narancia and patting the space next to him.
“I can hear you people from the hallway, what the fuck is so funny?” Trish dropped her bag in the newly formed pile and somehow managed to gracefully throw herself onto the couch next to Mista.
“You know, it was actually pretty unfunny if you weren’t there,” Bucciarati said, wiping a tear out of his eye. “We’re off track-”
“Soooo off track,” Mista chorused.
“-Thank you, Guido. Narancia, God, my point is, I want you to pass this class.”
“Boooooorinnnnng!” Narancia shouted, sliding down the couch on his back.
“For fuck’s sake, Nara, even I’m passing and I couldn’t care less about school,” Trish interjected. “At least, like, get a C so you don’t have to be here longer than you need to.” Mista gave a soft angry huff at that.
“Exactly my point, Trish, thank you. I know you hate math, Narancia, but you have a good head on your shoulders- you can understand anything if you’re taught it in a way that you can keep up with. I get that a classroom format doesn’t really work for you, so I’m thinking we should try something different.”
Narancia gasped. “I don’t have to come to class?!”
“No,” Narancia’s face fell. “I’m setting you up with a tutor, Narancia.”
“Nooooooo!!! Bucci, please, I can’t do more school after school, I’ll die! You know I can barely survive regular school! Mista, Trish, tell him!”
“I don’t know, Nara, this seems like the best thing for you,” Trish said, a juul cloud pouring out of her mouth as she spoke. Bucciarati didn’t bat an eye.
“Bro, you know I care about you, and I want only the best for you, but I think maybe Bucci’s right,” Mista blew Trish’s cloud back at her, face scrunching up at the smell of cotton candy.
Narancia practically sobbed, sliding further down the couch until he left the cushion all together, and kept going until he was laid flat on his back on the linoleum floor. “Bucciiiii, please, isn’t there another way?”
“Narancia, please get off the floor, I don’t know if the janitors even come in here anymore. I know this hurts, but one-on-one teaching is the best option for you. Narancia? Listen.” The teen was letting out a continuous groan now, eyes closed.
“Whaaaaat?”
Bruno’s voice was soft, but his tone had a finality to it. “I have you set up for one hour every tuesday and thursday. That’s small potatoes, Nara. I know you can you this.”
“I don’t want to, though!”
“Your tutor’s name is Pannacotta Fugo.”
“Wait, Pannacotta? Like the dessert?” Mista exclaimed. Bucciarati ignored him.
“You’re meeting him in the library tomorrow at 3:30, and I want you on your best behavior. Got it?” Narancia just gave a defeated sigh. “Great! I’m so glad you’re doing this, Narancia, I know it’ll be good for you.”
“Whatever,” Narancia sighed again.
“Aww, buddy, it’s okay,” Mista said with sarcastic sympathy, picking Narancia up by the torso like a kitten and placing him back on the couch. Trish giggled at the sight. “Tell you what, let’s hit up the new yogurt place on the way home. Would you like that?”
Narancia sniffled dramatically. “Yeah.”
“Well, I think we’d better head out, Bucci, I have a big ol’ baby to cheer up. Trish, you coming?”
“Hell yeah, I am!” the three students gathered up their things and headed out the door.
“Bye, kids!” Bucciarati shouted after them, and he was met with a chorus of, “Bye, mom!” and a grumble from Narancia followed by the door slamming shut behind them. Bucciarati was beaming, and he went back to grading, chuckling to himself softly.
The teens had made it to the small shop which was called Yogurt Experience Requiem and were congregated around a patio table despite the chilly air; the fine frozen establishment did not allow vaping inside, much to Trish’s chagrin, who had discovered this by attempting such a thing. Narancia had ended up costing Mista far more than he bargained for, and quite frankly Mista wasn’t sure how he’d managed to get so much fucking yogurt into one bowl. Trish’s was far more delicate, but it seemed that she had made the bowl just for aesthetics. The creation itself was adorable, all pastel colors with carefully arranged toppings, but the boys had suspicions that maybe she just made it like this for her Instagram.
Either way, everyone was eating and Narancia was now much happier than before. Trish took small bites from her bowl while scrolling through her phone, occasionally taking a drag from her juul and passing it to Narancia when he asked. They just sat and talked for an hour or two, revelling in the simplicity of an old and comfortable friendship. By the time everyone was heading home, Narancia was still incredibly reluctant to start tutoring, but he’d finally gotten to acceptance in his high-speed five stages of grief. By the time he was in bed, Narancia was incredibly chill about this whole tutoring thing, even a little excited for the change in pace. “Whatever,” he said to himself. “Maybe this smartass tutor is a cool guy. Bucci wouldn’t set me up with someone who hates me.”