Chapter Text
Mischa excitedly bopped his head to a new playlist he made with a blend of popular rap and hiphop songs, sporting ungodly bass and purposely vulgar lyrics. Nothing else woke him up quite like it, especially on Monday mornings when all of his collective consciousness yearned for his incredibly mediocre and honestly uncomfortable bed, that’s how he knows it’s bad. He was far away from his bedroom by this point though, currently standing in the middle of a crowded and stuffy bus. Not that it bothered him, the assortment of songs bleared so loud in his headphones that some heads in earshot turned to glare at him, he just kept his grip on the hand pole and looked out the window, at least as much as he could see with people sitting in front of him.
Entering school he had to finally take his headphones out and wind down, he hastily stuffed it in his bag and made the walk to his first class. Turns out, even his new and revised hype playlist could not save him from the perils of sleep deprivation. He blurrily recounted his late night Saw marathon as his head rested far too cozily on his desk, the teacher beginning to sound a little too quiet, the work feeling a little too inconsequential and boring. With that, he easily slept through another lecture.
The other classes were excruciatingly slow, he couldn’t sleep through them, but he couldn’t exactly will himself to fully focus either. He just — sat there, staring at his paper, half focusing on his teachers and half trying not to let his eyes wind shut. He got barely any work done, annoyed at the sheer amount of melatonin in his system. Saw’s awesome, but this is just… overkill now.
The final bell finally rang, it woke him up a good bit. Now excited with the prospect of finally going home. He’ll catch up on sleep then, maybe dream of a new movie. One he stars in, he can see it now, as he stuffs all his work in his bag, getting up. Mischa Bachinski, the greatest Ukrainian rapper. Will he make it out of the traps in time, or forever say goodbye to the arms he makes his divine beats with?
“Mischa.” He hears a displeased voice call behind him. Cautiously turning around, Mr. Dowie, his science teacher, is looking at him with worried eyebrows. He stops in his tracks and looks at him expectantly. The other kids trickling out.
“Listen, if you’re having trouble in class, you can always come talk to me. You know that, right?” The teacher talks a little more hushed, putting up the appearance of privacy. Mischa just awkwardly nods and shrugs, mostly annoyed at the holdup when he has a bus to catch.
“Hey, if this is about a language barrier, we can set something up for you, okay?” And that annoyed Mischa a bit, but he just shrugged again. “Nah man, I am fine, promise.” He said as casually as possible, hoping he’d give up.
The teacher seemed to think about something, looking around the classroom. His eyes set on a boy still frantically writing despite school being over. Abruptly, he points at him, looking up at Mischa.
“Ricky over there, he could be a good tutor for you, he’s helped out some other kids in my classes.” This made Ricky look up from his paper, hearing his name. He pinched his eyebrows looking over at the teacher and Mischa, but his expression stayed mostly unreadable.
“Sorry to interrupt, but how would you feel about that?” Mr. Dowie asks Ricky from where he sits, suddenly Mischa feels annoyed at his own lack of agency in this. He doesn’t need a tutor, he was just tired. He’s sure if he had enough sleep he would do just fine, maybe a little below average, he’s not picky. A tutor is purely added pressure.
Ricky blinks a couple times and then stands up from his desk, walking up to the teacher. He momentarily lets go of his crutches — now just awkwardly leaning on them — and signs something with his hands that Mischa doesn’t understand, he just watches, eyes flicking between the two.
The teacher briefly glances at Mischa and sighs, looking conflicted. Well that’s not a good sign.
Mischa knows of Ricky, though minimally. Ricky’s in choir class with him, but he admittedly hasn’t paid much mind to him, people don’t often talk about him either, he’s just there. The only notable instance is when Ocean obnoxiously introduced him to the others when he first joined, which Mischa found really annoying, he’s just another person, not some shiny trophy she needs to justify to the others. He gave her an unimpressed look and continued on with his warmups. Ricky looked displeased too, for what it’s worth.
Mr. Dowie finally spoke up, talking to Mischa but directing it at both of them. “I think this could help you, Mischa. You won’t pass my class with blank assignments and your head glued to the desk. You have other options, yes, but consider this.”
He suddenly had a spike of shame hit him. Well that’s one way to word it, in front of someone else — no less. He just scratched his head from the nerves and nodded. Not really making eye contact with either of them.
It was a long couple of seconds, with the teacher expectantly peering at him and Ricky awkwardly standing there, adjusting his crutches and looking at the walls. And finally after Mischa was getting really antsy and impatient, the teacher showed mercy.
“You’re dismissed.” In a disappointed tone. What? He said he’ll think about it. But he didn’t have to be told twice, immediately he walked out the door and tried catching up with the bus. Ricky just shrugged and went back to writing in the now emptier classroom.
It had been a while since Mischa put some thought into his academics. He really, truly didn’t care for it much. Smart kids with bright futures and strict parents got good grades, kids who dream of affluence and well-paying jobs. Mischa was not one of those kids. Everyone around him joked in the same vein that his future consisted of settling for different odd jobs around town while out on parole, not short of his friends who were certainly not ones to talk. But reputations have impacts, they mold you into whatever others expect of you. His parents weren’t much better, while they didn’t put expectations on him, they didn’t do much of anything concerning him, they gave him food and a home to live in, but that was the extent of their love. If Mischa needed strictness, he would not get it from his parents. Not that he particularly saw them as parents either, being adopted that late in life is a confusing experience.
And while his wishes for the future ignorantly sidelined any mentions of actual jobs or schooling, he still poured some effort into his coursework. He didn’t need to spend nights feverishly finishing homework, but when he was in class, he’d listen, he’d make an attempt. And to his credit, choir is killer for his resume, even if he had joined in the hopes of getting better vocals for his self-produced rap songs — not unbeknownst to his peers, who had shared his YouTube channel amongst themselves and got a good laugh. But his future employers didn’t need to know that.
Now, Mischa can immediately think of multiple cons when it comes to tutoring. First, it’s lame. Second, he’ll just have someone breathing down his neck checking for him to finish all his homework and study more, which sounds like way more work than he can stomach. But, on the other hand, he’ll actually have something to do outside of school instead of walking home and wasting his days away playing games and watching movies. And maybe, depending on the type of tutor, he could sneak his way into simply getting the answers for his assignments. Now that’s a good way to spend his time outside of school, better grades and less work is as good as it gets.
And Ricky, he seems nice. As far as Mischa knows at least. It seems like a plausible plan that’s worth a shot. Also, it will get his teacher to stop pestering him. The prospect makes him doubly excited, this seems like a win win. He just needs to play his cards right.
He gets up from his position on the bed and grabs his headphones from his backpack, grinning as he puts on the playlist from earlier this morning. Any previous drowsiness is forgotten completely.