ArchivedLogs:Tutoring Gone Mal

Tutoring Gone Mal
Dramatis Personae Shelby, Ivan, Mal	2013-05-03 Ivan tutors Shelby. A wild Mal appears.
Location <NYC> Busboys and Poets - East Harlem
A quiet, artsy spot nestled away on a side street in East Harlem, Busboys and Poets combines cafe and bookstore in a way a Starbucks tacked on to a Barnes & Noble could never achieve. The food is a solid, multi-national cuisine menu that caters to all kinds of dietary choices, and its fair-trade tea menu is extensive. Its weekend brunch tends to draw a large crowd, but there is ample enough seating both at tables and on its many comfortable armchairs and couches that at other times of the week there is never a wait. The walls are adorned with the work of local artists, and tucked in among and alongside the couches are rows upon rows of books, with a definite slant towards the political and the bohemian. Friday afternoon and you know what that means--no school for two whole days! Shelby has a jampacked weekend planned, full of quality time with Rasa, with the twins, with her art supplies and her YouTube channel. Not once did the concept of /studying/ enter into her mind...until Ivan brought it up. But! She did not allow it to put on a damper on her mood, instead dragging the boy along to a coffeeshop near her adopted doctor's apartment to indulge in a plate of double-loaded nachos and ridiculously sugary coffee drinks. If there are going to be schoolbooks, she damn well needs junky foods to cope. One whole couch has been taken over by the two teens, courtesy of Shelby spread out backpacks and her board to keep others away. The table in front of the couch is likewise claimed with books, papers and mmmm, foood. She's in the process of scooping up a tortilla chip, nudging extra jalapenos into the puddle of cheese in its center. "So kinda like Jim and Jax, huh? Don't /really/ need food 'cause the sun charges them up? I guess Jax doesn't have...what was it? Chlorophyll." "Yes, sort of like thay, only--" Ivan replies back, much less occupied with eating and much more with glancing back and forth between loose pages of notes around and /on/ him because apparently eagerness to help does not an organised tutor make, "-- Jim and Jax do not need food?" He blinks at Shelby from his spot on the couch, before gathering a handful of paper into his arms to unload it onto the table with his eyebrows lowering in thought. Instead of them, a biology book gets pulled into his lap and stared at, /quite/ intently. Absently, with just a twitch of a smirk, he mutters, "Maybe when you have learned about plants, you should teach me about /people/." "Nah. Jim can go all tree in the dirt and Jax just sucks in light, I think. S'why he's a lot perkier now, y'know? More sun." Shelby cups her free hand under the loaded chip to avoid drips or spills on its passage to her mouth. Om nom nom crunch! "They still eat though 'cause d'uh," she mumbles through the mouthful. Her tongue emerges to sweep up a glob of melted cheese at the corner of her mouth. "Food tastes better than dirt /or/ sunlight." While finishing chewing the mouthful, she swings her eyes over to Ivan. His mutter makes her curious. "Mmm...I could if you want...what do you wanna know?" Clearly Shelby has mistaken Ivan for someone who is familiar with the definition of /fun/, because the next thing he does is dump the book he's holding in Shelby's lap with a "Yes," while one hand covers a bit of text next to an illustration of the structure of a chloroplast. "What is this?" Shelby gets a /stare/. It's a very serious stare, as if she hould know this one and he will be very disappointed if she does not. Hey! She was saving that lap for...something. That was not a textbook. Shelby, who had been prepared to lean forward to secure another chip, gives Ivan the flattest of looks. She only deigns to give the page a glance after making certain he is aware of her displeasure at having the meal interrupted with /studying/. "I dunno," is her immediate answer but she continues to study it--while reaching /over/ the book /and/ his arm to make for the nacho plate. "Wait, wait. I got this. Chloro...form." Ivan's acknowledgement of this displeasure is minimal. His expectant stare cannot be broken by lesser stares! "Plast." Comes his deadpan response. "Chloroplast. Like plasm. But not." This is noted as if it will somehow help. He takes the book back again to leaf through it, leaving Shelby more space to stuff her face. He bunches up a little as he studies other pages, eyes darting across text and illustrations. "... Or plast, like plastic. Like a plastic /shell/. With the chlorophyll in it." HMM. This is one of those days when Malcolm White actually appears marginally more respectable than usual. Black jeans match the black vest that is worn on top of a white dress shirt with rolled up sleeves. The relatively classy attire is contradicted by filthy Converse shoes and out-of-place large sunglasses that shield his eyes. He is easy to miss. Unlike his previous endeavour that involved Ivan, his arrival can be more likened to the encounter that involved Shelby. His order is placed and received quietly. It's not until he notices /both/ teenagers that his engine begins to sputter and activate. Targets acquired. Full speed, captain. The mug of coffee lands rather noisily on the book-filled table. Mal basically drops himself on the couch next to Ivan, rapidly shuffling closer to him to sling one arm around the poor teen. This embrace would be followed into a tight hug. "Learning hard, or hardly learnin'?" Even though his hug envelops Ivan, the concealed eyes are set on Shelby. "So I get half points for that, right?" Oh Shelby. Always working an angle. "Chlorform, chlorogasm...whatever." And this, friends and neighbors, is why she is not likely to last through her high school career. Nachos are far more important to her than plant cells. She begins the process of scooping up another bite, this one piled high with cheese, meat and sour cream, when Malcolm makes his appearance. The girl startles, fingers tensing on the chip--which breaks as a result, its contents plopping back onto the plate--and looks past Ivan to blink at the newcomer. "...wuh. You know this asshole, Ivan?" There's something to be said for profanities and how easily they become distinguishable from normal manner of speech when they aren't spoken calmly, but /yelped/ out. "{FUCK!}" Ivan's eyes go wide, and all at once he bunches forward as his arms SHOOT up from his book upon the sound of Mal's voice, regardless of what they may hit on the way. Reflexes! Perhaps to shield himself from danger, perhaps to SMACK someone in the FACE because /what the hell/. And that hand actually flies right into Mal's face. He makes no effort to dodge that; the hit actually slaps his sunglasses off, causing them to hit the table on their way down to the ground. Apparently, such a development only rouses amusement, causing him to burst into a short-lived fit of laughter. After which he /squeezes/ Ivan closer to him. And then he lets go almost immediately afterwards, planting the arm along the back of the couch. Without the sunglasses, he looks sleepless and hung-over. "Save the endearing nicknames for when we're in bed together." A wink is accompanied by the click of a tongue, both aimed at Shelby, of course. "Name's Mal." Ivan is eyed, then. "And this jumpy friend of yours? /Ivan/, huh? Could've been worse. Could've been Boris or something." "/Dude/." Shelby has probably never heard Ivan swear before. Not that she knows the word he just uttered but she, more than anyone, knows an obscenity when she hears one. The way he reacts is a cause for concern, which of course leads to her own natural response to assholery of the first order--aggression. Like a bird who's nest has been disturbed, she is all puffed up feathers and noise, reaching out to hook a hand through Ivan's arm to pull him closer to her and away from Mal, while mustering a response. "I dunno what sorta crack you're on but like hell /that's/ gonna happen. Don't fuck with my friends unless you wanna get your balls cut off." Yank. Ivan topples sideways toward Shelby at the pull on his arm, muscles tight and expression of shock still on his face as it crashes into her shoulder. He shoves both hands down onto the couch to right himself, if only to glare at Mal with all his might, face reddening slightly with the /effort/ of it all. It may seem unlikely, at this point, that he has any bugs on him. Because if he did, this couch would likely be /crawling/ with them by now. Likewise, words aren't really happening. "/Someone/ missed their chemo session." The mug is lifted off the table, and Mal takes a hearty swig of the hot beverage. Mmm, much needed caffeine. The mug is gently placed back down on the table. The pair of sunglasses are then retrieved and placed right next to the drink. His amusement wanes somewhat, but it is still firmly planted on his stupidly smug face. "I don't really understand what's with all the hostility, guys? It's a free country, isn't it? I'm here to have my drink--" To demonstrate, he gestures to the mug. "--and maybe have a bit of a chat. Does that make me a criminal?" Who could have thought feigned ignorance could be this massively annoying. It's a /good/ thing there are no bugs, otherwise Shelby would probably not have the presence of mind to tuck her arm around Ivan's shoulders. She isn't glaring but the look given to Mal certainly falls into the frowny category. "You don't go around /grabbing/ people out of nowhere, dude. That's like...asking to get punched." And see? He /did/, or he'd still be wearing his sunglasses! "You're lucky you grabbed Ivan, if it was me I'd have crotchpunched you." "He /did/ get punched." Ivan states, then, seemingly much more comfortable sinking away under the loop of of Shelby's arm than one of Mal's, even if he remains tense. His glare continues, but searches Mal's face, perhaps to memorise it. When the hand sweeps toward the drink, Ivan /twitches/, expression darkening still as his hands curl into fists. He pushes a foot to the floor to push himself back and away slightly, into Shelby's side. The very notion of the attack which Shelby describes seems to amuse Mal to no end. Just as his amusement diminishes, it starts back up again. A wide grin stretches his face, forming wrinkles at such a relatively young age. Still, they suit him, sort of. "/Crotchpunched/, huh? I usually don't leap into things until after a date." And then his attention sets on Ivan again. "/Slapped/, really. I'd never really let you punch me, kid. /Her/, maybe. Depends on how loudly she shouted out my name." If he were any fuller of himself, he'd explode; yet he tempts that fate. After another chug of caffeine, he continues. "Which is Malcolm White, by the way. Want a piece of paper and a pen to write that down?" Oof, okay, maybe having an Ivan trying to clamber into her lap is a little much. Shelby scootches over to make more room on the couch, enough to place some distance between Ivan and Mal. She's not /that/ protective. "Calm down, dude, he's not gonna fuck with you anymore," she says to the boy, giving him a friendly little shake--and giving Mal a look that says 'better not and no I'm not daring you'. Then, she affects nonchalance. Letting Ivan go, she leans forward to drag the nachos closer so she can continue eating. "In your /dreams/, man," she says of Mal's innuendo. "Don't make me tell my dad you were hitting on me. /I/ punch folks, /he/ shoots 'em. Keep your autograph, save it for someone who's gonna be impressed. What're you doing here, anyway? Your little hoochie throw you out?" "Shel--" Thud. Ivan drops back onto the couch when Shelby scoots over, before he rolls to the side and rises to his feet. The biology book topples to the floor in the process. "Shelby," He aims his gaze at her, then back to Mal. "The last Sunday. I punched /him/." The rest is /hissed out/ through gritted teeth, "He was the one telling Rasa to /wear a paper bag/." "Eh, she got deported." These news are regarded with complete nonchalance. It seems Mal did not care for that Maria woman at all. Considering she was his ex, it is not that unlikely. Further innuendos would probably be spoken, but then Ivan points out that Mal was the drunken delinquent who insulted Rasa last Sunday. /Allegedly/. The dark-haired stranger bursts out laughing, first. The chuckling fit is restrained in due time, followed by the shake of the head. "/A paper bag/? Who's Rasa?" Squinting, he tries to remember something; or think up a lie. One of the two. "Wait", he lifts up a finger to wag at the two. "I know who you mean. There was a fucking dickwad who owes me poker money. He's a fucking shapeshifter and then some. I'm seeing /you/ the first time in my life, Boris." "Wait, that was /this/ guy?" Shelby blinks first, scowls next. Mal's protest falls on deaf ears--she's taking the Russian's word over the native's. Go figure! The teenager rises as well, this time reaching out to pull Ivan back and place herself between the two males. "Get your shit, Ivan," she instructs--because all that school stuff is /his/ and not /hers/. Right. "Listen, asshole," she goes on while leveling a finger at Mal, "you fuck with my friends again and it's not just me you gotta worry about. Keep your bullshit and your opinions to yourself, got it?" Again, Ivan is easily moved- with Shelby now in front of him, his muscles relax juuust slightly. He still aims a glare over her shoulder, but after that-- begrudgingly reaches to start collecting things off of the table stuff them into /either/ of the backpacks present. Muttering in Russian all the while, under his breath. The fact that 'dickwad' is said in the middle of an otherwise not-English sentence, bets should probably be on him /quoting someone/ in ridicule. Mal reclines on the couch, soaking in the scolding he's getting from Shelby as if he was getting a tan and the freckled teen was sunshine. He takes yet another sip. Mmm, delicious. At the end of the little tirade, Mal chooses to address something slightly different. "/Shelby/, huh? Not Eden? Interesting." Granted, the threat-- or warning that he was given is addressed just as well. "Yeah, sure, I'll keep away from whoever this Rasa person is. Going to be a little bit difficult if I don't know what she or he looks like, though. What kind of a fucking name is Rasa, anyway?" He calmly watches the two collect their things. Not that he stops either. Instead, he continues sipping his coffee. At least he'll get the table all to himself, now. Oh. Yeah. The name thing. Shelby's scowl deepens, creating all sorts of new and interesting lines in her face. "I said the bullshit too, douchenozzle. That means keeping your mouth shut about Rasa /and/ Ivan. If you can do that." She doesn't sound entirely convinced, all things considered--loudmouths can sense their own. "C'mon, Ivan. I told Doc I'd be back after school," she says as she bends to help the boy pick up the last of the books, including the bio book that fell too close to Mal's feet. It is scooped up. Ivan wastes little time to follow Shelby's suggestion of leaving, between confused stares prompted by the ongoing conversation. Eden? Chemo? Strange. That's not to say he doesn't still shoot Mal a glare on the way out, though, slinging his still-open and messily stuffed backpack onto his shoulder as he clamps a stray book to his chest and starts walking, backwards, toward the exit. His farewell is spoken fairly flatly, quite calm indeed, though for those listening close enough there is an umistakable vein of ill will streaked through his voice as well. "Good bye, Malcolm White."