Luca ha tredici anni

From the fifth floor, people seem even more rushed on Monday mornings, even Mrs. Michela, who literally drags her son Giovanni by the hood of his sweatshirt. You can't hear what she's telling him from up here, but it must be the usual things. "Hurry up, we're going to be late. You don't want to get another warning! Look, the bus is about to pass." Then, once she sees him get on, she concludes with a loud "Be careful...", trying to catch her son's eye. What she needs to caution him about every day, though, is a mystery. Every window in the buildings opposite reveals small daily dramas: burnt toast, milk spilled from a cereal bowl, a forgotten umbrella, a missed good morning because there's just been an argument. The caretaker of the building opposite checks the morning exits, pretending to sweep the courtyard. He only greets those he likes or who give him a generous tip at Christmas. "Oh, right, Christmas is in three months again," Luca thinks, it seems impossible that time flies so fast, "It seems like yesterday we got back from Cesenatico..." There, in that place full of people who look like ants on the beach, he was also there, with a group of peers who were chatting or, rather, commenting occasionally on what was on their phones. But at least they were still on vacation, which above all meant no lessons, no schedules, no stuff to study, no imposed activities, especially those chosen by the Italian teacher who often forces them to visit a museum or attend some unusual play with unknown actors, which will then be discussed once they return to school. Cesenatico was always better. Near the bar, next to the cabins, sitting there, rather than staying five or six hours in the classroom every day, waiting for that hysterical bell sound that marks the entry and exit of the various teachers from the classroom, as if they were doctors coming and going for observation. And without even time to stretch their legs and think a little. Yes, but about what? The fox terrier of the neighbor in the ground-floor studio apartment, an old widow who seems to live in symbiosis with that ailing animal, competing with him over ailments, barks at the same time every day, as it crosses the entrance hall. He thinks of nothing but finally going out early in the morning, doing his business, sniffing here and there, and pretending to know how to defend himself by showing his teeth to bigger neighborhood dogs who, however, don't even deign to look at him. "There's more balance among four-legged creatures," Luca thinks as he grabs a donut that's a bit too dry, prepared by his mother. "I'm going!" he shouts to her, grabbing his backpack from the floor in his room, slipping out the door, before she also succumbs to the same temptation as Mrs. Michela to caution him about something or other. Giovanni is still in fifth grade, but he isn't, darn it, he's just started the last year of middle school. And, in a year, by this time, if all goes well, he'll be crossing the gates of a technical institute or, even, a high school. Time does indeed fly. So now he knows he has to hurry, because the math teacher, in the first hour, is the least tolerant of all about tardiness. And with him, Luca doesn't want to make excuses. He already intimidates him as soon as he looks at him, to the point that, even having studied them, he forgets all the formulas and often gets confused about the symbols. And, then, he doesn't want to hear the usual snickering from those three or four classmates who can't wait to make fun of someone in difficulty. As if they were perfect! He quickens his pace, the bus went smoothly in the preferential lane, no one got in the way blocking it or slowing down the large public vehicle, perhaps obstructing it with a very dangerous scooter.