Can a nine-year-old boy choose to remain silent? Can he pretend not to see his classmates, his teacher, the desks, the windows—everything that fills a crowded fourth-grade classroom? Can he decide not to hear, or pretend not to hear, the conversations, the calls, the invitations, the shouts, the laughter, all the noise that echoes around him during lessons and recess? This is what Carlo's classmates ask themselves. They don't understand. They don't understand how their classmate—so much like them in every physical way—can stay so absorbed for so long, twisting a length of colored string in his hands or tearing paper into the tiniest fragments. They want at least to know: "Is he sad?" "Is he angry?" "Would he be happier somewhere else?" "Is he shy?" "Is he bored?"
Then, one day, something shifts. He becomes suddenly, irresistibly drawn to something new: colored pencils, a different poster, an unusual pencil sharpener. And there he is, leaning forward, his eyes pleading, small insistent cries breaking through.
Even his more confident classmates feel unsettled. Those who have tried talking to him many times are discouraged. "Teacher, he won't even look at us!" "He doesn't care about anyone!"
"Come on, don't do that. It makes me feel worse when you cry."
One day, Elisa was crying with her head on her desk. She'd received a harsh grade on her homework. Then she felt something. She looked up through her tears and saw two blue eyes, wide open, staring at her from a meter away. They were sad and worried, as if saying: "Come on, don't do that. It makes me feel worse when you cry." His hands—always twisting, always shredding—were still, waiting, just inches from her hair. Elisa was so startled by this unexpected visit that, tears still on her cheeks, she smiled at him. Carlo smiled back. Then he bolted away, racing back to his desk like a silent sprite who, having completed his exploration and reclaimed his territory, returns to his hiding place.
Spring field day came for fourth grade A as well. The bus, singing, noise, laughter, a walk, pizza and sandwiches, Coca-Cola and orange soda, and in the afternoon, a soccer game: two trees marking the goal. Fourth A against fourth C, the girls cheering alongside the teachers. Protected by the chaos, forgotten in all the excitement, Carlo actually watched this time. He really watched what was happening around him. He let the string fall from his hands. He stood up. He stepped out from the shadow of the chestnut tree. He walked toward his classmates playing in the field and entered the game just as Simone kicked a beautiful goal into fourth C's net.
- Pennablù, 1997