Today in fourth-period B, the class works in groups. They've spent two months gathering material for their project, and today each group will put together several pages with photos, drawings, and short texts that, combined, will form one big piece of work. There's real excitement as five students—chosen by the teacher—pick their teammates. The chosen students approach the group leader one by one.
— Let's see if you work better this way! — the teacher had said, giving in to their requests. And things are going well so far. No complaints or refusals as the pool of kids waiting to be picked grows smaller. There are eight left; now only four. But who will be picked last?
— I don't want him, he just makes a mess — Mister, he's always bothering us! — I'd rather we stay with four people. — Yeah, me too, actually! — Flavio watches and listens.
His eyes suddenly serious, he watches his classmates talk about him. Those words hit him like stones, even though he doesn't catch all of them. — But aren't they his friends? What's happening? Why doesn't anyone want him? —
From what feels like a great distance, the teacher's voice reaches him—correcting, explaining. But the words aren't for him. They have nothing to do with him.
From far away he sees his classmates' jerky movements, their angry faces, their threatening eyes.
But none of that matters now. Nothing matters anymore, because Flavio suddenly feels himself getting smaller, smaller and smaller. He barely has weight at all now: he can spread his arms wide, or rather his wings—his wings because, without quite knowing how, by magic, Flavio has turned into a little bird. A beautiful robin with chestnut feathers sprinkled with red, a round head held high on a thin neck, black eyes bright and quick. How happy Flavio is! He flies up, up above his classmates' heads as they shout without understanding; he flies above the blackboard, above the bookcase. His wings beat against the ceiling, bump the fluorescent lamp, the map of the world. In a moment the teacher will say: — Look, open the window. Flavio is leaving. He's free. You can't hurt him anymore. He understood that he couldn't stay with you at all. You never understood that.
Now the window is open; the green branches of the poplar tree just a few meters away seem to call to him: — Come, Flavio, come! —
But Flavio-the-robin can't decide. From above he looks down at his classmates, pointing, waving their arms, calling him. There's Claudia, the volleyball team captain, who taught him how to spike; there's Roberto, his bike buddy, and Luigi who lives right near him. They go to school together every morning and buy pizza at the bar together. There's Irene in that corner, crying now, who knows why; she was yelling louder than everyone before. They're his classmates, his friends—sometimes real friends, sometimes... sometimes... Flavio wants to fly away like a freed bird. — Flavio, Flavio! — his classmates call. Their voices reach him again, and his flight grows lower, less frantic now.
— Flavio, don't listen to those killjoys! We'll make the strongest group, you and me... we'll even put the teacher in it! —
It's Luigi talking now—Luigi the repeater, the star at penalty kicks and funny comebacks. His big hand grabs Flavio-the-robin's forearm firmly, and Flavio stops; he doesn't fly anymore, he laughs and claps along with the others.
The window closes. The tree is far away. His classmates are close, all around him.
Then the janitor comes in: — Well, kids, the bell rang. You going to have recess or what? —
- Pennablù, 1997