I have a best friend. Her name is Sara Vargetto. I'm 15, and yes, I have a best friend too. My best friend is beautiful, she smiles and laughs with me. Sara makes me feel happy, she pays attention to me, she talks and listens. When we're together she doesn't look at her phone or play games. Every time I see her I give her a hug.
When we go out for pizza we talk to ourselves by the bathroom door. Then the adults ask what we're saying and we tell them it's a secret. We can't say because it's a secret. We talk about school and our classmates. Mine are all nice and always say hi to me: "Hey Bene." Except for one. I also have two boyfriends, Elia and Robert. Maybe four. Sara doesn't have a boyfriend right now. She liked one of her friends but she doesn't anymore. I don't know why.
I like Sara because she always smiles at me. She smiles at everyone all the time. I sit quiet and listen to what the grown-ups say, and they say she's sick, that she's in a wheelchair. I thought Sara was sad. But she smiles and laughs. She's not sad. She's like my classmates who don't have wheelchairs—sometimes they smile and sometimes they're sad.
Sara always smiles, maybe—I think—when she's sad she doesn't let anyone see it, she's only sad in her room. I was afraid of wheelchairs because I thought they meant sadness. But now I'm not afraid anymore because I'm Sara's best friend. I cheer for her and her teammates who play wheelchair basketball. They're all really good and kind of cute too. I wish she didn't need the wheelchair, but then how would she play basketball? When we go for pizza I help her, I move her chair with the waiter and she can sit at the table next to me and we share sfogliatelle and tiramisu.