Mirror games.
I pull myself up from the bed and prop myself up on one elbow, still sleepy: in the mirror of the closet opposite, a kind of ambiguous archangel reciprocates my blinked gaze through the curtain of blond hair that falls across his face. I stare at him stupefied; he stares back at me, too. I wonder what a stranger is doing in my bed.
Suddenly I understand: the message I convey to Antonia through my body is in total contradiction to what I claim to want to be; I will end up not being able to fulfill the covenants I set for myself, and that is a mistake I cannot afford. I have already done too many stupid things in the past; now it is serious. Actually it always was, but I approached it absurdly lightly, trusting her blindly and letting myself be carried away by the wave of emotions, thinking that it was enough to have feelings, as if the brain serves no purpose. Instead it serves: it serves to avoid behaving like the idiot I unfortunately proved to be. 
I immediately make a decision. 
In the afternoon, after school, I jump on the saddle (I got my license as soon as I could, but I still prefer my old moped), ride at breakneck speed down Val San Martino road and stop at the first hairdresser I find, Vankillia area: a little anonymous but clean and well-kept store. He looks at me in the mirror, his smile complicit under his little black mustache, his right hand raised to grip the scissors, his left lowered to hold the comb:
How do you want them?
He is an old-fashioned Neapolitan, the kind who makes you feel at home right away. I expect him to offer me coffee any minute, made with the Neapolitan coffeepot, of course. I look at him in the mirror:
Short.
He appears contrite.
Are you sure? It's a shame, you have beautiful hair.
I'm sure, don't worry.
What cut?
You do it: I trust.
He resigns himself and begins his work. I lower my eyes to a magazine and stop talking; out of the corner of my eye I see the strands of my hair falling to the floor. I give in to the foolish temptation to read my horoscope: "All uphill the week for those born in the first decade, who will have to arm themselves with patience and courage to face an unpleasant setback. Mercury is still a prisoner of Saturn."
I close the magazine and place it on the shelf in front of me: I must stop reading this nonsense, it is an unforgivable waste of time. Besides, how dare Saturn hold my Mercury captive? 
Would you like some coffee? the hairdresser smilingly asks me at one point, just as I imagined.
Gladly, I reply. He calls an apprentice who is tidying up the store and orders him to make two coffees. A few minutes later the boy is back with two steaming shot glasses. He adds the required amount of sugar and hands them to us. The hairdresser interrupts his work for a few seconds, just long enough to drink his coffee, while I rest it on the shelf and sip it calmly to make it last longer, refreshed by that strong, hot and delicious drink (my grandfather used to say that no one knows how to make coffee like the Neapolitans, and he was right).
There you go, says the good man at the end, dusting the back of my neck with a large soft brush that lifts a cloud of fragrant talcum powder around my neck. He smiles contentedly, evidently convinced he has done a good job. I look up: he has left my hair quite long in the front and cut it short at the nape of my neck, giving me a somewhat American college look. 
Couldn't you make it shorter in the front, I venture. I'd like a more whatever, let's say good-boy cut.
He stiffens a little and retracts, taking on an almost offended expression.
Sir, you can't ask me that. I have professional ethics, I have given you an artist's cut that suits you just fine: now you cannot ask me to ruin my work. If you want an ordinary cut, go to an ordinary hairdresser.
I smile at him in the mirror, trying to appease him.
- No no, the cut is splendid: you did great. It is I who would like to be a little more anonymous.
He huddles in his shoulders, removing my towel and shaking off the hair that has remained attached, while the garment boy passes the broom.
- He who understands you is good. Anyway, lucky your girlfriend, if you have one.
- Maybe - I smile enigmatically, and stand up. I shake the hand he extends to me and go to the cashier to pay. 
As I feared, on the street the girls turn to look at me: not a good premise. Half an hour later I am home and throw my backpack on the lobby chair.
- Hello Ma.
My mother, sitting on the couch in the living room reading a book (she is an avid devourer of detective stories), looks up and can't hold back an exclamation of surprise:
- You look great, darling!
Teresa emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, and confirms the judgment with a wide smile that further expands her round face.
I lock myself in my room and look at myself in the mirror again with a critical attitude, realizing that the judgment of the two women of the house is as superficial as usual. This is not good at all: the contrast between the short hair and my faux scruffy look makes an effect opposite to what I had hoped for, even sexier (yes I know, you don't say sexy, you say hot). I have to radically change my outfit: away with the earring, the necklace and the studded bracelet, away with the motorcycle boots, the ripped blue jeans full of writing made with ballpoint pen by my classmates, the black leather jacket, the tight white T-shirt. I rummage through my closet looking for something anonymous and bon ton: British loafers, corduroy pants, blue crew-neck T-shirt. I put them on and mirror myself: at last, I note with satisfaction, I have taken on the reassuring appearance of a bourgeois good guy, a mask more appropriate to the moment I am living in.
I jump back on my scooter and reach the usual barn: we are to meet there at five o'clock. I am excited, I have something very important to tell her: she will understand it at first glance, it is implied in my physical change.
I turn on the stereo to a random song: over the notes of Sonic Youth's cover of Superstar, the image of a tuxedo-clad Greek god whispering his melancholy goodbye to Karen Carpenter stands out in my mind, followed by Tunic, also dedicated to her; I put the tape on loop and lie in the hay with my arms behind the back of my neck, imagining over and over again the scene of our next meeting, foretasting her amazed expression and the studied nonchalance with which I will greet her; I lose myself in the sweetest reverie, so much so that I don't notice that five o'clock has come, then long past, then has been an hour.
Suddenly an icy breath makes me shiver. I feel cold. I jolt awake and look at the time: ten past six. I leap to my feet staggering like one awakened from a narcosis, four leaps down the steps of the step ladder, hop on the scooter and retrace my route home at breakneck speed, calling myself an idiot for every minute lost and trying not to grasp the tragic irony of that choice of music, not to listen to the hammer bell tolling in my head. 
I rush into the living room and stand in the doorway with bated breath: my brother is sitting on the couch across from my mother; Teresa is standing next to him, intent on pouring him hot tea. He turns the sugar in the cup for an exasperating amount of time, his gaze fixed on the teapot as if he expects an existential response from it. My mother affectionately rests a hand on his forearm, saying nothing. I stand motionless on the threshold, petrified. My heart has suspended its beats.
Suddenly Michael notices me: he gets up, comes toward me and encircles my shoulders with his arm.
Hello, little brother. You look good dressed like that and with short hair.
Thank you. But what's going on?
Bad news.
I risk a formal smile, a sort of grimace comes out. He sits me down on the couch, thankfully, and sits next to me.
Antonia was hospitalized urgently. They're operating on her right now.
Then he starts explaining to me what it's about, some gynecological mess with a name that begins with endo, he goes into technical details, he explains when and how she felt bad, without me perceiving the meaning of any of his words. My brain is muddy, I'm completely deafened by the roar of my blood. I remain motionless for a few minutes next to my brother, pretending to listen to him attentively and nodding with an absorbed expression. Then, careful not to exceed the emotional limits expected for a teenager dealing with the ailments of his future sister-in-law, I pat him on the shoulder, say the usual pertinent phrases such as don't worry, the doctors know what they're doing, etc., and get up to exit.
In the hall I meet Teresa's gaze, it contains my own terror. I'm heading for the exit. I turn around with apparent naturalness and tell my mother not to wait for me for dinner because I am invited by a certain Matteo. Suddenly she remembers something:
Ah, by the way: Michelle looked for you.
If she calls back I won't be there. I'm never there for her.
Are you crazy? What did that poor girl do to you to treat her like that?
I cut short and change interlocutor, in order to hit my mother from the side.
Teresa, if she calls back, can you tell her for me to go and hang herself?
It will be done, sir.
My mother, shocked, starts to protest, but I don't have time to waste listening to her. My brother stares at me: perhaps he understands too much, I'm letting out an almost hysterical nervousness. I stoically force myself to smile at him, uttering the most classic of platitudes:
It will all be fine.
Then I leave the house with a sporty greeting, controlling my pace. I walk at a brisk but calm pace up to the gate of the avenue: I see that Michael follows me with his gaze as if he were keeping an eye on me.
As soon as I'm outside the gate and out of sight, I start running at breakneck speed. I reach the scooter, drive wide-eyed to the old barn, climb up among our things and throw myself with open arms onto a pile of dry straw, scratching my face to distract myself with another pain. There is an Antonia's scarf in the corner, I pick it up and wrap it around my face to immerse myself in the smell of her skin, a slightly citrus smell that I love. I am so paralyzed with terror that I can't even cry; my heart pounds painfully, almost making me jump on the wooden floor.
I don't know if there is a God, but if there is I don't understand why he has to go and lock himself up in churches. I'm sure he can hear me even in a barn. I speak to him for a long time, listing my sacrifices, asking him for forgiveness for all my sins, begging him not to repeat the same vile betrayal of that time with my grandfather and my dog, imploring him without restraint, blackmailing him shameless with promises of all kinds.
Because never, never, not even in my most atrocious nightmares, had the thought ever crossed my mind that Antonia might die.