Once back to school, everybody makes fun of me and they call me C-3PO, the golden robot of Star Wars. I still have my arm in a sling, even though finally, in a few days, they’re going to remove the cast. It seems that even Giacomo isn’t the biggest loser in the class since I have come back, because I’ve turned out to be even more unlucky than him. However, as compensation, everybody has signed my cast. The cast is completely covered with the signatures of my classmates and friends. My arm is multicolored. I have a famous arm. My arm loves me, because now I am wearing the name of all those who care about me. “The Pirates are waiting for their captain! —Niko” “Your reincarnation is going to be a monument to bad luck … —Erika” “Better you than me! —Jack” “You’re still handsome, even like this! —Silvia” Only one signature is missing. That of Beatrice. But I don’t need it, because her signature is written on my heart.
There are signatures, and there are signatures. If you buy Fred Perry, Dockers, Nike … those are signatures you carry on things and sooner or later you change them, you throw them away, you lose them … Sure, they make you feel better, but they pass. Then, there are other signatures. Those you carry on your heart. Those signatures tell you who you really are and who you care about. On my heart, I have Beatrice’s signature tattooed. She is my dream, and I exist only for her.
She, however, doesn’t come to school: a new cycle of chemo. She’ll end up missing a whole school year if this goes on.
When I get back home, there is a crumpled letter on my desk. A Post-it from Mom that says, “It was left in the bottom of the hospital bag.” The letter to Beatrice! How could I have forgotten it? I must bring the letter to her, even if it’s the last thing I do, because, “It’s what you do that defines you, not what you are.” Batman’s always right.