Chapter Text
September 5th, 1985
The smell of warm brioches in the morning had something reassuring. It was the scent of old memories, of home. Donatella Una considered that a sort of tradition: every night, before going to sleep, she put the dough to rise on the kitchen table and then, at dawn, she put them in the oven to be ready for Trish’s breakfast. Although sometimes she had chosen a lighter meal, Donatella never abandoned that tradition, because she wanted it to be part of their family life.
Like always, that morning she prepared her famous brioches. Their sweet scent invaded the entire apartment, spreading also to the street, and making a lot of hungry passers-by raise their eyes to her window.
That day, however, Donatella cooked the brioches with much more effort. She stuffed some with milk chocolate, others with jam, and she made more than necessary, perhaps influenced by the nervousness that hung in the house. Or, she simply wanted to spoil her daughter. It was a special day, and she was perfectly aware of it: Trish had talked about it for months, or rather, years, and Donatella still couldn’t believe that it had finally come.
After placing the breakfast on the table, she ran her hands over the pink apron and looked out the window. The summer wasn’t over yet; the sun was shining and the sky was clear, almost like a good omen. Then, she glanced at the clock on the wall, realizing that it was really late, and that there was still no sign of her daughter.
With a sigh, she took off her apron and walked down the hall before knocking on the last door. “Trish, darling, are you awake?” she called her in a sweet voice, but she received no reply. The sound of footsteps, however, was a clear sign that Trish was already up.
Donatella slowly opened the door. The room was gaudy, with pink and white polished wooden furniture, clothes scattered everywhere and walls covered with posters: at least a couple of Madonna’s, one with the Flashdance playbill, and the one with Harrison Ford shirtless, which, not so surprising, was the biggest one.
Although she had always hated her messy room, Donatella secretly appreciated the personal touch that her daughter had brought to her little shelter. That place reflected the story of Trish, since her childhood. There were polaroids, lots of them, hanging in every corner of the room, with travels, friends and important memories; there were also the medals she had won as a child, and a pair of small pastel-pink dancers leaning against a nail on the wall, worn by time. Even her mother was aware of how precious they were to her, so much that no one was even allowed to even touch them.
Despite the riot of objects and colors that reigned in that room, Donatella's attention was all focused on her daughter, standing in the middle of the room. She was still in pajamas, a lacy nightgown with a horrible floral pattern — a gift from her grandmother — and her hair was held by at least a hundred hairpins and curlers.
Trish was dancing, keeping her eyes closed, despite the limited space in her room. She was following the rhythm of the music, with her red headphones on. Her mother leaned against the door frame, staring at her with an amused smile.
Her arms were moving nervously, as if she was retracing her steps. She was extremely focused: she mimed the lyrics of the song with her mouth, while her bare feet tried to tip on the carpet, although the result was quite clumsy. Suddenly, Trish lifted one leg, bending her knee, and tried to use the other to give herself a push and make a pirouette, but she tripped over a dress on the ground and fell on the bed with a small gasp.
It was at that moment that she saw her mother, who barely restrained an amused laugh. She gave her a grim and embarrassed look.
“How long have you been there?”
“Long enough to tell you you're too nervous,” she replied, with a good-natured smile. “... and that you definitely need to have breakfast.”
Trish snorted, taking off her headphones and throwing them on the pillow. “I think it's normal to be nervous, you know. We’re only talking about the morning where the fate of my future will be decided!” Her tone was rather sarcastic and melodramatic. Donatella was used to it and raised an eyebrow.
"Well, the fate of the future cannot be decided on an empty stomach. Breakfast has been ready for a while, if you don't want to eat cold brioches you should hurry up,” she warned, before returning to the kitchen. Trish did not follow her immediately: she remained motionless for a few moments, contemplating the idea of abandoning all her intentions for that day and getting back under the blankets. After all, it just meant throwing away years of training and effort ...
She sighed heavily. Eventually she decided it was cowardly enough, as well as definitely stupid, running away from her responsibilities, so she got out of bed, slipping into her slippers and reaching her mother in the kitchen.
Her face was veiled with strong nervousness. The dark circles suggested that, well, she had not spent a peaceful night. Everyone probably would have understood her, knowing what she would have expected that morning. The audition in order to enter in the famous Passione Art Academy was probably on the list of the most frightening experiences in the world... or, at least, it was considered so by most people.
Trish had been prepared for that day for so many years that she had lost count. When she was little she had always believed that it was an impossible dream, a simple unattainable fantasy, and now that there were only a few hours left before that event she felt her stomach closing.
“I'm not hungry,” she said, after a long silence, when Donatella put the breakfast in front of her. Her mother visibly frowned.
“Do you think I’ll make you leave the house on an empty stomach? How can you give your best with the least amount of energy?” She sighed, pouring some juice into her glass. “I know you're nervous, well... anyone would be in your place! But you can't let your fears keep you from getting what you fought for.” Trish rolled her eyes: she had expected one of her classic motivational speeches; the woman ignored that, sitting in front of her with an encouraging smile. “Strengthen and fight anxiety. You have to win against it.”
With an obvious effort, Trish’s gaze moved to meet her mother's, seeing her eyes bright and full of enthusiasm. She sighed, torturing her hands under the table.
“I know, but... well, after years and years spent working for this day, the idea of making a mistake closes my stomach. I have one opportunity to finally see the fruits of my effort.” Her tone seemed to be fragile.
Donatella's smile became sweeter.”"It's not your only chance, honey. If the audition will go wrong, you’ll try next year, or the one after that... don't be so strict with yourself. Even if years will pass, continue to persevere and, in the end, you will succeed.” She leaned on the table, pushing back a curl of Trish’s hair from her forehead, escaped from a hairpin. “But I'm sure there will be no risk and that you will be as good as ever.” She let go to a spontaneous laugh.
Ever since Trish was a little child with eyes full of wonder, looking at the dancing shoes displayed in the windows of the most elegant shops, her mother had always supported her dream, and she had even enrolled her in the dancing school when she was only five—Trish’s first vivid memory was of when she had learned to stand on her toes. Donatella recognized the enthusiasm and passion that her daughter had always put into dancing, as if she had been born for arabesques and pirouettes.
Trish had always been grateful to her.
She gave her a relieved smile and, as a gesture of surrender to her advice, took a brioche and bit it. It was filled with orange jam, her favorite. Trish ate it tastefully, though she still felt her stomach upside down, before a thought struck her like a bolt from the blue.
“Ah... did you hear Dad, by chance?” She frowned suddenly.
Donatella looked surprised, taken aback by that question. Then she pursed her lips, annoyed. “Early this morning, before you woke up. He called me to let me know, again, that he finds it unfair that he has to pay the expenses of something he doesn't approve of. But the law is on our side, so he doesn't have many alternatives,” she replied, angrily, almost as if the memory of that phone call still made her nervous. “He can only hope that you don't pass the audition, but his prayers will be of no use.” A sly smile bent her lips.
Diavolo had always been difficult to understand, for Trish. Her parents had divorced when she was just two years old and saying that the relationship between her and her father was minimal was an understatement. They had met rarely, he had always treated her coldly, and often he even seemed to ignore her existence. On the other hand, he had always felt obligated to comment on the choices made by Trish and his ex-wife, as well as trying to decide the future of his daughter. Diavolo had never agreed with Trish’s decision of becoming a professional dancer, and he had continually pushed her to take a degree in economics or law; his daughter's stubbornness, however, was the same as her own mother’s, and Diavolo had never had the opportunity to change their minds.
In an irony of fate, the judge had also forced him to contribute to the payment of Academy fees, in case Trish passed the audition. It was extremely satisfying for Donatella leaving the court that day.
Trish sighed heavily, running a hand over her face. “He doesn’t give up, huh.” She gave another bite to the brioche, almost aggressively. Then a small grin folded her lips. “Then I will work harder to show him that I am able to choose my path by myself. If I pass the audition today, I will always taunt him for every time he subtly told me I was incapable.”
Trish was fierce. When she feared that she could not achieve her goals, she had always thought of all the insults that her father had directed at her, and it had always made her return the confidence in herself. Perhaps, at that moment she had to thank Diavolo: he had definitely made her ambitious.
Donatella smiled, satisfied. Not out of personal resentment, of course, but it made her very proud to see her daughter fighting for her independence and against her father's tyranny. She had done the same, nineteen years ago.
At that moment, however, Trish's eyes moved to the clock on the wall. Seeing the position of the hands, she almost choked on the juice realizing how hopelessly late it was. And she was still in her nightgown, with hairpins and curlers on her head.
“Shit.” She jumped to her feet, with the risk of slipping on her own slippers. She left the brioche on the table before running off, out of breath and nervous. “I’ll eat while I go there, I have to get ready!” she exclaimed, before closing the bathroom door behind her back.
Donatella sighed, shaking her head. It would’ve been a long day.
Trish was speeding through the streets of the city on her pastel-pink bike. She was often seen pedaling through the neighborhoods, making commissions for her mother, or simply to get a breath of air. She still remembered the day she had received that present, as soon as she turned fifteen. She had fallen from it so many times that she still had scars on her legs and elbows, but she had never left her for it. That bike had accompanied her in the most important moments of her life and, in a kind of way, was now doing the same.
Donatella had insisted on coming with her, but Trish had refused. After all, spectators were not allowed and she needed to be alone, to be able to concentrate better and avoid as many distractions as possible. Despite the exhortative speech and the great good luck that her mother had given her, Trish was still quite nervous, so much that she rode with a certain enthusiasm and risked crashing against cars and people several times.
She was thoughtful as the fresh wind whipped her face, ruffling her hair. Yes, she could try again the next year, but she didn’t have more time to lose. Not to mention that Diavolo would have criticized her for her poor skills and her impossible dreams. It was for those reasons that Trish could not calm herself: she absolutely had to pass the audition.
Lost as she was in her thoughts, she didn't even realize that she had arrived in front of the Passione Academy. She braked abruptly, almost falling off her bike; regaining balance, she turned her gaze to the facade. It was an ancient building: a large staircase led to the entrance, a wooden door, and there were lots of windows, from which everyone could see the classrooms where the lessons were held. The sidewalk was full of people, probably there for the audition.
Trish swallowed, heart pounding. Stuck in front of that huge building, she felt small . She had passed there countless times, ever since she was a child, and she had never thought she could cross its entrance door one day. That place gave off an aura of terror that would have made anyone run away, but Trish had always been fascinated by it. So she got off the bike, parking it not far from the entrance.
The moment she entered the building, she realized how chaotic the place was. Dozens of people darted past, out of breath, while others were warming up in the hallway, in front of the classrooms. There were small groups of dancers, almost all with elegant clothes: they wore milk-colored leotards and tutus with a fine fabric, with perfectly lacquered hair held in a chignon.
At that moment Trish felt a bit like the protagonist of Flashdance during the scene of her first audition: in a nutshell, a fish out of water. She was there with completely unsuitable and decidedly inelegant clothes, so much so that she attracted some haughty glances from a small group of girls: with her baggy high-waisted jeans, the flashy-pink bodysuit, and the jacket of at least two larger sizes, she did not seem to fit the canon of the ideal dancer.
Thoughts of running away from there flashed in Trish’s mind; however, she kept telling herself that she would not let herself be intimidated by the eyes of people she didn’t even know. So, taking a deep breath, she passed everyone as if she wanted their judgments to slip off of her.
Instead, she focused her attention on the surrounding environment, observing it with genuine curiosity. The hallways were bright, spacious, and there were several display cases following one another: looking through the shiny glass she could see medals, awards, photos of shows and of the most famous dancers who came out of the academy, as well as some celebrities, who probably came to visit for important occasions.
Trish looked around with an expression of pure wonder. Too bad that the more she ventured into this place, the more she had no idea where she was going. The realization of this made her stop suddenly in the middle of the hallway, with a visibly disoriented expression. I have to go back and ask for information, she thought.
At that moment, however, someone stood before her. It was such a sudden movement that she did not have time to notice it in a timely manner, and she gasped, eyes set on a tank top with the Sex Pistols logo, so worn and tight that it left little room for imagination.
“Hey, are you lost?”
She looked up. The first thing Trish saw were two black eyes, surrounded by thick and dark eyelashes, looking at her slyly. Then she glanced a pair of brown curls sprouting from a wool hat, of a dubious aesthetic taste, and a smile she had seen on the face of far too many men. The said specimen leaned against the wall with one arm and stared at her in silence, waiting for an answer.
And he would have to wait quite a while, since Trish, at that moment, was thinking of anything but his question. First of all, what did that boy want from her? And second of all, how freaking tall was he? She lowered her gaze and noticed that, in fact, he was wearing roller skates, and... oh lord, he also had zebra shorts.
“So? Are you stunned by my presence?” he urged, with a wider smile.
In return, she frowned: was this guy flirting with her? From the way he looked at her, it seemed so. She suddenly felt annoyed by that attitude.
“Hell no. And I certainly don't need your help,” she replied venomously, before deciding to ignore him. She passed him, walking fast to leave him behind; unfortunately for her, the boy had skates on his feet, and he reached her almost immediately.
“Wait! I can give you directions, I have to do the audition too,” he said, flanking her and taking the sly smile from a few moments before off his face. She glared at him from the corner of her eyes, cursing herself for having caught his attention.
“Well, lucky for me, I know where to go, so you can stop following me.”
“Oh really?” His voice had an amused tone. “I hate to tell you that you have just passed the hallway to the right that leads to the auditions class.” Trish stopped abruptly, looking first at the direction he indicated, then at the boy, meeting his satisfied and victorious smile.
This asshole.
She snorted and, without giving him any answer, she took the right path, now surrendered to his annoying company. It was clear that the world had decided to punish her that morning.
“However, I'm Guido Mista,” he introduced himself, skating beside her. At that moment, however, rather than flirting with her, he seemed eager to simply chat. “It's your first audition, right? I have not seen you in the past years and, well, I would have remembered you…” Guido received an angry glance in response and he started. “For your hair! It’s flashy.” He immediately specified, raising his hands in defense.
Trish sighed. It was useless treating him badly with the hope that he would leave, so she might as well investigate him. After all, since he was there for the audition too, he was in fact a rival of hers.
“Past years? Is this not your first attempt?” she asked, now curious.
“Oh, it is. My sisters have already tried, all three of them. I accompanied them every year because I was interested in this Academy, but none of them passed. Now I'm the one trying the impossible, maybe it will be the right time.” His smile was definitely confident. “Our mother has this disruptive passion for dancing, and she put it in our heads too. My father wanted me to work in our auto repair shop, but I’m not the kind of guy who likes making his hands dirty in the engine oil…” He shrugged. “Besides, a lot of people told me I have a nice ass, and it's an important requirement for a dancer” he was serious as he said those words.
Trish raised an eyebrow. Who was that guy!? Not to mention that he had just told her the story of his life—not requested—not even two minutes after they spoke for the first time. But she had to admit it: Guido's chattering distracted her from the nervousness she felt.
“I don't think having a nice ass is essential to enter show business,” she replied, with an amused look. “Anyway, I'm Trish. I won't tell you the story of my life,” she said, with a provocative smile. Her expression, however, changed quickly. “But I can tell you that the anxiety is literally devouring me.”
Guido pursed his lips. “I can understand, two of my sisters burst into tears before the audition. Anyway, you don't have to worry! Take it as it comes, they won’t eat you alive.” He seemed pretty calm and Trish wondered if he was really motivated to pass the selection or was there for sheer pastime.
At that moment they arrived in front of the audition room and found themselves facing a grim situation. Some guys were sitting on the ground with expressions for a funeral, others had their hands in their hair; a girl ran away in tears as soon as she came out of the door of the classroom, probably after finishing the test.
Trish swallowed loudly. It was certainly not reassuring to see all those victims in front of the crime scene and she felt her anxiety worsening. She turned to look at Mista, with an eloquent expression.
“... Okay, maybe they started to cry after the audition,” he corrected himself, running a hand over his neck. “The main obstacle is one of the ballet teachers who is part of the committee…” His tone became lower and confidential. “As far as I know, almost no one manages to enter into his graces and he dispenses criticisms that seem more like insults. I'm not saying he is the reason why many people don't pass the audition…” He moved away from her, returning to speak in a fairly high tone of voice. “... but let's say he makes a big contribution.”
Trish buried her face in her hands, suddenly discouraged. If she had been nervous before, now she could barely breathe normally, gripped by anxiety. She had to expect it wouldn't be easy, but having it confirmed didn't make her feel better. She tried to take a deep breath.
“Well, at this point I have nothing left to lose. At least I will try not to cry as soon as I get out of there, out of personal pride.”
Guido nodded, with a spontaneous smile. “It is useless to get nervous at this point.”
Then, he seemed to notice a person in the crowd and his eyes became brighter. “Oh, I'm going to greet a friend of mine. Good luck!” he said, before skating away from there and approaching a black-haired boy with a headband on his head. Trish couldn't see his face, but she didn't investigate further.
She sighed, before heading to the locker room to change. Soon there would’ve be her turn, and at that point, Trish couldn't wait for that agony to end.
She was standing in front of a host of people. The acrid smell of smoke filled her nostrils, annoying her, but Trish's face did not move a muscle. Her toned body was rigid, wrapped in a tight-fitting fuchsia leotard, milky-white stockings, and a pair of leg warmers in a bright plum color. In the midst of the ancient and almost gloomy tones that dominated the classroom, she was definitely showy.
The commission was mostly composed of young dance professors. Sitting in the middle of the table there was a boy a few years older than her, with peculiar black bob-haircut. Trish was focusing all her attention on him, since he was reading her application form.
At his side there was another teacher, with wheat-colored hair and an icy look, able to inspire awe in anyone. He was smoking, but no one seemed bothered by that—judging by the number of cigarettes extinguished in the ashtray, he seemed to have already consumed an entire pack.
Trish felt his gaze on her. Every inch of that face seemed to criticize her silently, even before she could move a step. He must have been the teacher she had to be afraid of, according to Guido.
“Trish Una, twenty-one years old, degree in the local classical dance school.” The black-haired boy spoke, tearing the silence, still keeping his eyes on that piece of paper. Trish swallowed, not knowing exactly if he had asked her a question or if it was a mere statement. She remained silent, fists clenched behind her back as she stared at the teacher, in a desperate wait for the audition to begin.
Finally the man looked up, his cobalt blue eyes focused on Trish's. As stern as he appeared, he didn't put her so in awe, unlike his blond-haired colleague. “You can start,” he announced, with a small smile of encouragement, before lowering his face again to mark something on a sheet of notes.
Trish seemed to wake up suddenly from that state of tension and nodded, approaching the turntable. The vinyl was ready and she just placed it on the plate to be able to start the song.
Those brief moments of silence that preceded the beginning of the song were the longest she had ever experienced in all her life. In Trish's mind, it seemed as if every external sound had been canceled: she could only hear the sound of her heartbeat and her breathing, which she was trying to regularize. Her mind rehearsed the steps of the choreography at an inhuman speed, while positioning the legs joined and straight, with the heels in contact, and the arms folded inwards—the first position, première .
When the turntable played the first notes of the song, Trish started dancing. Anyone in that room would have recognized the iconic voice of Irene Cara in her most famous performance, the one for the Flashdance movie. Her slow start gave Trish the opportunity to show her skills in performing the canonical steps of classical dance, on which she had trained every day since she was a child.
Graceful and composed, Trish hovered in the middle of that enormous hall, letting the dancers slide on the polished wood of the floor. She stood on her toes and performed pirouettes, fouettes, small elegant and perfectly calculated jumps.
When the music came to life, however, Trish also seemed to come alive with a new, explosive energy. Her classical dance steps became less elegant, more dynamic, far from the rigid rules that her old teachers had always imposed on her. Her body moved as if it was swimming in the music, fluid, perfectly in time with the notes of the song. She mixed ancient and modern, in a completely provocative and effective style.
Until a few moments before she was torn by anguish; now, Trish seemed estranged from the surrounding world, completely taken by music, almost as if no one was watching her. The song loaded her, and suddenly she found herself singing without even realizing it.
After performing two, three, four pirouettes in a row, she fell to her knees on the ground, her back arched and arm raised in the air, right on the last notes of the song. Silence fell, and Trish stood for a few moments, short of breath, her heart beating faster and a thin layer of sweat shimmering her skin. Slowly Trish returned to reality, and she realized that her audition was over, faster than she would have expected. Awareness made her stomach tighten.
She rose to her feet, meeting the eyes of the commission, which watched her without saying a word. Trish had certainly not expected applause from them, but at that moment she felt rather in awe.
It was the black-haired teacher who spoke first, interrupting that tense silence once more. “Congratulations, your performance was excellent,” he said, smiling at her sincerely. “I really appreciated the way you combined modern and classical dance, it is clear that you trained hard in both disciplines.”
When she heard those words, Trish's heart skipped a beat. She never expected to receive compliments from a teacher of one of the country's most prestigious schools and it made her feel incredibly proud. She tried to thank him for recognizing her effort, when the voice of the blond teacher interrupted her.
“You're too kind as always, Bucciarati.” With a hoarse voice, the man put out his cigarette in the ashtray and pointed his eyes at the girl, looking at her critically. “In this school, we are not in Flashdance and we do not realize the impossible dreams of young girls who have decided to throw themselves in this academy inspired by a silly little movie.”
Bucciarati, the black-haired boy, glanced at his colleague with a puzzled expression. “I don't understand what you are talking about, Prosciutto.”
“This girl lacks originality, is inspired by fictitious models and does not understand the true meaning of this art,” he replied, with a scornful tone of voice. “I've seen too many kids, like her, that gave up after two weeks in this school. It's not worth it.”
It's not worth it. Those words hit Trish like a jet of cold water. She was prepared to accept the criticisms of that asshole, since there was no other way to describe him, but that phrase seemed to have triggered something in her, bringing back the memories of Diavolo looking at her from above with disgust and repeating the same words.
Trish had said she would accept any criticism in silence, but she couldn't, not after hearing those words.
“Excuse me, but I don't think the choice of a song influences my originality,” she replied, looking straight at Prosciutto. “If I can speak my point of view, I have never been inspired by a film and the choice is due to the fact that I see myself reflected in this song and I consider it very special.” The teacher's expression became harder, but she continued to talk, without being hesitant. “I'm sorry you couldn't see that.” She would regret her nerve, but she just couldn't help herself.
Prosciutto parted his lips, outraged. Rarely had a student talked to him in that way and now he wanted to reject that impertinent brat even more.
Bucciarati, on the other hand, was surprised by that brazen answer. However, he seemed more inclined to defend that girl. “I have to agree with her, I think you had a completely wrong impression”. He spoke as if Trish was not there, addressing only his colleague. He looked at him with a drawn, even nervous expression, and anyone would have deduced that their relationship was not the best. “Her execution was not perfect, I must acknowledge this. She misplaced the position of the feet in the last fouette, some steps were too rigid, it’s clear that she is still a beginner.”
The other replied with a scornful tone of voice. “She bent her legs too much in the plié, and her steps were rough,” he corrected, in a harsh voice. “We are not looking for beginners here, we are looking for professionals, and you should know this well too.”
Bruno sighed. “Prosciutto, I understand your point of view, but I don't agree.” He shifted his gaze back to Trish, taking a few seconds to look at her: almost unconsciously, Trish straightened her back, trying to maintain a composed pose.
“You talk about dreams as if they are a mistake, but don’t you remember what are we looking for?” The blond half-closed his eyes, almost as if he wanted to reply, but surprisingly he let his colleague continue. “I see potential in her, and you see it too, don’t deny it. Courage, tenacity, originality, it is clear how much she struggled for those results. She won't have been the most graceful of the competitors, but her motivation… well, for me she is really in love with this art.”
Trish felt a knot at her throat. Even if she would’ve not passed the selection, she would never have forgotten the words that Bucciarati had addressed to her. Feeling her value recognized was amazing, something she had pursued for years and, now, she had finally received.
But that idyllic moment was abruptly interrupted by the voice of Prosciutto, who had kept an offended expression for most of the time Bruno spoke. “Okay, then continue to accept incompetent students to our school, Bucciarati, and you will tarnish our name," he replied, venomous, before lighting up another cigarette.
The bickering would have continued forever, probably, but another teacher promptly interrupted them, reminding that there were other kids outside the door waiting to audition and that they could not continue arguing.
Bruno sighed, taking Trish's paper and setting it aside, along with the others. “In a couple of days we will sent you a letter with the result of this test. In the meantime, don't get too nervous, two days pass quickly.” He smiled at her, decreeing the end of her audition.
Trish swallowed noisily before nodding. “Y-yes, thank you very much,” were the only words that she managed to pronounce in response, hesitant. Then, she recovered her belongings and left the room quickly, without even giving a glance to the other guys who stared at her, and to Guido himself, who had tried to approach her but had been completely ignored.
Trish had mixed feelings. She had no idea how the audition actually went. One thing was certain: even if she hadn't passed, she would’ve still felt satisfied with the results and would’ve been proud of the words that that teacher had addressed to her. He had seemed honest to her, and she hoped that this would allow her to enter that academy.
She was certain of another thing: those two days would be endless for her.
Trish was lying on her bed, staring at the fluorescent stars that decorated the ceiling of her room. She was wearing her usual headphones and in her hand she held a pink walkman, which reproduced Madonna's “Material Girl” at a very high volume. It was early morning, but she didn't seem willing to get out of bed, not even to the call of Donatella's brioches.
Two days had passed since the audition, but still she had not received a reply from Passione. She had tried to relax and find distractions, but at that moment she literally felt like dying. She sighed heavily, turning to one side and curling up. Sooner or later she would have gone mad, or would have run to the teachers and ask them to reject her immediately, rather than torture her in that way.
At that moment her door burst open. Trish sat up abruptly and saw her mother break into the room with an expression of complete panic. She was helding a letter and, upon realization, Trish seemed to whiten. She threw off her headphones and rushed to Donatella, almost falling on her.
“It arrived two seconds ago, I kept an eye on the letterbox all morning and almost made the postman take a heart attack when he arrived,” she said, out of breath, while Trish took the piece of paper from her hands.
She did not wait even a moment: She immediately tore the envelope and threw it behind her, opening the letter with hands that quivered with impatience.
Silence fell for a few moments as her gaze darted along the paper at an unheard-of speed. Then a scream ripped that peace, awakening the few people in the neighborhood who were still in the arms of Morpheus.
“I’VE PASSED THE AUDITION!” Trish shouted, followed immediately by the sharp cry of her mother. She took her by the shoulders, starting to shake her and improvise a ballet, completely taken by the enthusiasm and joy of that news.
It was really a dream come true; until a few months before she would have called it impossible, but now it was more real and concrete than ever.
Donatella held her close, so strong that she almost risked choking her. “I'm so, so proud of you. I knew you would make it, I never had any doubts about it,” she said, on the verge of bursting into tears, before giving her a loud kiss on the forehead.
Trish, on the other hand, was so excited that she could barely express it. She let her mother squeeze her, with a big smile on her lips and bright eyes like never before. Trish was only thinking about what she would have expected from now on, about all the possibilities that would have presented before her. It seemed like a vivid dream.
Slowly, that moment of euphoria seemed to fade. Donatella still clutched her daughter to herself when she was struck by a sudden thought. She put her hands on Trish’s shoulders, pushing her gently away from herself, being able to look into her eyes, still shining with emotion.
“We have to go shopping, honey,” she announced. “There is no way you will go to the academy with the outfits you wore when you went to high school. Oh, do you need new dancers too? A bigger bag?”
Trish stared at her with obvious confusion. Donatella was clearly excited, anyone could’ve guess it from the way she was shaking, euphoric. She was like that—she wanted to spoil her daughter, especially after she got results that made her very proud.
“It's not necessary, mamma,” Trish replied with an amused laugh. Then, she seemed to consider her offer, touching her chin. “Although... maybe I would need a new leotard. I had seen one with very nice prints…”
“Well, then what are we waiting for? Come on, get dressed! We can also take the opportunity to go to the Academy and confirm your registration.” Donatella was bursting energy. As she spoke, she had already begun to collect the clothes thrown on the ground and headed for the bathroom to put them into the washing machine.
Before leaving the room, however, she turned her face to her daughter, suddenly serious. “While you prepare, I’ll call your father. I must warn him, since he was waiting for news too.”
Trish gasped in surprise. Taken by enthusiasm, she had completely forgotten about Diavolo. Instead of feeling satisfied at the idea that he would’ve known her success, Trish suddenly felt a surge of anxiety, which made her stomach tighten. “I'll call him,” said to her mother, but her voice wavered.
Donatella immediately noticed it and shook her head. “No, think about enjoying this moment. I don't want him to make you angry, not now.” She looked at her intently, speaking in that tone of voice that could convince anyone. “Don't worry, today is your day, I won't let him ruin it.” She smiled softly. Then, without leaving her the opportunity to insist further, she left the room, closing the door behind her back.
Trish stood for a long moment, staring at the spot where her mother was leaning a few seconds before. Then, after a sigh, she was laid down on her bed again.
She was happy for the news, of course, but she could not get rid of an unpleasant feeling that, slowly, was dominating her mind: how would her father react, after hearing that news? Usually Trish was not afraid of him and, indeed, showed him her successes with pride, but she felt that, in that case, it was completely different. Something important was at stake, and she didn't want anyone to put sticks in her wheels. She clenched a fist, seized by a strong feeling of fear.
Diavolo really had the courage to ruin everything, and the idea terrified her like never before.