making fun of my son?she wondered. The authors know he's not well. They talked to him a lot. They even prepared a video with a cross-section of our family. An interview where Daisy talked about her dreams, her affections, her mother, her father who's gone… The authors know about Paolo's suicide, Adry's problems. They were impressed and saddened. That's why they advised against mentioning it on TV. Daisy's only 16. She can't handle an interview where they talk about things bigger than her. Why are they acting like this now? That wasn't the fucking deal!
The ratings were on the jury monitors. The average for the Next Generation was normally around nine percent. Jurors got excited when they read that the share was close to eleven.
The data was calculated in real time using a sophisticated system that cross-referenced information from a sample of 20,000 households across all regions. And eleven percent was great news, so the authors decided to go heavy with Daisy. She was the one who raised the ratings.
We had to create interest around the girl. A lot of interest. On the judges' monitors, a string of particularly cynical suggestions appeared in fiery characters.
Listening goes up. Hit the girl hard!
Go for it. Go through the shit. We need to get to thirteen!
The father killed himself. See if you can get it in there somewhere.
Crazy brother, suicidal father. This is strong stuff. We agreed not to do this, but to hell with it! Get it all out. But make sure it doesn't turn on us. We have to splash at thirteen.
Jenny Lio was staring at the monitor enthusiastically. She thought of the jury's bonus, also calculated on the share. If the ratings had been on 12, she could have collected a surplus of 50,000 euros. But to earn that amount, you would have to give your best. She stood up. Sarcastic hummed: "Adrianoooo! Adrianinooooo! Why are you playing hide and seek?"
Isabella Larini, too, when she did her math, started her wicked show. The juror pretended to be outraged and shouted, "Forget it, Jenny. Don't be a bitch. Adriano's not here because he has a problem. And we're talking about something serious. Aren't we, Daisy? As far as I know, Adriano, the author of your beautiful song, is… Do you want to say it? Do you want to talk about his problem?"
Daisy was unprepared for that question. That wasn't the arrangement. She was supposed to sing and have fun. And if, on top of that, she was really good, she'd have a chance to get into show business.
The judges weren't sticking to the chords or the set list now.
She hoped they wouldn't force her to talk about her family's misfortune.
After all, I’m Rose wasn't just a song.
It was her story.
"Come on, Daisy. You can tell us anything. What's wrong with your brother?" Sebastian asked, twiddling his thumbs under his chin, pretending to be careful and concerned. "My brother's not well” replied the girl, feeling like a lost bunny surrounded by ravenous wolves.
At that moment she would want her mother beside her, and throw herself into his arms to feel as safe and protected as when she was a child. She watched as the judges pressed on with more and more uncomfortable and indisponsive questions. Her cheeks shed tears and cursed her stupidity. She had to be strong, she had to respond to those insidious questions at a stroke. Instead, all she could do was cry.
A flash of triumph crossed Jenny Lio's eyes… The display showed the share at thirteen and a half.
Daisy's crying was capturing the viewers. But, above all, it would have added another thirty thousand euros for her.
Jenny, Isabella and Sebastian exchanged a look full of satisfaction.
On the monitor came the tips of the authors, which gradually became more and more nasty.
Go ahead, take the snap. Let the little girl tell you what the fuck is wrong with her brother.
Come on, come on, come on! If we get to fifteen, it's a hundred thousand euros!
Come on Circe, get a move on. You're not doing anything to raise your voice. Hurt her. Hit her hard with a question of your own!
Sandra wanted to complain to someone, but she didn't know where to turn. The two cameramen who were filming her followed her backstage, until she came across one of the
writers, a bald guy like an ostrich egg with two huge headphones on his ears and a clipboard in his hand.
"Mrs. Magnoli" he said peremptorily, "you cannot come here, you must stay in the area that has been assigned to your parents, and…"
"Get the fuck off me, you fucker!" Sandra screamed, pointing her hands at the thin boy's chest, pushing him away.
"Please calm down now" she begged the author in the face.
A sturdy and discreet orderly approached Sandra. The author waved his hand to make it clear that everything was under control.
"How can I calm down? My daughter's crying on the fucking stage!" Sandra raved, desperate.
"A lot of kids are crying during the show. It's normal for them to get excited" the young writer replied, angry at a cameraman who wanted to film the scene. The protest of a minor's parent on air could have raised a hornet's nest of controversy. And many consumer associations and security agencies would have been happy to bring down the program, considering the presence of people like Circe and Monroe unsuitable for a protected band.
"I warn you. Leave my son out of this" Sandra threatened to point the finger at the author.
The bald young man knew full well how legitimate the woman's anger was. He couldn't blame her, but there was a lot of money at stake.
If he listened to him again, he would have pocketed 20,000 euros. In fact, his name was the headline immediately after Sebastian Monroe's, and the young author had no intention of giving up such generous compensation. He warned the director to turn off the drone that was filming backstage, and had cameras six and seven, the ones on Sandra Magnoli, darkened. When he did so, he ordered the security man to escort the woman back to her family members' seats.
Sandra reluctantly accepted, but without any intention of letting her guard down. If anyone tried to rage against her children, she would run to the stage to drag Daisy off, after insulting the judges and denouncing the program's producers live.
"It's 14 and a half!!!!"
The inscription flashed followed by a triumphant row of exclamation points.
Daisy would have wanted to escape from the stage. But she was nailed there, unable to react. The jurors' questions became more and more precise, nasty and outrageous.
There was a 30-second commercial break. The share dropped physiologically by two points.
When the commercial ended, the ratings went up again.
Daisy's clean face furrowed with tears leapt to the top of Twitter's topic trends.
Sebastian looked at the display with a flash of euphoria.
They were at fourteen and eight, two more points and the bonus of one hundred thousand euros would be triggered. With that money he could have bought top quality cocaine, and a gold piercing studded with diamonds that he already imagined dangling from the rosy nipple of Christine, his underage lover. Sebastian had fallen in love with the little girl when she was fifteen, and he never ceased to be surprised by the naturalness she showed in certain complicated erotic games.
"Well. Here we are again in your company. We were talking about Adriano” Sebastian summed up, before adding, "Forgive me if I'm indelicate, but I was wondering how a mentally ill boy could compose such a fantastic song as I’m Rose.
ʺNo, you're not indelicate, you're just a bastard, filthy dickhead thought Daisy, who replied by trying to keep her anger in check.
"My brother is suffering from paranoid schizophrenia. It's a very serious illness. Besides, crazy or not crazy, I love my brother. I love him more than anything in the world. He is sensitive. He's sensitive. He's a good boy. And if I'm here, it's all because of him."
An emotional sigh rose from