Contemporary Milan, Italy.
In the dazzling world of Vincitore Academy, Margherita, a half-Korean firebrand from humble beginnings, ignites a clash of wills with the P2, the city's elite quartet of dazzling and infuriatingly entitled boys.
Yet, privi...
Margherita Pescatore swallowed her fear like a bait, and stepped through the gilded, wrought-iron gate of Vincitore Academy. No one would recognize her, hopefully. She cranked up the volume of Manåskin's "Io Vengo Dalla Luna" in her headphones for borrowed courage.
See, media's heroes are ranked by clickability. Bravery is irrelevant if the story is preposterous enough and could have happened to anyone—but it had happened to Margherita, now dubbed the "Laundry Angel."
She had been helping with her parents' dry cleaning business by collecting dirty laundry from the academy. Her father had been waiting in the van, parked sideways in between a bollard and a tree, blinkers on. Her rolling bin full of splattered art smocks and stinky sports uniforms had save the life of Mauro Arcani, third-year student at the Academy. When Margherita had hoped for a cute boy to fall for her, she hadn't meant from the top of a building.
"Laundry Angel! Guys, here she is!"
One of her new schoolmates sneered, placing an invisible limelight on Margherita's distinctive Korean features, her no-name gray hoodie, jeans, and knock-off white combat boots ensemble. The phenotype of the Italian population had changed in the past twenty years, but not within the ivy-clad wall of the academy, not inside the imposing brick buildings encroached by ancient wisteria vines. Here, only the spawn of the Milano Bene thrived, their blood tied to the nobility of centuries past through the bombastic last names of dukes and princes.
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Margherita faltered, then waved her middle finger in acknowledgment, a gesture common at her previous public high school. Here, raised eyebrows and malicious chuckles confirmed that she did not belong. Her neighbors in Sesto San Giovanni might have bought the Laundry Angel story, but the academy students knew that her full-ride was but a distraction from the toxic environment that had caused the accident at the most prestigious high school in the country.
Designer dusters, clicking heels, and invisible makeup: the teenagers around her had the time and means to groom daily for the occasional TV appearance. Not one friend in sight in the throngs of students ahead.
Margherita, feet fused to the cobblestones, pulled up her hoodie, sun baking her shoulders.
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