"Repeat after me, 2, 3, eeee-aaaah-aaaay-eeee!"

I stood up straighter than straight and concentrated on my stomach to make sure I was breathing correctly. I warmed up along with the singer in the video, who was simultaneously singing and playing the scales up and down her piano. It had taken me weeks of scouring the music section on YouTube to find a good coloratura soprano warm-up video, but finally I had found one and my voice had never felt better. 

I needed all the practice I could get if I ever wanted to go to the Milano Institute of Music. It's a world-famous classical music college in Milan, Italy, where every single opera singer was dying to go. Some of the best opera singers of our time have trained at that school. It's almost magical, like that school will grant you a career in a field you absolutely love!  Despite the acceptance rate being a very low 11% and how I would only be able to go if I was offered a full scholarship, I still had hope that I would be able to live my dream. Key word, had.

I submitted my application over a month ago and was still waiting to hear about my status from the Institute. I got the confirmation email where they said my application was currently being processed, so why was it taking so long to hear whether or not I would be able to go? The very thought of a board of people all the way in Italy listening to my audition tape and judging my voice was frightening. I couldn't imagine what they would be saying. Who is this girl? Who does she think she is that she can come to our school? Should we reject her application now or leave her in the dark while her stomach twists and turns with every passing day? Let's do the latter! 

Just as I was about to hit the E6, a note that I really struggled with for the longest time, I heard loud banging beneath my feet. "Ilaria! Tutti a tavola a mangiare!" my mother called from downstairs, banging an umbrella on the ceiling so that I could hear her from my upstairs bedroom. I startled and croaked on the last note, straining my vocal cords. I wish I had a warning when she was about to do that! But I couldn't be angry, because I was seriously hungry. Affamato.  

I paused the video and shut down my computer, shuffling downstairs to go and eat. My parents were both at the table. My father was sitting and reading the newspaper, the only man in the world who continues to do so. He kept pushing up his glasses in order to see the words on the page better and would let out a little "harrumph" every time he read something he didn't quite agree with. After 18 years of living in the same house with him, I had grown accustomed to what all his little gestures meant. 

My mom was busy laying out food that could possibly feed a small army in Rome - caprese salad with fresh tomatoes from the farmer's market on one end of the table, freshly baked bread with butter next to it, and my mother's famous baked ziti taking its prime place in the center of the table. No, we were not celebrating anything. It was just a regular Wednesday night dinner. 

My mom looked up at me, smiling. She was wearing her 'Italian chef coming through' apron and her curly, dark brown hair was trying to break loose from the low ponytail she had put it in. "Ilaria, why you always so late to the table? Come, you set the plates and forks," she complained with her thick Italian accent, gesturing towards the cabinets. I went to grab the silverware and plates, setting them neatly down on the table. 

My dad loudly folded his newspaper and put it down on the table. "I heard you singing up there, Ilaria. Tell me, which song goes "eee-aah-ay!?" He screeched out the scale hoarsely, which made me crack up laughing. "Not a song, papà! They're vocal exercises, they keep my voice warmed up and ready to sing." My father groaned and muttered something in Italian and nodded slowly. "Ma, your voice is already beautiful, what do you need exercise them for? Your vocal cords need to jog?" He mimed a jogging motion. I playfully rolled my eyes. "Some singers compare vocal exercising to exercising your legs before a marathon, so in a way, yes." I had finished setting the table and both my mom and I were sitting down to eat. 

My mom grabbed my hand and gave one of her encouraging smiles. "I know you worry about Milano but, cara mia, they would be so lucky to have you! Do not worry about it much." My dad joined in. "Sì, and for now, we eat!" My mom started portioning out the dishes, making sure we all got some of each. By the end of the dishing out, my plate had a mountain of food on it. But I didn't mind. My mother's love language was food, and she would actually get upset if you passed on her cooking, even if it's because you were full. At her house, you eat or you get out. I remember one time my friend made the mistake of coming over to my house when my mom had made biscotti. She said she didn't want one because she was on a diet. She was never seen again...

Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit, but the rest of it is true! 

Before the application, I would've dug into the pasta dish like there was no tomorrow and cleaned my plate in less than fifteen minutes. But I found that it was way harder to eat now. My stomach had been churning with worry for the past month because of Milano, and it only worsened as the date for the fall semester was approaching. "What if I'm not good enough?" I inadvertently blurted out, making my father almost spit out his wine and my mother pause with a forkful of pasta to her mouth. "Che sei pazza! What do you mean 'not good enough'?" My mom yelled, incredulously. "It is not good to lie." My father reprimanded. Even though I was grateful for their proclaimed support, it didn't help ease my fears. 

"I'm serious. It's been almost a month now and the fall semester is going to start soon. Don't you think that if they had planned on accepting me to the school that they would've wrote back to me yet?" As I said it out loud, I panicked. It began to feel more and more like this was the case. My hope was slowly fading away by the minute. Both of my parents were stunned at my lack of faith. They shared a look with each other that seemed to say: What are we supposed to say? We don't run the school. What if that really is the case?

I looked down at my pasta dish and did all I could to not cry and thin out this tomato sauce with my tears right then and there. It would be embarrassing and also a crime to my mom's dinner. I felt a hand gently touch my arm and looked over to see my dad looking at me with compassion. "I know it all seems scary. But, mia figlia, you are more than good enough to go to Milano. You are good enough to go to music school on the moon if you want!" He made a grand gesture with his arms, which made me laugh despite my worries. 

My mom reached out and grabbed the other arm. "He is right. You are the best singer I know. Besides Pavarotti, of course." Nobody could stand in the way of my mom's love for Pavarotti. "You just have to believe in yourself. If you do not believe in yourself, how can you expect anybody else to? That includes Milano." Her words sunk deep into my heart. It's true. If I didn't believe in myself, how could they? 

My father groaned and leaned back in his chair, arms folded. "If it doesn't work out, you stay here and come to my community college. You will learn about your heritage!" I smiled. "You know that's my backup plan, papà." My dad taught Italian History at the local community college and he has been pressuring me to join ever since I graduated from high school. "If you are going to go to Italy, you should learn about Italian history." He argued. He had a point. It was just something that wasn't on my mind. Right now, I was devoted to singing. I breathed a little sigh. "I'm sure I'll be able to get by." 

We didn't discuss the situation anymore after that. Even through the broken English, my parents had tried their best and had really made me feel better. For now, I would just enjoy this delicious meal with them. I ate my pasta with my stomach more at ease for the moment. Maybe my stomach will chill out even more so that I can stuff that extra slice of bread and butter down. Or maybe that's pushing it. That wasn't going to stop me from doing it anyways!

After dinner was over and the dishes were cleaned, I went upstairs to get ready for bed. "Buonanotte!" I called out to my family as I climbed the steps. "Buonanotte!" they both called back to me as they sat down for one last cup of coffee before bed. 

After changing into my pajamas, brushing my teeth, and doing my skincare routine, I flopped into bed, arms and legs sprawled out. I looked up, studying the bumps on my bedroom ceiling. The worries were still there. I know I said I had my backup plan, but how would I feel if I was rejected from my dream school? I didn't even want to think about how heartbroken I would be. I would need to eat gelato at least 3 times a day, indulge in a week of staying in and watching singer-themed movies to just scream at the TV in jealousy, and playing Vesti La Giubba on repeat and feeling Pagliaccio's sadness for real. Although, his sadness was about his wife cheating on him and mine would be about not getting into opera school. Same difference. 

Suddenly, there was a knock at my bedroom door. I broke out of my funk for a moment and opened the door. My father was standing in the hallway with a book in his hands. I could make it the word 'renaissance.' "If you are to go to Milano and be a famous opera singer, you must learn about the history of the country." He handed the book to me. "This is what we are reading in my class. I know you say you don't want to take my class, but do your old papà a favor and read?" I took it and looked at the cover. It was a picture of the rolling hills of Tuscany with the sun shining bright in the background, casting a fairytale-esque glow over the land. The title was 'Renaissance Italy,' straightforward and to the point. 

I looked up at my dad with a smile. "Thanks, I'll read it." He arched an eyebrow. "Tonight?" I guessed, thinking that's what he wanted. Finally, a smile and a thumbs up. He kissed me goodnight and left me to my room and to my new book. I sat back down on my bed and studied the book. I ran my fingers over the cover of the book, getting lost in a Tuscan daydream. I opened to the first page and started skimming through the book. 

As I read more, I was getting more interested. All the art, the music, the culture that was reborn during that time was overwhelming. I couldn't imagine what it would have been like to be alive at that time, to see amazing artists, like da Vinci, be born and create masterpieces, to see a country-wide rebirth of the arts. A thought came across my mind. 

To be a singer during the Italian Renaissance. 

I sighed happily, now lying down in my bed, staring at a performing arts theatre that was erected back then. It was called Il Teatro di Musica, and it was famous in its time for bringing up promising and talented musicians, including a great number of singers. I couldn't believe I had never heard of it before. I yawned, feeling a bit sleepy, and rested the book on my chest.

I wished I could have been alive back then to be a singer. I would have been given a chance to perform during the height of music, to live my dream as an opera singer, and to have recognition for my talent. It would have been a dream come true. 

But the Renaissance is a thing of the past, no more than an impossible daydream. I felt myself succumb to slumber, so I closed my eyes and decided to turn my daydreams into regular dreams. 

As I closed my eyes, I swear I could see the cover of the book twinkle and shimmer in the dark.