The novel is set in Turin, during these years of economic crisis and social malaise.
Elisabetta, who wants to be called Bet, is the first-person narrator of a neorealist story with a happy ending.

We were a family like any other, neither too loud nor too quiet, neither rich nor poor, a working-class family like those in our building and those in the buildings next door

: a normal family, until the death of her little sister shatters their precarious domestic equilibrium: the father abandons the family, the mother finds a new partner, and Bet finds herself angry at the world without any clear reason:

I think that I am a girl of my time, and that I am not.
That I live in the world, and I do not like the world, and I do not feel suited to it

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The first part of the novel, undoubtedly the most accomplished for its freshness, chronicles Bet’s anger: the loneliness, the tedium of the school environment, the conflict with her mother—upon whom she heaps all the blame—the idealization of her father, by whom she is bound to be disappointed, and the unexpected encounter with a young pregnant woman, with whom she strikes up a friendship.
Disrupting the gentle, light-footed realism of the narrative, however, comes an unfortunate magical overtone: in the evening, before falling asleep, Bet—if she is at peace and has behaved well (sic!)—sees tiny luminous spheres emerge from her hands and rise toward the sky (the guardian angel? the soul of her deceased little sister?).
This alone is a worrying sign that the publishing house’s marketing team has tampered with the story.
And indeed, the second part of the novel is replete with mawkish and far-fetched contrivances: Bet rebuilds solidarity with her mother by taking part alongside her in an ill-fated union action (a dash of class struggle is always in fashion); in a fit of rage, she chains herself to the radiator in the principal’s office and becomes famous enough to be invited on television; and, in the story's climax, she finds herself trapped in an elevator with her friend who is about to give birth. The power goes out, yet despite these absurd predicaments, Bet manages to deliver the baby, aided by the little luminous spheres.

If one were to stop at the first part of the novel, one might speak of neorealism, as several critics have done.
One could appreciate the narrative style—simple yet effective, wry at times—which deftly conveys what sustains today’s youth when confronted with a paternalistic and indifferent society:

the only thing that can keep me alive, present, and alert in the rush of days unfolding before me is not hope, but the curiosity to see how it will end, whether I will pull through and in what way, without trampling on the few principles I have cultivated up to this point

.
Was it really necessary to spoil everything with a concoction of the supernatural and soap opera?

Why not read it? Because we are weary of sentimentality and would prefer a dose of sound, genuine realism.

Bet's Outburst