I'm Not Losing Mine

I don't tell lies. Never. So when I put my hand in the Mouth of Truth, I was sure—completely sure—that nothing was going to happen to me. Everyone kept saying: "Watch out, Benedetta, it'll bite your hand off!" Are they crazy? I need my hand to eat with and to write at school, hello! There were even foreigners saying things to me and clapping their hands. I didn't understand a word. Even though I get an 8 in English and a 7 in French. I told them all to speak Italian. But they didn't understand anything either. They took pictures of me with their phones. Lots of pictures. And I posed for them. Then I put my hand in the Mouth of Truth, which is a big white hard face. Very ugly. Nothing happened. I knew it wouldn't. Dad always tells me I should never tell lies to anyone—not at home, not at school, not to my friends. Because it just makes things worse. He says I have to always tell the truth. Telling the truth is much better. Even fun. Because then I get to tell people all the things that have happened to me and all the things I think about with my little head. And people listen to me. Every once in a while though I do tell a lie, because I'm hoping I'll see Elia, so I tell Mom: "Stop the car! I see Elia!" Mom tells me that Elia lives in Brescia and we can't run into him in Rome, on Viale Marconi, or when I'm on my way to school in Trastevere, or when I go to soccer practice—even though Elia plays soccer too. But in Brescia. Mom says that's not really a lie, it's just that I see Elia everywhere. It's true! But I'm going back to the Mouth of Truth. Because I really do think someone loses their hand. I'd feel bad if they lost their hand, but you're never supposed to tell lies. I don't know if I know anyone who tells lies. And I don't know how they manage to lose their hand. But anyway, I'm not losing mine.