He was freaking out. Being only ten years old, Giuseppe wouldn’t be able to bear the embarrassing nicknames and cruel, heartless jokes that would inevitably transpire. He would have to move. He didn’t want to move. Where might he go, Sicily? “No… not Sicily,” he stubbornly declared.

Of course, this was his sister’s doing. How evil she was! He should have known it was coming. He tattled on her for failing Latin, and now she was making him pay. Francesca stole all the clothes and garments in their little brick abode and placed them on a grassy knoll while Giuseppe was taking his bubble bath. He liked bubble baths. They were so pleasant and always improved his day. Now, he peeked out his room’s small cracked window. He had broken it on accident. He had wanted to see how far he could get his bouncy ball to bounce. The answer was outside and down their street. He wondered if he should tell his parents; then he decided against it. “Another time maybe,” he concluded. Once again focusing on the task at hand, he could just barely perceive his white briefs illuminated by the setting sun. It was near dusk.

But that wasn’t enough for the hag; no, she had to call the whole neighborhood. They all came: the cool older kids, his chums, and-he shuddered; his mouth dry- the girls. It would be too much to tolerate. To make matters worse, she had a camera. Why did Dad ever have to give into her horrible nagging will by buying her that confounded contraption? With this added ingredient, the recipe only complicated. Now she would make capital from the ordeal by selling mugs with the pictures on them to the other kids. She had already purchased the mugs! This was not going to be a good day.

He sat on his bed with the shades drawn and lights off. He couldn’t take any chances. The air had dried him off long ago. Now he just sat, his bed slightly wet where he was located. Hopefully, his sheets would dry off before night. He stood, determined not to make any more problems for himself. Sweat began to bead on his forehead as panic set in. He began to breathe heavily. He could no longer take the hysteria! He ran around in a small circle in his room, arms in the air. A stifled yelp came out as he nearly descended into complete madness, but a thought struck him. He stopped, panting, and turned his eyes towards his bed. “The sheets,” he exclaimed, “the sheets!” He ripped them off of his bed in sheer exhilaration. Another feeling overwhelmed him, triumph. He felt as if he was the brave knight in the fairy tales that had foiled the witch’s most cunning plan.

After crafting a suitable toga for himself, he turned his attention to his next task: defeating the witch. He knew just the thing. Giuseppe proudly strolled into his sister’s room down the hall. She didn’t know that he knew her true weakness. He reached under her mattress like he had done so many times before and pulled out his Excalibur, her diary.

He opened the back door. A large crowd had gathered to witness the occasion. His sister smugly brought the camera to her eye to capture the moment. What she saw, wasn’t what she wanted to see. He ambled out casually without a care in the world, Francesca’s diary in hand. She gasped in horror as he opened it and read aloud, “Today Marcello waved to me. Oh my God! He is so cute. He totally likes me, and I will marry him one day. I can’t wait till he and I are Mr. and Mrs. Mancini. Love, Mrs. Marcello Mancini.” The quote ended, and he lowered the book. Silence overcame the crowd. Francesca was beet red. She began to shuffle down the hill. Soon, the slumber of the crowd ended. An out roar of laughter and jeering ensued. Marcello was near the rear of the crowd, standing there. Francesca abandoned shuffling and sprinted towards the still ajar back door. He shut it quickly, forcing her to open and close it behind her, prolonging the agony.

Giuseppe walked over to the laundry on the hill. He picked up his white briefs and slipped them on. Then the knight in gleaming white armor rode off into the sunset, victorious.