Fun and Games, by Sara Lippmann
I’m trying to tell him what it was like.
My brothers played foosball. In my mother’s closet among party dresses suffocating in bags I’d hide while in the basement rods spun and missed. Sometimes I’d carry a jar of olives, but usually I kept my hands free in case the KKK should happen to hop the porch and catch the wink of chrome on our doorpost and torch it all down to reach me.
That’s reasonable. The Ku Klux Klan in suburban New Jersey, he says, toothpaste foaming.
I vow to try harder.
It was a game, I insist.
He spits.
You mean Jehovah’s Witness, he says, coming out of the bathroom. I had a classmate once who wouldn’t stand for the Pledge of Allegiance. Wore burgundy bloomers and smelled like canned spaghetti; now, there’s a home life.




