He really thought I was a moron. You’d think the government could check up on my grades at school and the results of my IQ test. Maybe he was the kind of grownup who thinks all kids are dumb.
“Three simple questions, Gary,” he said, “and then I’ll leave you alone. Are your parents in the Party? Do they belong to a cell? And are they friends of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg?”
“You asked your questions!” I yelled. “I didn’t say I’d answer! Now go to hell!”
I shoved the basketball into his stomach as hard as I could, smack into the belt buckle on his trench coat, and ran.
The next morning, when I came out to leave for school, I found the ball sitting on the porch.
* * * *
Mom and Dad had a terrible fight about whether to take Alexa with us to Union Square the day of the Rosenberg execution
