Page 20 of Chivalry is Not Dead

They leave me and Grandmother to decide which game we should teach Sanders.

“I refuse to play Monopoly.”

Grandmother tuts. “It’s an excellent game, Penny.”

“No,” I argue. “It’s the game that never fucking ends.”

“What about checkers?” she asks.

“Too easy.”

“Well chess would be too hard, though I bet he’d love the knight.”

“He already knows chess,” I reply. “It’s an ancient game, Grandmother.”

“Card games, then? Poker? Gin? Solitaire?”

I laugh. “You want me to teach him a game to play by himself?”

She sits up. “I have the perfect idea! The neighbor boy… I can never remember his name⁠—”

“It’s Oliver.”

“Yes, Oliver. He gave me a new game so we can all learn together.”

“He’s six. What game did he bring?”

She gives me a sly grin.

And that’s how I end up playing Pie Face with my mom, grandmother, and a medieval knight.

“I don’t understand this game. There’s no point other than avoiding whipped cream to the face!”

Sanders licks said whipped cream from around his mouth. “It is amazing,” he replies with childlike joy. “It is the ultimate game of luck!”

“I wouldn’t say the ultimate game of luck,” I grumble.

“You’re just sour that you haven’t been pied in the face yet,” Mom scolds, a smatter of whipped cream across her face as well.

“That means I’m winning!” In reality, I think Oliver gave this game to my grandmother because one of the cranks is broken and doesn’t ever latch to deploy the whipped cream. No one else seems to care that the game is rigged, they’re all having too much fun.

“Is that the problem?” Sanders questions. “You are sad you do not have any pie on your face?”

“No it’s not—” Splat!

Three coordinated blobs of whipped cream simultaneously hit me in the face. My mouth drops into an O, and I use my fingers as windshield wipers across my glasses so I can see the traitors. “I. Cannot. Believe. You. Did. That.”

“Did what?” Grandmother asks, feigning innocence.

“Did this!” I scoop a bit of whipped cream off my forehead and fling it at her.

“Penelope!” my mom admonishes.

I take more and fling some at her. “You too!”

From there, it devolves into a full-on whipped cream food fight. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard in my life. Once we’ve gone through the entire can, we collapse into our chairs, struggling to catch our breath. As if it was waiting for us to finish our childish adventure, the oven dings.

Mom claps her hands together. “Cake time!”