What Happens to Goodbye(83)

“Not really. You?”

“Tofu loaf.” He made a face before I could react. “It’s better than it sounds. But still . . . not so good. What’s on your menu? ”
I thought of our fridge, how I’d not had time to get to the store for a few days. Eggs, some bread, maybe some deli meat. “Breakfast for dinner, probably.”
“Aw, really?” He sighed. “That sounds awesome.”
“You should suggest it to your mom.”
He shook his head. “She’s got egg issues.”
“Excuse me?”
“The short version is she doesn’t eat them,” he explained. “The longer one involves certain dietary intolerances combined with ethical misgivings.”
“Oh.”
“Exactly.”
We were at the basketball goal now. I looked over his shoulder into the kitchen, where Mrs. Dobson-Wade was stirring something in a wok while Dave’s dad poured a glass of wine. “It’s nice that you guys eat as a family, though. Even if eggs aren’t allowed.”
“I guess,” he said. “Although more often than not, we’re all reading.”
“What?”
“Reading,” he repeated. “It’s something you do with books?”
“You all sit together at the table and don’t talk to one another?”
“Yeah. I mean, we talk some. But if we all have things we’re engrossed in . . .” He trailed off, looking embarrassed. “I told you that I’m weird. Hence, my family is weird. Although honestly, you should have figured that out already.”
“Weird,” I said, “but together. That counts for something.”
Now he looked at my house, that single outside light, the kitchen dark behind it. “I guess.”
I was ready to go inside. “Enjoy your tofu loaf,” I told him, turning toward my stairs.
“Eat an egg for me.”
I unlocked the door, then immediately turned on the kitchen light, followed by the one in the living room. Then I put on my dad’s iPod on the speaker dock—he’d been in a Zeppelin mood that morning, apparently—broke a couple of eggs into a bowl, and mixed in some milk. The bread in the fridge was a bit old, but not moldy, perfect for toasting. Five minutes later, dinner was done.
Normally, I ate on the couch, in front of the TV or my laptop. This night, however, I decided to get formal, folding a paper towel under my fork and sitting at the kitchen table. I’d just taken a bite of toast when I heard a knock at the door. When I turned around, there was Dave. And his dad.
“We need your TV,” Dave explained when I opened the door. They were both standing there, plates in hand. Behind them, I could see into their dining room, where Mrs. Dobson-Wade was alone at the table. Reading.
“My TV?”
“The Defriese-U game is just starting,” Mr. Wade said. “And our TV is suddenly refusing to change channels.”
“Probably because it’s about twenty years old,” Dave added.
“It is a perfectly fine television,” his dad said, adjusting his glasses with his free hand. “We hardly watch it anyway.”
“Except tonight.” Dave looked at me. “I know it’s asking a lot. But can we—”
I stepped back, waving my hand. “Sure.”
They came in, their silverware rattling on their plates, and bustled into the living room, sitting down on the couch. I turned on the TV, then flipped channels until I spotted my stepfather’s face. The game was about ten minutes in, and Defriese was up by nine.
“How did that happen?” Mr. Wade said, shaking his head as I went and got my plate, sliding into the leather chair beside them.
“Our defense sucks,” Dave replied. Then he sniffed and looked at me. “Oh my God. Those smell amazing.”
“They’re just scrambled. Nothing fancy.” Now, Mr. Wade was eyeing my plate as well. “I . . . I can make you guys some. If you want.”
“Oh, no, no,” Dave’s dad said. He gestured to his plate, where a beige square was bordered by some broccoli and what looked like brown rice. “We’ve got perfectly fine dinners. Your generosity with the TV is quite enough.”
“Right,” Dave said as on the screen, a whistle blew. Mr. Wade grimaced, reacting to the call. “We’re good.”
I turned my attention back to the screen. After a few minutes of fast back-and-forth, one of the U players got fouled and the clock stopped. We watched a couple of beer commercials and a news update, and then the game returned, showing Peter saying something to one of his starters. He clapped him on the back, and the guy started back out onto the court. As Peter sat down, I saw my mom behind him. No twins this time: she was alone, watching the game with a serious expression.
“Making eggs is really no trouble,” I said, jumping up. “I’m done eating, and it will only take a second.”
“Hey, Mclean, you really don’t—” Dave began. I looked at him, then at the screen, where my mother was still in view. “Oh. Well. That would be great. Thanks.”

It was easier to listen to the game than to watch, so I moved slowly as I scrambled the eggs, added milk, and preheated pan. I wasn’t sure what their position was on toast. Gluten issues? Was wheat bad ethically? I stuck some bread in the toaster oven anyway. While I cooked, the U came back, tying up the score, although they racked up some fouls in the process. Between listening to Dave and his dad reacting to the action—groans, claps, the occasional cheer—and the smell of eggs cooking, I could have been back in Tyler, in our old house, living my old life. I took my time.