Dave and I walked back to our houses together. His was lit up, as usual, and I could see his mom and dad in the kitchen, moving around. Mine was dark, except for the side porch light that we always forgot to turn off. I knew this was far from ecofriendly, and I needed to stick a Post-it or something on the door to remind me. Times like now, though, I was glad for the oversight.
“So. You got big dinner plans?” Dave asked me as we started up my driveway.
“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 soundsawesome.”
“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—”
