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 didthathappen?” 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 smellamazing.”
“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.
There were about five minutes left in the half when I came back in, balancing two plates and the roll of paper towels, and deposited them both on the table in front of Dave and his dad. It was just eggs and toast. But by their reaction, you would have thought I’d prepared the most extravagant of feasts.
“Oh my goodness,” Mr. Wade whispered, slowly pushing his half-eaten tofu loaf aside. “Is that . . . Is thatbutter?”
“I think it is,” Dave said. “Wow. Look at how fluffy and yellow these are!”
“Not like Neggs,” his dad agreed.
“Neggs?” I said.
“Not-eggs,” Dave explained. “Egg substitute. It’s what we use.”
“What’s in them? ” I asked as Mr. Wade took a bite. He closed his eyes, chewing slowly, his reaction so full of pleasure I had to look away.
“Not eggs,” Dave replied. He exhaled. “These are amazing, Mclean. Thank you so much.”
“Thank you,” his dad repeated, scooping up another heaping forkful.
I smiled, just at the game came back on the screen. Immediately, the players were in motion, moving down the court, the U out in front with the ball. As they passed the bench, the action slowed, and I saw Peter again, my mom behind him. As the team set up their offense, I watched as she pulled out her phone, opening it up, and pushed a few buttons, then put it to her ear.
I turned around, looking at my purse, which was on the floor by the couch. Sure enough, I could see a light flashing inside. I pulled out my phone. “Hello?”
“Hey, honey,” she said over the din behind her. “I just had a quick thought about our trip tomorrow. Have you got a second? ”
Dave and his dad erupted in cheers, plates clanging in their laps as the U stole the ball and moved down the court. Where my mom was, there was noticeably less of a reaction.
“Actually,” I said, “I, um, have some people over for dinner.”
“You do?” She sounded so surprised. “Oh. Well, I’ll just call back later, okay?”
“Great,” I said, watching Dave as he took another bite of toast, then smiled at me. Real bread, real butter. All real. “Talk to you then.”
Thirteen
That night, I tried to wait up for my dad, so I could ask him about the councilwoman and what I’d seen between them at the model that day, although I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer. Still, I busied myself packing and repacking my suitcase for the beach, trying not to think abt all the other times I’d folded clothes this same way, in the same bag. Once that was done, I made myself a pot of coffee and sat down on the couch to study for my last big test before break, feeling confident that the task and the caffeine would keep me awake until he returned. Instead, I woke up at 6:00 the next morning, the room cold and my mother’s quilt tucked over me.
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. My dad’s keys were in the dish by the door, his coat thrown over our worn leather chair. Distantly, down the hallway, I could hear the water running in his bathroom. Just another morning. I hoped.
