How did you get this way, Hunter? I wanted to ask him, but never did. Maybe he got it from Dad, who always seemed to take pleasure in selling people auto parts that they didn’t need, at inflated prices. Or maybe from Mom, and the way she was so thrilled by the Christmas blizzard last year, because it meant that our neighbors’ big expensive Caribbean vacation—the kind that we could never afford—was now a big expensive series of canceled flights.

Not that I’m perfect—I’m sure I have plenty of my parents’ bad traits—but taking pleasure in the misfortune of others is not one of them. Unless you count humiliating an opposing team.

Although losing a virtual game world was unimportant, it still stung. What I needed was something to ground me a little more firmly in my real world. Some comfort food for the soul—and for the stomach, too.

There was a standing rule that any time Leo’s mom made her famous lobster mac and cheese, I was invited. I never felt guilty eating a lot of it, because, according to Mrs. Johnson, it wasn’t as fancy as it sounded. A bag of frozen Costco lobster meat went a long way, so feeding a family of four, plus one hungry freeloader, cost less than fast food.

“Did you know that lobster used to be what poor people ate in the Northeast?” Leo said as we ate. “Then somebody got the bright idea to market it to New York socialites, and suddenly it became rich-people food.”

“It’s all about perception,” his father said. Mr. Johnson was an exec at a marketing company, so he knew what he was talking about. “You could sell bird turd on toast if the right people were seen eating it.”

“Dad,” complained Angela, “you’re not helping our appetites.”

“I’m just saying.”

“A little less saying, a little more eating,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Leftovers are not our friend today—one more piece of Tupperware, and we’ll lose our latest game of refrigerator Tetris.”

After dinner Leo and I went down to the basement, where they had a decent man cave, although Angela always said she resented the implied exclusion, threatening to paint the place pink.

“You hate pink,” Leo had reminded her.

“Some points are worth a little suffering,” she had responded.

Monday night’s game had already started—the Colts versus the Jaguars. I claimed a recliner and sank into it. I thought I’d be able to settle into my comfort zone here, but some things find you wherever you try to hide.

“Wait—what team is that?” I asked, pointing at the TV, where a team in purple was getting ready for the next play.

“The Colts, who else?”

“But the Colts are blue. Blue and white.”

Leo looked at me funny. “No, the Jets are blue and white.”

“They’re green and white!”

“You’re thinking of the Vikings.”