“Are you sure you’re not adopted?” I asked. But I could tell there was enough of a resemblance to make DNA testing unnecessary.

“I look like him,” Schwa said, “but in most other ways I take after my mother.”

At the mention of his mother, I casually looked around for any sign of her, but there were no pictures, no feminine touches.

“Hey, Dad, this is my friend Antsy.”

Mr. Schwa continued to play, not noticing.

“Dad,” said the Schwa, a bit louder this time. Still he just played his guitar. The Schwa sighed.

“Mr. Schwa?” I said.

He stopped playing immediately and looked around, a bit bewildered. “Oh—you must be Calvin’s friend,” he said. “I’ll go get him.”

“I’m right here, Dad.”

“Did you offer your friend something to drink?”

“You want something to drink?” the Schwa asked.

“No.”

“He says no.”

“Is your friend staying for dinner?”

“Yeah,” I said, then whispered to the Schwa, “I thought you told him I was coming.”

“I did,” said the Schwa. “Twice.”

It turns out the Schwa’s father was terminally absentminded. There were little notes everywhere to remind him of things. The refrigerator was so full of yellow Post-it notes, it looked like Big Bird. The notes were all written by the Schwa. Half day at school on Wednesday, one said. Back-to-School night on Friday, said another. FRIEND COMING OVER FOR DINNER TONIGHT, said one in big bold letters.

“Was he always like that, or was it, like, from breathing paint fumes?” I asked after Mr. Schwa went back to playing guitar.

“He fell off a ladder a few years ago, and suffered head trauma. He’s okay now, but he’s like a little kid in some ways.”

“Wow,” I said. “So who takes care of who?”

“Exactly,” says the Schwa. “But it’s not so bad. And my aunt Peggy comes over a few times a week to help out.”

Apparently this wasn’t one of Aunt Peggy’s nights. There was a raw chicken in a big pan on top of the oven. I poked the chicken. It was room temperature. Who knew how long it had been sitting out.

“Maybe we should call in for pizza.”

“Naah,” said the Schwa, turning on the oven to preheat. “Cooking it should kill any deadly bacteria.”

The Schwa took me on the grand tour. The walls of the house were white, except one wall in each room was painted a different color. The effect was actually pretty cool. There was one forest green wall in the living room, a red wall in the kitchen, a blue wall in the dining room. The colored wall in the Schwa’s room was beige. I wasn’t surprised.

“So,” I asked about as delicately as I could, “how long have you and your father been . . . on your own?”

“Since I was five,” he said. “You wanna see my paper-clip collection?”