The Absolute Value of Mike

by Kathryn Erskine

  Dad just didn’t get it. Had he always been like this? I thought of the Saint John’s Wort on our kitchen counter. Did he act this way because he was depressed? And he used to be normal? Or was he always this way and that’s what was making him depressed?

  Now, tell me about the artesian screw.

  Dad! You forgot to send money to Moo’s account.

  Was I supposed to? I don’t recall that.

  Yes, Dad. Do I need to go into all the descriptions again about how poor they are?

  I’ll have Ferdi take care of it. In the meantime, you should spend less effort on the population study than on the engineering project, which has much more value. You need to learn skills so you don’t end up on the street.

  I gritted my teeth and snapped Past’s laptop shut.

  Past jerked up from rummaging in his shopping cart. “So? What did he say?”

  I looked at him, the guy who’d ended up on the street, and shook my head. “Absolutely nothing of value.”

  15

  DIFFERENCE

  —how much one number differs from another

  Somehow I made it back to Moo’s. I was so mad at Dad that I’m not even sure how I got there. I mean, he hadn’t seen me in a week and he never even checked to see if I’d gotten here—it was only because I IM’ed him that he knew. And I told him how badly we needed money, and he forgot! Like I was worthless. Then when I sent him a message telling him what I was doing, making it sound even better than it was, he still blew me off. It still wasn’t good enough. All he cared about was Poppy’s engineering project that didn’t even exist! And Poppy wouldn’t work on the real project, making boxes, even though he knew how critical his role was in getting Misha adopted. He just sat there like a lump!

  When I swung the front door open, Moo was struggling toward me with a huge garbage bag almost as big as she was.

  “Moo! What are you doing?”

  She put it down, panting, her face red. “It’s Thursday.”

  “What?”

  “Trash day tomorrow.”

  I looked at Poppy, who had the yellow yardstick across his lap. “Moo, you shouldn’t be the one doing this.” I was seething, my voice loud so it could penetrate Poppy’s stupor.

  He didn’t even flinch. It was as easy to get through to Poppy as it was to Dad.

  I gritted my teeth. “I’ll handle it.”

  “Thank you so much, Mike. I need to finish some paperwork.” She told me where the trash can was and headed to the kitchen.

  I glared at Poppy and hissed, “You should be doing this and you know it!”

  When I joined Moo in the kitchen—after I’d taken care of the trash and given Poppy another dirty look about it—she was squinting at some forms on the table, her nose about two inches from the paper.

  “What are you reading?”

  “I made a bargain with Gladys. I told her I’d fill out these direct deposit forms for our Social Security checks if she’d sing for you on YouTube.”

  I sat down heavily. “Direct deposit is a good idea, Moo. You’ll be happy you did it.”

  She looked up at me ruefully. “All I said was I’d fill them out. I never said I’d hand them in.”

  “Moo!”

  “Oh, all right, I suppose it’s safe. But”—she tapped her pen on the form several times—“who can even read these words? They’ve made them so tiny.”

  “Here,” I said, gently pulling the pen out of her hand and pulling the forms toward me. “I’ll do it.”

  “I’ve started you off with my name and Poppy’s,” she said proudly.

  First, I noticed how shaky and oversized her handwriting was. Second, I saw their real names. Beulah Wealthea O’Brien and Heinrich Gunther O’Brien. Whoa, no wonder they went with Moo and Poppy. Third, I realized that Moo had written her name on the line for “Name of Financial Institution” and Poppy’s on the “Account Number” line. I asked her for her checkbook to get her account number and went to work.

  “All you’ll need to do is sign the form when I’m done. And get”—I jerked my thumb toward the living room—“to sign it, and you’ll be all set.”

  “Thank you, dear!”

  I barely got started filling in the blanks when the tapping started. I ignored it at first, but it got louder. I looked at Moo, cooking scrapple at the stove, but realized the noise was coming from behind me. And it was getting more irritating every second. “What is that?”

  “What, dear?”

  “That tapping sound!”

  Her shoulders drooped. “I’m late with supper. I think Poppy’s getting impatient.”

  I felt my grip tighten on the pen and the words on the form grow hazy as my eyes narrowed. The tapping continued.

  “Oh! I need to grab a couple of tomatoes from the garden. Past says they have lycopene and would be good for Poppy, so I’m going to try mixing them in with his scrapple.”

  As soon as she went out the back door, I stood up to yell at Poppy through the pass-through. I was just in time to see him push the hands of the Felix clock with the yardstick. The clock now read nine fifteen. So that’s how the clock kept changing! Poppy started tapping on Felix, loudly, demanding his dinner. All I could think was, How dare he?

  That’s when I lost it.

  I marched into the living room, grabbed the yardstick out of Poppy’s hand, and broke it in two. His eyes grew wide and they locked on mine for a moment before his lips stuck out in a defiant pout and he stared back at Felix. I looked at the two pieces of yardstick, surprised I’d even done that, and dropped them. When I looked at Poppy, I saw that his face was red and his nostrils were flared, but one of his hair horns had flopped over. He was still staring up at the Felix clock.

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s time, all right. It’s time for you to move your butt!”

  He was breathing heavily, but other than his chest rising and falling, he didn’t budge. He wouldn’t even look at me.

  “And you know what else?” I added. “I’m going out to the workshop. Your workshop. And I’m going to use your tools to make all those boxes that you’re supposed to be out there making!”

  His grunt came out sounding more like a yelp, but that didn’t stop me. I grabbed the key from the row of hooks by the door and stormed out to the workshop.

  16

  REGROUP

  —rearrange the formation of a group of numbers

  It’s not a good idea to go into a workshop when you’re angry, especially when you’re not all that good at woodworking. I couldn’t even cut one straight piece, never mind six pieces that could actually be made into a box. Nothing fit together no matter how many times I ran it through another pass on the radial arm saw. And forget cutting angles to get pieces to wedge together. You need math to do woodworking, so that’s why I’m not too good at it. In the end, I was left with about a million assorted sizes of excellent quality toothpicks.

  I looked up at the sheet of white lined notebook paper taped above the door. It was Moo’s shaky writing but big enough to read easily. What would Oprah say? I wasn’t sure what words Oprah would use to describe my mess, but I let out a whole slew of words until the door opened and Moo walked in.

  She saw the splinters of wood all over the floor and table saw and almost dropped the plate of cookies she was holding. She kept looking behind her at the door like she was worried Poppy might come in and see what I’d done. As if.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, her knuckles growing white as she gripped the plate.

  “Yeah. I messed up. Big-time.”

  “You just need more experience.” She sighed. “I wish Poppy would teach you. He’s very good at woodworking, you know.”

  Something inside me snapped. Again. Like the yardstick. “No, I don’t know,” I yelled, “because he won’t get his butt out of that stupid chair!”

  She took a step back and put the plate on top of the scraps of wood covering the workbench. “It’s frustrating, isn’t it? But we all handle things differently.” She ben
t down and picked up a couple of nails under the workbench that I guess I’d missed when I cleaned up the shop. She walked over to the table saw, dropped them in the cardboard box labeled OLD NAILS, and smiled. “Some of us are more extreme cases than others.”

  I wiped the sweat from my upper lip and nodded. Yeah, and why did they all have to end up in my life? I stared at her for a moment, with her hand on the box of nails, still smiling. I had to ask her. “How did you handle my dad? I mean, what was he like as a kid?”

  “Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you a little about him.”

  I grabbed the cookies from the workbench and followed her to the kitchen. I remembered her last cookie disaster, but this time the kitchen had a warm chocolate smell that tempted me, and I dug in. “Whoa, these are delicious.”

  “I’ve just finished the chocolate chip and I’m moving on to snickerdoodles. They’re doing a fund-raiser a few towns away for Misha’s adoption. Isn’t that nice?”

  I nodded, my mouth full of cookies.

  Moo cracked an egg into a bowl on the counter. “Mike, I must say, your dad was a child who was away with the fairies if there ever was one.”

  “Spacey, right?”

  “He was positively in orbit, dear.”

  “He’s a genius.” I didn’t say it with affection.

  She pressed her lips together and looked at me, then eyed the doorway between the kitchen and living room.

  “What?” I asked.

  “He clipped his shoulder on that door frame every time he walked through it.”

  I shrugged. “He never looks where he’s going.”

  “Sometimes he would wear two different shoes.”

  “I know.”

  “He never played with the other children even though there were a lot in the neighborhood back then.”

  So, he’d always been different. It must be part of being a genius.

  Moo whisked the contents of the bowl. “And the fire department had to come twice.”

  “What?”

  “THE FIRE DEPARTMENT HAD TO—” “Yes, but why? He started two fires?”

  “No, just one. The other time he was on the roof and couldn’t get down.”

  “What happened?”

  “Let’s see. He was on the roof because he was measuring angles or something . . . I’m not even sure, but he panicked once he looked down, and neither Poppy nor I could get him to budge.”

  “And the fire?”

  She reached for the glass canister of flour on the counter and pulled it forward, revealing a black patch on the pink countertop. “Your dad said it was a science experiment.”

  I stared at the cracked, bubbly blackness against the pink swirls of countertop. “Weren’t you mad at him?”

  “Well . . .” She took my hand and pulled me over to the kitchen table, where we both sat down. “He obviously has some problems, dear.”

  “Problems? He’s a genius.”

  “I know, dear,” she said sadly, as if it were some terrible disease.

  “Moo . . . he’s lucky.”

  She squinted at me for a moment, then smiled and patted my hand. “Yes, dear, because he has you.” She looked through the pass-through at Poppy.

  Suddenly, a woman’s voice sang loudly from somewhere in the kitchen.

  Let’s get physical!

  Moo jumped. “That’s my song!” Her yellow sneakers ran over to Junior at the edge of the counter and she dug around inside while the song continued.

  Moo flipped the phone open, peering sideways at it as she held it away from her head. “Yes?” she said loudly. “Oh, hello, Karen! I’m making the cookies right now. I finished the chocolate chip and—” She paused, her brow furrowing. “Slow down, dear. Take a deep breath.” Moo nodded, chewing on her lips. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Yes, of course, dear, you need to go. . . . Who? Gladys? Oh, dear.” Moo’s eyes darted to the kitchen window and she peered out back into the darkness. “Uh-huh, and you talked with Past?”

  Gladys? Past? What was she talking about?

  “Well, of course we’re going to help you, Karen! We all want Misha home. Everything will be fine. You take care now. Bye-bye.”

  “What’s up?” I asked as she closed her phone and dropped it back in Junior.

  “Oh, dear. Poor Karen. Her father had a stroke, so she has to go to Ohio and take care of him and her mother. She’s all upset about that, and about leaving town when everyone’s trying to help her.” Moo pulled on her hoodie strings. “I hope everything still works out all right with Misha.”

  I almost gagged on my cookie, and clutched the edge of the table. “Misha? Why wouldn’t it work out?”

  “Karen’s the organizer and I’m not sure how well the rest of us will do without her. She already called Past, who said he’d do what he could do, but . . .” She waved her hand. “And then there’s poor Gladys.”

  I was still reeling from the idea of Misha not getting adopted. “What about Gladys?”

  “Karen says she’s very upset. Gladys is sensitive about . . . family issues because of her own. It’s as if she put all her hopes for a family into helping Misha and Karen make one.” Moo still clutched her hoodie strings and stared out the kitchen window. “When she’s upset, she likes to go down to the lake and think. She always sits in a spot near our house. I wonder if she’s there now. . . . Of course, I can’t leave my cookies in the oven or they’ll burn. Poor Gladys.”

  I stood up. “I can go and see if she’s there.”

  “Oh, would you, Mike?”

  “Sure. Um, what do you want me to say?”

  She patted my arm. “You’ll think of something, dear, I’m sure.”

  It took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the darkness outside, which was my excuse for why I tripped twice walking down the hill toward the lake. It wasn’t because I was nervous. Really.

  I heard the rippling of water and the splashing plops of fish or frogs before I actually saw Gladys. She was sitting in a little heap on the shore near a scrubby bush. I didn’t want to scare her by walking right up to her and surprising her, so I called out, “Hi. It’s me, Mike.”

  Gladys turned and nodded. “Hi,” she said softly.

  I walked over and sat on the pebbly ground next to her. “Moo told me about Karen.”

  She looked out at the lake for a while before picking up a stone and throwing it in. “I knew it would never work.”

  “What?”

  “Adoption. It sounds good. It doesn’t happen like it does in movies, though.”

  “Hey, my best friend was adopted from Russia. It happens. I’ve seen it.”

  “Maybe in other places or for other people. Not here.”

  “Why not?”

  She gazed across Lake Revival, looking small and not at all tough, now that you couldn’t see all the piercings and tattoos. She rocked gently. “We’re a bunch of misfits, not families. I mean, look at the name of our town. Do Over. We can’t get it right.”

  “Not the first time, maybe, but there’s always a second chance.”

  “At having a family?” She said it with such scorn, it was like she knew what failures Dad and I were at being a family.

  “Sure,” I said, but my voice didn’t sound at all convincing.

  She threw in another stone. “This whole project is sunk.”

  “Don’t say that! It is not!”

  “Look, you’re sweet, but you don’t know anything about—”

  “I don’t know anything about what?” I stared at her, my eyes narrowed. “I don’t know anything about family? About little boys? Who don’t have moms? About . . . Misha?” I threw my own stone into the lake. Hard. “What’s there to know, huh? Misha needs a home. Karen wants him. That’s all there is. It’s simple. And no one’s going to stop it.”

  She sighed. “There’s no artisan’s crew to make the money—”

  “We’re making money! We’re selling stuff. We’re almost up to five thousand now.”

  “And we need forty. Now Karen
’s gone and there’s no one to lead the project.”

  “There are people around.”

  She stared at me. “Like who?”

  I started to suggest Moo but stopped. She wasn’t the most organized person. Past? I didn’t think Gladys would accept a homeless guy as leader, even though he didn’t seem like your typical homeless guy. “How about the guys at the park who make porch pals?”

  “Oh, come on. Haven’t you heard their nickname? ‘The three stooges.’ You want to put them in charge?”

  Gladys wasn’t helping the situation. But maybe she should. “What about you?”

  “Me?” She wrapped her arms around herself and looked away. “Let’s just say I’m not exactly an expert on building families.”

  “Who is?” I asked.

  “Probably anyone but me,” she said, her voice shaky.

  When she started sniffling, I almost croaked. I hadn’t meant to make her cry. Oh, man, now I’d done it. I was supposed to be making her feel better! The words were out of my mouth before my brain had a chance to check them out. “I’ll handle it. I mean, if everyone’s okay with that.”

  What was I saying? Did I think this was some computer quest game, Save the Orphan, where I was playing the role of Dumb Kid: practically an orphan in his own home; knows ex-orphan who now has a happy family. Situation: hopeless. Likelihood of Success—

  “Really?” she asked softly. “You’d do that?” Her eyes turned to me and her blinking slowed down.

  Maybe if she’d laughed, I would’ve laughed, too, and it would’ve all been over. But she didn’t. She looked at me . . . not like I was a dumb kid, but a guy . . . a guy who was pretty cool, capable, even clever. A guy who could actually save Misha and bring him home. “Yeah,” I heard myself say. “Don’t worry. It’ll happen. I’ll make it happen.”

  She stared at me with big, dark, glistening eyes. I felt like we were moving closer and closer to each other. My heart started beating fast and my breathing sped up so much, I tried hard to keep from panting. Was this going to be a kiss? My first real kiss? Was this how it happened? It was like watching a YouTube, except I was in it.