“Whoa! We’re going to hit the”—Crunch!—“Suburban!”
“Of course, dear. That’s what bumpers are for. Besides, it’s only Poppy’s.”
No wonder Poppy didn’t like Tyrone. I got out of the car shakily and watched Moo navigating the buckets in the front yard. She stopped and said, “Karen’s here! That’s her scooter!”
“Who’s Karen?”
“She’s a teacher—”
“A teacher?” Oh, jeez, had Dad found a teacher in Do Over to tutor me all summer? It wouldn’t be the first time. “What’s a teacher doing here?”
“She’s also our temporary minister. She’s a teacher during the school year. I bet she’s here to talk to Poppy about the artis—artees—arteedge—”
“Artesian screw?”
“That’s it!”
I hoped Karen was as persuasive as one of those televangelists who got people to send them all their money and everything they owned. She’d need to be strong to deal with Poppy.
Moo must’ve been thinking the same thing. “If anyone can get through to Poppy, Karen can. And Oprah, of course, but I don’t think she’s coming.” Moo ran up the front steps. Pushing the front door open, she turned to me. “Mike, Karen will need to rely on you for the artesian screw.”
“Me? Why me? And what’s Karen got to do with—”
But her little yellow sneakers had already disappeared inside.
7
FORMULAS
—equations describing certain relationships
Before I reached the front door, I heard a loud “Moooo!” When I walked inside, I found Moo hugging a large woman with even larger hair. Her dress was only a few shades redder than her hair.
“Mike,” said Moo, “this is Reverend Valentine.”
Valentine? I guess that would explain the red color.
“Oh, you can call me Karen! I’m so glad you’re here to help Poppy, Mike.”
I heard a grunt from Poppy’s chair. He had a frown, or maybe I should say his usual expression, on his face and the stupid yardstick clutched in his fist.
Moo shook her head. “I’m afraid Poppy’s still thinking about Doug.” She sucked in her lips and pulled on her hoodie strings.
Karen heaved a big sigh and gave Moo a hug. “And the other guys are lost without Poppy. Looks like we’re going to need a miracle to get Poppy moving.”
Moo brightened instantly. “We have a miracle!”
Karen and I both stared at Moo. I wasn’t ready for the word that came out of her mouth. “Mike!”
I stood there looking as petrified as Poppy, only my mouth was hanging open, as Moo told Karen about all my “miracles” to date: getting us out of the airport, making her cell phone work, and buying five pounds of scrapple.
“Uh, Moo, we have to talk.”
“Yes, dear?”
“I can’t run this project. I don’t have a clue what to do. I’m just a kid.”
She looked at me hard through her thick glasses. “And Poppy is an eighty-three-year-old geezer who’s away with the fairies.”
Okay, she had a point. But still. An engineering project? I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but that’s . . .” I wanted to say the craziest wacko idea of this century.
Moo’s face fell and Karen’s hair drooped.
Karen turned around to face Poppy. “Come on, big guy! We have orders from all over the country!”
How many artesian screws was he making? I hadn’t even seen one yet, let alone lots.
“You’ve got to get this artisan’s crew together,” Karen ordered.
“Artesian screw,” I corrected her.
Karen laughed and slapped my back so hard, I almost fell into the coffee table. “He’s a funny one, isn’t he? Now, Poppy,” Karen continued, “you’ve got to get started. You’re in charge here! We’re counting on you! Let’s get to the workshop! How about it, big guy?”
An unearthly grunt came out of Poppy’s chair. Karen took a step back. I looked over at Poppy. His eyes had changed. They were slits, accentuating his devil hair horns. And his hands were in tight fists, one of them clutching the yellow yardstick.
“I take it that’s a no,” said Karen.
There was a squeaky cry out of Moo. “I need to vacuum now.”
Karen cringed. “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry!”
Moo ran past me to the front hall closet and pulled out a vacuum cleaner and started sobbing. Karen plugged the cord into the wall and Moo fumbled with the switch until it turned on with a roar and the stench of old dust.
As Moo vacuumed her way into the kitchen, Karen patted my shoulder. “It’s okay,” she shouted over the vacuum. “This is what she does because she doesn’t like to hear anyone cry, even herself. She vacuumed for three days straight after Doug died. When I came to pick them up for the funeral, she was still vacuuming.”
I looked over at Poppy. “What about him?” I shouted in Karen’s ear.
She motioned for me to follow her out onto the front porch, where we could talk a little easier, as long as you didn’t look down at the red and orange swirly carpet. “Poppy didn’t even pick up his feet when she vacuumed around his chair.”
“So he hasn’t done anything since Doug died?” I asked.
“Not a thing. Not even a word.”
“That’s just weird.”
“It’s very upsetting to lose a child, no matter how old.”
“Yeah, but what about Moo? She does everything around here and he just sits there!” I thought about Dad. And me. “It’s not fair for one person to handle everything.”
“I agree with you. But he’ll come around. Soon, I hope.”
I thought about Poppy the Giant Turnip. And Dad. And I wasn’t so sure.
“Maybe you can help,” Karen said.
“I wouldn’t even know how to start this project.”
“I meant maybe you could help bring Poppy around. But as for the project—”
“Forget that,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t—”
“But I need your help!”
Why was an artesian screw so important to her? “I’m just a kid!” And not a very smart one, either.
Karen took my hand in hers and looked at me intently. “I want a child, Mike. You have to help me.”
My eyes popped wide open when I realized the implications of her statement. For the third time in ten minutes, I squeaked, “I’m just a kid.”
“I know! And I want to adopt one just like you. Is that too much to ask?”
“Adopt? Oh. No, that’s not too much to ask at all. That’s, like, totally reasonable.”
“All I’m asking is for you to help out with our project.”
“Okay, but what does building an artesian screw have to do with adoption, anyway?”
Karen’s brow wrinkled. “Artesian screw?” She pronounced the words slowly. “What is that?”
“That’s the big project Poppy’s supposed to be working on!”
She tilted her head.
“Moo told me about it.”
Karen was still staring at me like I was making no sense.
“You know”—I gestured toward the garage—“out in his workshop?”
“Oh! Artisan’s crew! That’s what Moo was saying.” She laughed. “Sometimes she gets her words mixed up. Have you noticed that?”
“Yeah, I have. But . . . what’s the artisan’s crew?”
She patted my shoulder. “You know what an artisan is, right? It’s someone who makes beautiful things with their hands.” She looked at me expectantly.
I nodded slowly.
“Well, Poppy does fine woodworking and is supposed to be leading a whole crew of people in making wooden boxes for—”
“Wait. What? Boxes?” I said. “Boxes?”
She nodded.
Dad’s artesian screw plan was rapidly unscrewing. “You mean it’s not some kind of engineering project?”
Karen laughed. “Not even close!”
“But—I thought Poppy was an
engineer. Like my dad.”
She laughed again. “He drove a dairy delivery truck for sixty years.”
I let out a long, slow breath. I couldn’t believe it. That was it, then. There was no artesian screw. No engineering project. No escape from Newton High. I looked at the orange and red swirls, felt queasy, and slumped against the door until the vacuum banged into it.
I moved away and Moo pushed the vacuum onto the porch. She was still sniffling. Karen pulled me inside and shut the storm door as far as it could go with the vacuum cord underneath it. The noise muted slightly.
“Let me explain,” Karen said. “The whole town is helping me in my adoption effort. Have you seen the signs, ‘Build a Family, Adopt a Child’?”
I tried to nod but I was still too stunned.
“We have to work fast because the adoption laws in Romania are changing and—”
“Romania? Is this the kid on Past’s cart?”
Her smile drew up her cheeks and accentuated her heart-shaped face. “Isn’t he adorable? His eyes are so piercing.” She clenched her hands together under her chin, almost like she was praying. “We need everyone’s help. Whatever you can do to get Poppy moving would be wonderful. He was going to get two hundred dollars for each box, but now I don’t know how we’ll make up that money.”
I wondered how good I could get at making boxes. “How many boxes do you need?”
“Well, Poppy and his crew were going to make dozens.”
Dozens times two hundred dollars would be . . . “How much money?”
“For the whole adoption? Well, if you include airline tickets, staying in the country during the adoption process—about forty thousand.”
I nearly choked. “Forty thousand dollars?” “By July fifteenth.”
“What! It’s June twenty-second! That’s only . . .”
“Three weeks and two days.”
“Why so fast?”
“Romania is about to close down international adoptions.”
“What do you mean, ‘close down’?”
“They’re changing the regulations, so they’re putting all international adoptions on hold for—well, we don’t know how long.”
“So someone else could adopt him?”
“Possibly, but adoption isn’t very popular in Romania. It’s more likely that he’ll just sit there for months—or years—until they open up to international adoptions again.”
Karen went on to talk about her “baby,” and the toys she’d sent him, and the room she’d gotten ready for him, while I stood there trying to get my brain to work. The kid could be stuck in an orphanage for . . . forever. With no family. Alone.
“Oh!” said Karen. “Here’s the picture of him I got this morning.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small photo.
“Look!” She put the photo in my hand.
I peered at it and gasped.
“I know,” said Karen. “Isn’t he sweet? He’s playing with the LEGOs I sent him. See what he’s making? It’s a house, or maybe it’s a garage? For his little cars there.”
I shook my head slowly. It was like I was looking at myself. It wasn’t a house. It wasn’t a garage.
“What is it? What do you think he’s building?”
“It’s a bridge,” I said quietly, not taking my eyes off the photo. A bridge. Like the bridge I’d made out of LEGOs for Dad. The one that made Mom call me a great engineer.
“Oh,” she cooed, “he’s building a bridge from there to here. He wants to come. Do you know”—her voice cracked and her eyes watered—“they showed him a picture of me and he said”—her voice cracked again—“he said . . . Mama!”
The vacuum buzzed in my ears while I stared at the kid and Karen broke down.
“I want him home,” she cried. “I have to raise the money. We need to get Poppy moving. Somehow!”
I shoved my hand into the pocket with my LEGO brick and stared at the photo. “Don’t worry,” I said. “This kid is definitely coming home.”
8
EVALUATE
—to determine the worth of; to appraise
MIKE!” a voice screamed in my ear. “Are you feeling all right, dear?”
I opened my eyes to see Moo’s huge glasses in my face. “I—I think so. Why?”
“It’s so late. I thought you might be sick.”
I sat up in bed. “What time is it?”
“It’s after eight!”
“Eight? Eight in the morning?”
“Yes! Poppy and I have been up for hours.”
“I usually sleep until eleven, at least.”
She laughed. “Oh, Mike! You are so funny!”
I flopped back down in bed and closed my eyes. I’m a very slow riser.
“I’m making brunch for you,” Moo said, her voice fading as she headed downstairs. “Then we’ll go to the bank to deposit the checks so we can pay the electric bill . . .”
The electric bill! I opened my eyes and sat up again. For the power tools for the artesian screw! Oh, wait. My head hit the pillow. The project that was—
I sat bolt upright. “Adoption!” I said out loud as I stumbled out of bed.
I tried to think of everything Moo had told me the night before, after Karen had to run to a meeting. How the whole town was involved in fund-raising for Karen’s adoption because her husband died and she always did so much for everyone, anyway. How all the churches came together for this cause instead of having separate church bazaars, including the Baha’i and Hmong—or as Moo put it, “the Buy-high Temple and the Mung Dynasty”—oh, and also the Lutherans. How everyone was having bake sales and selling their wares at the Exxon flea market and donating the money to Karen. How after the adoption agency said it was okay to put up a picture of “that enchanting face,” the excitement really started. Still, it was such a small town, and from what I’d seen, it wasn’t a rich one. I tried to get contact information from Moo for the artisans, but she was reluctant to tell me because she didn’t trust the guys—Jerry, Spud, and Guido—alone in Poppy’s workshop. Guido? There was really a Guido? “Yes,” she said. “He’s a wonderful artist, but not the kind of artesian who can build things.”
In spite of Poppy being deadwood, so to speak, I hadn’t given up on lighting a fire under him. And if I couldn’t get him moving, maybe I’d make the boxes myself. If I could get Guido to paint them, people might not notice how badly they were made.
And I had to reach Dad. I had to get money fast to pay Poppy and Moo rent, or pay their bills, or buy the food, or something, because they could barely support themselves, let alone me. Plus, we should donate some money to the artisan’s crew and to the adoption costs. Oh . . . that could mean Dad would find out there’s no artesian screw. Okay, must choose my words carefully.
I ran to the bathroom and tried to take a shower, but the showerhead was missing. I wondered if that was something else they couldn’t afford. I wet my head under the sink faucet, my only chance to keep my hair under some kind of control, and was vaguely aware of an odd smell. It wasn’t a bad bathroom smell, just not the kind of odor you normally found in a bathroom. It smelled like . . . salad dressing.
I ran back to my room, Doug’s room, and pulled on my usual uniform of band T-shirt—this time the Rolling Stones—and jeans, complete with LEGO in the pocket.
“I’M GOING OUT TO TALK TO MY TOMATOES, MIKE! BRUNCH IS READY WHENEVER YOU ARE.”
I heard the kitchen door slam and sat down on the bed to put my shoes on. Most people shove their feet into their shoes without even untying the laces. Not me. Tying and untying shoes were my daily moments of Zen, the signal to wake up in the morning and wind down at night. Besides, it didn’t take any longer than the foot-cramming method because I skipped the time it took to walk around awkwardly trying to shove my heel into the shoe.
It was while I was doing my shoe-Zen thing that it caught my eye. A photo of a kid a little younger than me and a guy who I figured was a thinner, younger, happier Poppy, with no devil hair hor
ns. I picked up the denim frame and peered closer. It was strange seeing someone who looked more alive in an old photo than in real life. What really hit me, though, was that Poppy and Doug were sitting high off the ground in a tree house. A really beautiful, awesome tree house. Given that Poppy was, supposedly, a woodworker, they must have built the tree house together. Sweet.
“I’M BACK, MIKE!”
I almost dropped the photo.
I ran downstairs to find Poppy still sitting in his chair with the yardstick across his lap, like he’d never left. “Good morning!” I said.
Nothing.
I decided I wasn’t taking nothing for an answer. The man had to snap out of it. And fast. “GOOD MORNING, POPPY!”
At least I made him flinch, even though he only gave a mild grunt in response.
I grunted back and went into the kitchen.
Moo pointed to a plate on the table. “There’s your scrapple, dear.”
Beyond the greasy sausage smell was that salad-dressing smell, even stronger than in the bathroom. It made more sense in a kitchen, though. I lifted the lid off a boiling pot on the stove and found the showerhead. I stared at it for a moment, not sure what to think.
“I’m cleaning it. Vinegar works wonders on lime deposits.”
“Vinegar? It smells like salad dressing.”
“I put herbs from my garden in it. Marjoram for the bathroom and oregano for the kitchen. Felix doesn’t like scented vinegar, so I just put a drop of the plain stuff in his water. Did you know it kills fleas?”
I turned to stare through the pass-through at the cat clock. “No, I didn’t.”
“Vinegar has so many uses. I use it in my laundry. Soon your clothes will smell of vinegar.”
I looked down at my Rolling Stones “Start Me Up” T-shirt and tried not to grimace.
“In fact, I’m going out to clean Tyrone’s dash while you eat.” She gave me a knowing smile. “Vinegar keeps plastic from getting dusty. It’s great for so many things.”
“Gee, Moo, you sound like an infomercial.”
She laughed and headed for the front door, stopping to turn to me. “Oh, and if you get stung by a bee, you know the solution for that, right?”
The Absolute Value of Mike Page 5