The Absolute Value of Mike

by Kathryn Erskine

  I could tell Past was trying not to laugh.

  “It’s not funny! The man is seriously annoying.”

  “The man needs counseling.”

  “The man needs a kick in the butt!”

  “Okay,” he said, still smirking, but covering it up by bending over his cart and pulling out camera equipment. “Let’s get this place ready for Gladys.”

  I looked around the soup kitchen. It was a big white room with a linoleum floor like a school cafeteria, complete with tables and chairs. The walls were covered with peeling posters about churches and government agencies. It didn’t look like the greatest backdrop for a music video. Fortunately, the kitchen, which was partially open to the rest of the room, had black curtains that could be shut to divide it from the eating area. We pulled them closed and set a chair and mike in front of them just as Gladys walked in.

  She wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m not sure I’m good enough for YouTube.”

  “Come on, Gladys,” I said, pulling her over to the chair. “Have you seen some of the crap that’s on YouTube? Belching, farting, people falling, lots less skill than you have. And I’m adding at the end what you’re singing for, remember? We still need . . .” I tried to remember exactly how much we still needed for Misha’s adoption. “Almost thirty-two thousand dollars. Hey! Has my dad deposited money in Moo’s account yet?”

  She shook her head.

  “Are you kidding me?” I swung my arms out so violently, I almost knocked over the tripod and camera that Past had just set up.

  “Mike!” Past yelled.

  I grabbed the tripod, saving it.

  “You can IM him later,” Past said.

  “Like it does any good,” I muttered.

  He paused. “Let’s focus on Gladys.”

  Gladys looked positively horrified. She clutched the seat of the chair and I thought her eyes might roll back in her head at any moment. We tried saying, “Roll ’em!” several times, but she stared at the camera like a statue.

  Eventually, Past went over and stood behind her, and I recorded him singing some old song called “Anticipation.” Gladys didn’t even react.

  “That was a Carly Simon hit decades ago. This one is an R.E.M. classic called ‘Losing My Religion.’ ” He really enunciated a line about singing, but Gladys still didn’t move.

  Finally, we heard a squeak.

  “What?” I asked, running over to her so I might be able to hear.

  “Stand,” she whispered. “I think I need to stand?” It came out like a request.

  I practically pulled her off the chair and stood her up while Past took the chair away. She wavered a moment, then stood still.

  I ran behind the camera. “Okay, why don’t you start by just saying hi, maybe introduce yourself.”

  “I’m Gladys.” But that was all the talking she did.

  All I could think was She needs a better name. Gladys was so . . . not like a cool singer. “I’ve got it! Your stage name is going to be Glad-Ice!”

  A small smile crept across her face, ending in a laugh. “Glad-Ice,” she said, nodding. “I like it.”

  Past turned the spotlights on her. Gladys’s voice came out softly at first, but got stronger and stronger. By the time she’d completed her first song—a Billie Holiday number, she said—she was standing, relaxed and natural, and her voice was at a normal volume. And gorgeous. In fact, by the time I started recording, she looked completely cool. She moved—no, flowed—around the “stage” with the mike in her hand, belting out lyrics.

  And, wow. The girl could sing. And not just sing. She was the complete package. An entire experience. An art form. She was the only person who could sing “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” and make it sound sexy.

  And sultry. I discovered what sultry meant. Hot. Sweaty. The way I felt watching Gladys. When she moved on to “Love for Sale” and sang, “Who would like to sample my supply?” it was all I could do to keep from lunging at her. I had to suck it up, literally, when Past tapped my shoulder and said, “Mike, you’re drooling on the equipment.”

  That kind of broke the mood. For Gladys, too. “Oh, no!” she said. “It’s after nine! I was supposed to meet—be there by nine.”

  “Be where?” I asked.

  She just shook her head and made for the door.

  It wasn’t the best ending to the night and I was a little bummed when Moo picked me up. Why did Gladys have to run off like that? Why couldn’t she stay and hang out with us? With me. I kept thinking, There’s not that much of a difference between fourteen—going on fifteen—and eighteen.

  As Moo drove us home, she rattled on about her talk with Gladys earlier that day. “I told her those piercings are only to keep people away. And that her family may have been appalling but that going out with dope-heads isn’t going to help her. I think I may have upset her.”

  “You didn’t actually put it that . . . bluntly, did you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Jeez, Moo! You can’t come right out and say stuff like that! You have to approach it gradually and kind of hint at it.”

  “Mike. I don’t have that much time left. I could be hit by a car tomorrow. You know the crazy way some people drive. Anyway, that Numnut is a convicted felon—Dr. P told me.”

  “The eye doctor? How would he know?”

  “His brother-in-law is a police officer. Numnut was convicted of”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“car theft.”

  “Does Gladys know that?”

  “I just told her today. I don’t think she’ll go out with him anymore.”

  “Well, she left the recording session to meet someone.”

  Moo’s face turned as white as her hair. “And you didn’t stop her?”

  I sank down in my seat. I felt like I’d failed Gladys. “She said she had to get somewhere by nine and she was going to be late. I don’t really know where—”

  “Big Dawg’s.”

  I was going to ask how she knew, but all I could do was hang on as I saw both yellow sneakers jam on the brake pedal, fishtailing Tyrone around to head us back the way we came.

  19

  OUTLIERS

  —values far away from most of the others in a set of data

  I convinced Moo to bring Past with us to Big Dawg’s. I was underage and I wasn’t sure they’d let her in that kind of a place, either. Unfortunately, Past insisted on loading the contents of his shopping cart into Tyrone, making me crazy.

  “Would you hurry up?” I urged.

  “Patience, Mike,” Past said. “I need to—”

  “MOVE YOUR KEISTER!” Moo yelled, and Past picked up the pace tenfold.

  Tyrone squealed onto the road while Past crouched in the back with bottles, camera equipment, and, I guess, the entire contents of his cart. He braced himself against my seat back so hard, he was pushing me forward.

  “Can’t Tyrone go any faster?” I asked.

  Seconds later, we skidded into Big Dawg’s parking lot, almost hitting an entire row of cars before parking illegally behind several more.

  Past was frozen in the backseat, so Moo and I ran for Big Dawg’s door. I could hear the booming music coming from inside.

  The bouncer had large tattoos on even larger arms, a sleeveless black tank top, black and gray camo pants, body piercings including earring links that formed a chain, a grim face, and squinty eyes. He stood in front of a black Camaro, his arms outstretched as if to protect it, probably from Tyrone.

  Moo looked at him through her owl glasses. “Excuse me, dear, do you know Gladys?”

  He squinted at me. “He can’t come in. Too young.”

  “Oh, he’s not coming in. He’ll wait out here.” She patted the guy’s massive arm and he flinched. “You two can chat while I’m inside.”

  His eyes widened. “You—you don’t want to go in there.”

  “Oh, but I have to,” said Moo. “I’m looking for Gladys.”

  He gave me one of those is-she-for-real looks. “I think you’re
at the wrong place.”

  “No,” said Moo, “I’m sure this is it.”

  “Uh, lady, what would a friend of yours be doing here?”

  “Hooking up with Numnut.”

  The bouncer jerked back, almost hitting his head on the metal awning over the door.

  “Gladys is eighteen,” I said.

  “Ohhh,” he said, looking at Moo. “Well, what does she look like?”

  “Oh, she’s a lovely girl. She has beautiful eyes—”

  “Spiked black hair with glitter,” I interrupted, “a nose ring, tongue piercing . . .”

  He looked at me and I realized he had all those things, too.

  “Okay, she’s about my height, great body, big lips, perky—” I cupped my hands in front of my chest.

  “Mike!” Moo was staring at me.

  The bouncer shrugged. “About half a dozen girls like that inside.”

  “And she’s with this guy who’s . . . really hairy, and has a band,” I said.

  Moo reached for the door.

  He stepped in her way. “Are—are you sure you want to go in there? I mean, it’s not like a beauty parlor, you know.”

  “I’ve watched Steven Seagal in Under Siege sixteen times,” said Moo, trying to push past him. “I can handle this.”

  The bouncer stared at her.

  “If you don’t get out of my way,” Moo warned him, “I’ll call the cops!”

  The bouncer flinched again, this time banging his head on the door. “Ow! Jeez, lady, I’m just trying to save you from—”

  “From what? What’s going on in there?” Her voice was rising and getting shrill. “I need to see Gladys! I need to see my Gladys!”

  “Hold on,” a calm voice behind us said. “I’m the one going in.”

  I turned around and saw Past, his arms crossed over his jacket, which looked a little bulkier than usual. “I’ll go talk with her. You guys go on home. I’ll get the rest of my things—” He coughed. “I’ll get my things out of Tyrone later.”

  “Oh, no, dear,” Moo said, “I want to talk with Gladys.”

  Past rubbed his forehead. “Moo, if you go in there, she’s going to think you’re checking up on her. How do you think that’s going to make her feel?”

  Moo chewed her lip. “But I—”

  “I really think you need to let me handle this,” Past urged. “It’s not the first time she’s gone back to Numnut, and she knows what everyone thinks of him. And of her.”

  “Yeah, why do girls do that, anyway?” the bouncer asked.

  “Well,” said Past, “it’s usually because of insecurity and—”

  “Hey!” I interrupted. “Could you postpone the analysis session, please?”

  “Right,” said Past, turning back to us. “I’ll make sure she’s fine, and I promise to let you know what happens.”

  Moo reluctantly agreed to leave, although she had to start Tyrone several times. “Oh, dear. We’re low on gas.”

  I groaned, then remembered what Gladys had said about Dad still not depositing any money in Moo’s account. I had Moo go back to Past’s office so I could get Wi-Fi and convinced her she didn’t need to be an antenna. So she busied herself taking Past’s things out of Tyrone and putting them back in the shopping cart.

  I had to shake my Pringles antenna several times to get a signal.

  “I think the Pringles are all gone, Mike,” Moo said, “but if you need a snack, I can get you something from Junior.”

  “It’s a Wi-Fi antenna,” I explained.

  She stared at me for a moment before putting the cooler in Past’s cart. “Of course it is, dear.”

  Before I IM’ed Dad to remind him about the money, I noticed the e-mail from Karen. She thanked me for all the wonderful work I was doing, specifically the almost ten thousand dollars we had so far. The LEGO bridge was all the way to Spain, nearing the Atlantic Ocean! She also said Past told her what a smart kid and problem solver I was. Ha! Who knew? Sure, it wasn’t the kind of “problem solving” Dad valued, but her e-mail made me feel so up—she even said I was “brilliant”—that I couldn’t help feeling kind of important. And I decided to tell Dad. Good thing he’s always up at the crack of dawn, since it was barely 6:00 A.M. in Romania.

  I even got a little excited as I IM’ed Dad all about Misha, like he might actually be proud of me. I had this fantasy that he’d say what I was doing was even more important than math problems, more important than a magnet school, more important than engineering itself.

  It is not a wise idea.

  Sometimes I can be such an idiot.

  Even though it was admittedly bizarre that a kid would be put in charge of something as critical as adopting children, it still stung a little for him to say that. I knew I had to tell him that there were adults involved, that I was sharing the position with Past. Of course, I couldn’t let on that Past was a homeless guy. That definitely would not be a wise idea.

  Well, there’s a guy, an adult, I’m working with, too.

  Quite apart from a minor being in charge of such a project, the project itself is unwise.

  Excuse me? Adopting kids is UNWISE?

  There are too many unknown elements. A foreign country and system, for one.

  I could feel myself getting more and more irritated with each line of his text.

  You don’t know anything about this child.

  How dare he say that? I thought about the photos I had, and the eyes. “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” started running through my head. Just thinking about the video, I realized how much I knew about Misha. I knew this kid like I knew myself! I felt like shouting at the screen.

  Yes, I do know him! I know all about him. I know he’s kind to people, he doesn’t like being ignored, he finds a way to take care of himself and his friends. I know he likes LEGOs and he built a LEGO bridge. I made you a LEGO bridge, Dad, but you probably don’t remember that.

  There was such a long pause, I thought he’d gone offline.

  I remember. It was April 17th, the day before my birthday, at 3:40 in the afternoon. It had rained for two days, but that afternoon the sun came out.

  I wasn’t sure what to say. Or feel. Maybe he really did remember. But the wrong details. Facts and figures. Not feelings.

  How do you know all about this boy?

  Misha, Dad. His name is Misha. Can you even say his name? It’s not that hard.

  How do you know about Misha?

  Observation.

  Observation?

  From watching a DVD of him at the orphanage.

  No response. I looked at my own words. Watching a DVD? That sounded so lame. But I did know him. I saw how he acted. I felt what he felt. I knew what he knew.

  Nevertheless, you should focus your attention on Poppy’s project.

  Look, Dad. Misha is really doing something special for this town. He’s breathing life into a dying place. People are getting excited. Karen needs him. People need him.

  That is too much pressure to put on one boy who is unlikely to be able to live up to what’s expected of him.

  I felt my heart beating faster and my teeth gritting.

  What are you saying, Dad?

  You say that he is not a baby, but a school-aged child? Like you?

  Younger than me, but yeah.

  Then he is probably academically challenged.

  What? Because he’s like me?

  He’s already partly grown and has been in an orphanage.

  Sasha came from an orphanage, remember? You think he’s brilliant!

  Ah, but he grew up with a family ever since he was a baby.

  What about me?

  I don’t understand the question.

  I took a deep breath and gritted my teeth.

  So, if Misha is “academically challenged” we shouldn’t care about him?

  That is a moral question. I am speaking scientifically.

  I discovered what that expression to feel your blood boil meant. Mine was about 212 degrees—Celsius!


  Do you ever speak any other way than “scientifically”?

  I’m not sure what you mean.

  I know.

  You should drop this project and work on something more beneficial. The artesian screw. That was the whole point of this trip. I would like an answer on—

  I stopped reading. And gave him his answer.

  Good-bye, Dad.

  I shut down the IM window and stared at the wallpaper I’d put on the laptop—Misha’s face.

  20

  CHAOS THEORY

  —a branch of mathematics that deals with systems that appear to be orderly but in fact have chaotic behaviors

  Moo was fretting about Gladys as we drove home in Tyrone, but I barely heard her. All I could think about was Misha. And Dad. And how he made me feel worthless. Even worse, now I felt like my goal was out of reach. I mean, I was academically challenged, a complete failure with numbers. It was a joke for me, a kid with dyscalculia, to be in charge of a project with so many numbers. Trying to raise money? By a certain date? For a kid some number of miles away but I still couldn’t tell you how many?

  I hung my head and touched my thumbs and forefingers together in my lap, making a circle. Like the sun. I remembered the orphanage video, with Misha’s earnest face perfectly framed in his hands as he held them up and shouted, “Sun!” so proudly. I just couldn’t let the kid down. It would kill me. Slowly, I held my hands up in front of me as “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” played in my head, and I tried to see Misha’s face.

  I stared through my joined hands, but what I saw through Tyrone’s windshield wasn’t Misha. It was another kid.

  “Moo! Look out!” I grabbed the wheel just in time for Tyrone to miss a woman pushing a stroller with a little kid in it across the street.

  Moo was hysterical, even worse than the mom, who explained that her son had colic, so she had to walk him at all hours of the night, but she “didn’t expect to be killed.” It took a while for me to get everyone calmed down enough for the mom and kid to go on their way and Moo to drive home at about fifteen miles per hour.