The Absolute Value of Mike

by Kathryn Erskine

  “Because I suck at math.”

  Poppy grunted. “Because you don’t want to be one.”

  There. He’d said it. Amazing. He understood more than Dad.

  He glued the edges of two squares of wood together. “He’ll be fine.”

  “Dad?”

  Poppy snorted. “Couldn’t tell you about him. I meant Past.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I got experience. You gave him a kick in the teeth.”

  I cringed. “I know.”

  “Exactly what he needed.”

  I hoped he was right. I watched Poppy put a piece of wood through the table saw like he was slicing butter. He made it look so easy. I wondered if it would work if I tried. Nah. There were some things I just wasn’t any good at. Like artesian screws.

  Poppy looked over at me. “You still here? You should get some sleep.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “That’s what Moo said and then she crashed. Oh, her phone rang after she went to bed. It was that girl at the bank with all the screws in her head. She wants to know—”

  “Wait a minute. You actually answered the phone.” I couldn’t picture that.

  He grunted. “Can’t stand that ring tone and I didn’t know any other way to stop it. Anyway, she heard about the macular degeneration. She wants to do something for Moo.” He paused. “Any ideas?”

  I thought for a while about Gladys and Moo. And how important it was to Gladys for Misha to have a family because hers had been so crappy. “Yeah, I have an idea. You guys should adopt Gladys.”

  He dropped his sander on the floor. “We’re too old! She’s too old!”

  “Not adopt for real, just kind of take care of her. Like, maybe when I leave, she could move into Doug’s room.”

  Poppy was staring at me. I looked up at the sign Moo had posted above the workshop door: What Would Oprah Say?

  Poppy followed my gaze.

  “So, what do you say?” I asked him.

  He grunted. “Maybe you should send her to Oprah. She’d fix her up good.”

  I folded my arms, stood firm in my Clarks, and stared at him. “You could ignore Gladys. And let another chance slip by. Until it’s too late. Again.”

  I saw the air go out of him as his whole body deflated. Leaning his forearms on the workbench, he hung his head and spoke softly. “I wouldn’t even know what to say to her.”

  “You start with ‘Hi.’ Maybe followed by ‘Thanks for being a friend to Moo.’ And then, ‘You want to stay for dinner? Moo’s cooking, so it’s no skin off my nose.’”

  He grunted. “Guess it wouldn’t kill me.”

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s really big of you, Poppy.”

  “Don’t I know it.” He went back to sanding.

  “Hey, are you going to be able to get all the boxes done?”

  He grunted.

  “Is anyone else working on them? I thought you were leading a whole artisan’s crew.”

  “They’re doing the finishing work.”

  “There’s over a hundred ordered. How fast can you get them done?”

  He put down his sander again. “A dang lot faster if people would get out of my shop and let me work.”

  I grinned and started to close the door behind me.

  “Mike?”

  I put my head back in the workshop. “What?”

  “Thanks,” he muttered. He was concentrating hard on the box when he said it, but his hands weren’t moving.

  For a moment, I didn’t know what he was talking about, but then I realized he meant talking him down from that tree. Or maybe sending him to that tree in the first place.

  “Sure,” I said. “No problem.” My problem was Past. And Dad. And making sure Misha got here.

  27

  DEFECTIVE NUMBERS

  —numbers whose factors add up to less than the number itself

  The next morning—ten days to Karen’s deadline and three days to Do Over Day—I walked all the way to the park, borrowed the laptop from the soup kitchen, and sat down in Past’s office. I updated the deadline and posted lots of blurbs about Misha and Do Over Day on Twitter and everywhere else I could find.

  Thinking about Past’s note and how much he might not have done, I tried calling Karen all morning, but she never answered. I left voice mails but I backed up my messages with a text, too:Do you have all the paperwork submitted to the adoption agency? Are we meeting the deadline? Let me know ASAP if there’s anything I need to do.

  I was practicing my deep grown-up voice, so I could call the adoption agency myself and check on the paperwork, when I got a text from Karen.

  Sorry, Mike, I’m not allowed to turn the phone on in the hospital. I’m outside checking messages at the moment. Don’t worry, though, Past is taking care of all the paperwork.

  I’m not so sure about that. Past left town.

  I know. He needs to take care of himself, and family matters.

  Yeah, but what about Misha? Don’t you need some Apostilles in Harrisburg? Do you want me to get Guido or one of the guys to do it?

  But that’s what he’s doing.

  Guido?

  No, Past.

  Past? But he’s gone. And you just said it was to take care of himself and family matters.

  His family AND mine. He drove all night to Ohio to pick up my paperwork, then drove to Harrisburg, then he’s driving to New York to the adoption agency and to get some forms I need at the Romanian embassy. Isn’t he a sweetheart?

  I sat there, stunned. Why didn’t he tell me? Past was not only taking care of his own family, he was also making sure Misha was going to get adopted. To say I felt like crap for thinking the worst of him would be an understatement. I don’t know how long I sat there before I heard the three stooges. When I looked up, they were all staring at me. And they didn’t look happy.

  “Where’s Past?” Guido asked.

  “He had to go out of town to take care of stuff.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, is he going to be back in time for Do Over Day?” Guido persisted.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What?” said Jerry.

  “I don’t know! Okay?”

  “Testy, aren’t we?” Jerry looked at Guido. “Someone didn’t get his beauty rest.”

  “I have to go to the bank,” I said, walking off fast with the laptop. I could’ve called Gladys to find out what was in our fund, but I didn’t feel like hanging around with them.

  At the bank, Gladys reported a total of just over fifteen thousand dollars.

  “Well, there’s some good news, at least,” I muttered.

  Gladys eyed me. “Any idea when Past will be back?”

  “Why is everyone asking me?” I snapped.

  She put her arms around herself and started rocking. I watched the guitar tattoo teeter back and forth. “What’ll we do if he’s not back for Do Over Day? It’s only three days away. Do you realize how much we need him?”

  Of course I did. I needed Past to direct the chorus. And take care of the food. And help handle the press. But mostly I needed him because, well, he was a friend. Even though I hadn’t treated him like one.

  “I bet he’ll be back,” she said, nodding as if she was trying to convince herself.

  I sighed. As bad as I felt, the show had to go on. “If not, can you lead the chorus?”

  “Me? I—I can play the keyboard. That’ll help keep them on key.” Her voice wavered. “No one would listen to me, anyway.” She added hurriedly, “Not that I care. It’s sort of like an understanding I have with . . . people in this town.”

  I looked at Gladys and remembered what Moo said about all her piercings and tough outer shell. “You can’t hide forever, you know.”

  Her mouth dropped open and she stared at me like she was pretending to be angry when we both knew I was right. Besides, her blushing face revealed it. “I am not hiding!”

  “Yeah, right.�
��

  “Oh, you’re one to talk.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re the one who’s hiding.”

  “Me? I’m not hiding from anything!”

  “Except your father.”

  “I—I—” I didn’t know what to say.

  “It’s so obvious. You don’t want him to know that you’re not a genius.”

  “He knows I’m not a genius. He can tell that from my grades. Trust me.”

  “Maybe, but he still thinks that’s what you want to be. He thinks you want to be like him. As long as he believes that, then there’s no risk, is there?”

  “Risk? Risk of what?”

  “Risk of losing him, too. Of having no family.”

  It was like she’d punched me in the gut. I had no air inside me, yet I couldn’t take a breath.

  Her face softened and her eyes were sad. “Moo told me. . . . I’m sorry about your mom. And I’m sorry about your dad, for that matter.” She cleared her throat and drew herself up again. “But don’t accuse me of hiding when you won’t admit—”

  I slapped my hand down on my laptop. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  She shrugged and looked away, her shield back in place. “So why don’t you tell him?”

  “Tell him what?”

  “That you don’t want to be an engineer.”

  “Fine! I will! It’s no big deal!”

  She pointed at the laptop in my hands.

  “What?”

  She rolled her eyes and made a big production of turning her Mac to face me.

  Suddenly, I felt cold. Like I was under a spotlight. I stood up. “I’ll do it from my own office!”

  I stormed out of the bank and headed for Past’s bench. The adrenaline from my fight with Gladys was making my legs shaky. I felt hot and cold and sweaty, all at the same time. Who did she think she was, lecturing me like that? I wasn’t scared of telling Dad I didn’t want to be an engineer. That was crazy! I could do it whenever I wanted. It’s just that, why would I bring up something that was going to annoy him? What’s the point of that? He’d figure it out on his own, anyway. Or if he didn’t, I’d tell him. Eventually. Really. It was no big deal.

  I opened the laptop and entered the money that we’d made so far. And stared at Misha’s face.

  The three stooges were quiet, but I could feel their eyes burning into me. I opened up an instant message. And stopped. What would I say? I was getting no brainstorm from my toes. Should I tell Dad there was no artesian screw? Should I tell him it didn’t matter? Because there was no way I was going to be an engineer? I didn’t even want to be? What would he say? I finally decided to just start and see where it went from there.

  Hey Dad.

  Greetings! Finally, Professor son speak! No need for worry. Heart was bad but then he have operation. Is all over now.

  What?! Who is this? Is this some kind of sick joke?

  Joke is not sick. Father is sick. In hospital. Is OK now.

  Who are you?!

  Ferdi Petrescu. I am graduated student of Professor Frost. You are son, yes?

  I am son. What happened to my dad?

  My dad is OK.

  Not your dad, MY dad!

  I am sorry. My English not fluent. You speak German?

  No.

  Polish?

  No.

  I am guessing your Romanian not so good also. I am right?

  Yes. Your English is good. Sorry. I’m just upset about my dad. How is he?

  He is OK but fat. Doctor say must lose minimum 35 kilos.

  How much is that?

  Much. Is how much maybe 10 year old boy is.

  You mean like 60 pounds?

  No. Like 80 pounds.

  Jeez.

  I am sorry? I do not know what is “jeez.”

  Nothing. I’m just mad because I’ve been telling him for years that he should lose weight.

  You are doctor?

  No. I’m 14.

  You are only boy. Professor do not listen to boy. Even boy student who is 23. I bring Professor fruit. Fruit goes to spoil.

  He won’t eat fruit or vegetables.

  I think he change now.

  Maybe.

  This is big thing. He is lucky to live. He turn over new leafs now. He love his son, he say to me, so he promise to eat fruit.

  He said that?

  Yes, all kinds of fruit.

  No, did he really say he loves his son?

  Yes.

  Are you sure?

  Yes. Why you not believe?

  It’s just not the kind of thing he says. Or I say, either.

  Why? My father say he love me. I say to my father. Why is wrong?

  It’s not wrong, it’s just that guys

  I don’t know

  It’s just kind of weird.

  I think is weird to not say. Jeez.

  What happens now?

  He say he love you, now you say you love him.

  No, I mean, when does he get out of the hospital and that kind of stuff?

  I think maybe Friday. He want to talk to you. He is very proud of son. You are mini engineer, yes?

  Not really.

  He say you want to be engineer like him.

  Yeah, that’s what he says. Can I talk to him?

  About engineer?

  No, I mean, can he get on IM?

  No laptop or cell phone in hospital.

  But we can IM on Friday?

  Yes. Now I must go. Good-bye.

  Wait!

  Yes?

  Tell him hi for me.

  I say you love, OK?

  Yeah, OK. Thanks.

  It was kind of hard to focus on Do Over Day after that. But I had a job to do. And there wasn’t anything I could do about Dad. Yet.

  28

  INTERVAL

  —the distance between two points

  By the next day, Poppy had three different styles of boxes made, and I have to give the man credit. They were the most beautiful pieces of art I’d seen in a long time. I took pictures of them and went to Past’s office to load them on eBay. I noticed Past’s latest shirt had been bid up to $340! It’s amazing what people will pay for stuff on eBay. Good thing, too, since that shirt might be the last one. Who knew when Past was coming back.

  I posted the photos on the website, too, and updated our deadline—nine days!—and only two days until Do Over Day. I added another brick to the LEGO bridge. We were finally in the Atlantic Ocean on our way to the Azores, islands about one third of the way across the Atlantic from Europe.

  I stared at the map of Romania. I thought about Dad in the hospital and Misha in the orphanage, and I hoped they’d both be out of those institutions soon. I decided to IM Ferdi. I had to adjust the Pringles can several times before getting a strong enough signal.

  He said Dad was doing okay many times, because I asked him about five different ways, just to be sure he understood. Then, I don’t know why, I decided to tell him about Misha.

  You are in charge of project? You are genius like your father. I am moved to crying for the little boy who will have a mama now. It is great thing.

  Yeah, it’ll be great as long as I don’t screw up big-time.

  I think you do not screw up big-time. You are very smart boy, not big screw up.

  If he only knew. If Dad only knew. But it was better that he didn’t. I gave Ferdi the YouTube sites so he could take a look at what we were doing. I sort of wanted him to pass on the info to Dad. And I sort of didn’t.

  “Hey, Me-Mike!” Guido yelled.

  I looked across the street to the soup kitchen, where the three stooges were dragging piles of flattened boxes into the building.

  “What are you guys doing?”

  “Packing porch pals,” said Jerry. “We just got fifty-nine orders through eBay! You can add seventeen hundred dollars to the website!”

  That was almost two LEGO bricks! I quickly updated the money goal and stretched the LEGO bridge
closer to the Azores, then ran across the street to help. Inside the soup kitchen, porch pals were leaning up against the wall like a bunch of kids in a lunch line. Guido was assembling boxes while Spud packed them and Jerry filled out mailing labels. I took a spot beside Guido and went to work assembling boxes.

  When we’d almost finished, I noticed a separate heap of porch pals. “What’s with the pile in the corner?” I asked Guido.

  He kept taping a box as he looked around. “Those are the rejects.”

  “What’s wrong with them? They look okay to me.”

  “They’re practice ones.” He stopped unrolling a strip of tape long enough to rip it off the roll with his teeth. “If you look closer, you’ll see poor stitching, stuffing coming out—just not good enough to sell.”

  I stared at the face of one of them. It had bushy eyebrows like Past. I couldn’t help thinking about him and how much he liked these guys. They’d still make Past smile, even if they weren’t perfect. That’s when I got my idea. “Hey, can I borrow some of the rejects?”

  Guido narrowed his eyes at me. “What for? We can’t have any imperfects floating around the Internet.”

  “They’re not leaving town, I promise. I’m using them for . . . advertising purposes.”

  He grunted. “I guess that’s okay.”

  I gathered up the five imperfect porch pals and headed to the park.

  Knowing that Past was handling the final paperwork for the adoption, I was feeling a lot better about that deadline. Now it was just a question of the money. And preparing for Do Over Day—I sure hoped kids liked bananas as much as Past seemed to think, and they wouldn’t mind the all-natural version of M&M’s, not to mention sparkling raspberry water. I got Guido to handle face-painting, Spud was supposedly a whiz at balloon animals, and Jerry would do magic tricks. The moms were happy to run the sack race, three-legged race, and egg-on-a-spoon race. Dr. and Mrs. P said they’d handle sales—everything from Moo’s vinegars and Mrs. P’s fruit spreads to Gladys’s bling and the three stooges’ porch pals. Dr. P even wanted me to make up a bunch of Pringles Wi-Fi antenna kits to sell because he liked the idea so much. It was hard to smile when he grinned and said, “I’ll buy all the supplies and I’ll let you eat all the Pringles!” I knew I wouldn’t be able to eat the Pringles without choking, thinking of Past.