The Absolute Value of Mike (24 page)

He put his hand on the back of the chair and kind of wobbled into the seat. “Hello . . . Mike.”

I forgave him for pausing before my name, because he'd stopped to take a breath, which kind of sank out of him again as he sat. He was hunched over, looking up at me.

“Hi, Dad. I—I didn't even know you were out of the hospital.”

“I asked Ferdi not to tell you. I wanted it to be a surprise.” His voice was kind of raspy and soft. “And I wanted to get here for the big day, the unveiling of the artesian screw.”

I looked at Moo, whose grin faded as she gathered up her sheets. “Let me find Poppy.”

Past cleared his throat. “Uh . . . Professor Frost, I guess Moo didn't tell you—”

“It's okay, Past,” I said. “I'll handle this.” How, I didn't know. All I knew was that it had to be me.

Past bowed his head and backed away, accompanied by Joey.

Dad looked up at me. “What did Moo neglect to tell me?”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Actually, it wasn't just Moo, it was me. There—there isn't any artesian screw.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Sometimes these designs don't work out in the end, but you can still learn a lot in the process. Did you find—”

“There never was an artesian screw. It was a misunderstanding. See, Moo sometimes says things wrong, and what she really meant to say was ‘artisan's crew,' which was basically just Poppy building wooden boxes.”

Dad stared at me for a moment, blinking, then turned away. “Boxes?” he whispered.

“Yeah. They're really nice boxes.”

Dad's head turned back to me and I felt his disapproving gaze as I spiraled downward into the dumb-little-kid role that I'd always had with him. I couldn't let that happen. Not after this summer. Not after everything I'd been through. I had to break out of the mold.

“Nevertheless, working on boxes will hardly prepare you for—”

“I know, Dad.”

“It's a good thing I came home when I did. We can go home and—”

“No! I'm not going anywhere. I'm in charge of bringing Misha home.”

“Misha?”

“The kid who's being adopted!”

“Ah, yes. Ferdi told me more about that. It's quite amazing what you've done.”

I tapped my Clarks nervously on the linoleum.
But useless
. I knew that was what he was about to add.

“I would never have attempted that,” he said, shaking his head.

“Yeah, well, he's worth it, Dad! You might think he's
academically challenged,
but maybe he's good at something you're not. Or me. Or Poppy. Maybe he actually has value!” I grabbed a flyer and held Misha's picture up for him to see. “Look at him, Dad! Look at his eyes!”

Dad looked at the photo, at me, back at Misha, then back to me again. Did even Dad see it, too? The similarities between us?

He sighed. “It makes me think about your mother.”

“Mom? Mom would've liked what I've done.”

He nodded slowly. “Indeed, she would have.”

I stared at him, wondering what was coming next. It felt like the whole room was quiet, where before it had been such a commotion. It seemed like everyone was watching me. And a boom mike was dangerously close to my head. I was sweating from the heat of the lights, the heat of the room, or something.

I turned back to Dad. He looked . . . disappointed. I couldn't stand that look. I raised my head, and above Dad I saw the video playing of Misha. And there it was. The part of the video where the woman with the milk pitcher goes offscreen and Misha looks straight at the camera. Straight at me. Staring. And right then, finally, I figured out what his eyes had been telling me all along.

Misha was taking a risk. A huge risk. He was plunging into a new life, leaving everything he knew behind. What if people didn't like him? What if it didn't work out? He couldn't go back. Nor could I. Once the cat was out of the bag that I didn't want Dad's life, I couldn't go back and pretend that nothing had happened. Somehow, I'd have to make it work on my own.

But then I realized something else. The risk wasn't that Dad would be disappointed. It wasn't even that he'd disown me and I'd be left with no family, no one. The real risk was even greater than that—if I didn't stand up and do what I wanted with my life, it would be like my life was just . . . lost. Over. Before it even began.

I heard Dad speaking, but I only caught the end of what he said. “. . . we'll stay another week so you can meet your fund-raising deadline. Then we'll go home and find an engineering project for you to work on. I'll talk with my colleagues in the engineering depart—”

“No, Dad!”

He flinched.

“The thing is, I'm not good at that stuff.” I took a deep breath. “And really, I'm not interested. I'm not interested in engineering, or math, or anything like that. And I never will be.” I looked at him. He just seemed stunned. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“But I can help you with those subjects—”

I threw my hands in the air. “I don't want your help! Don't you get it? I'm not smart that way, and I don't
want
to be.”

Dad's face crumpled into despair or disdain, I didn't know which. Either way, it only made me angrier.

I hit my chest. “I'm Mike!” I yelled. “MIKE! And I'm not your kind of engineer. I'm the kind of engineer that makes things happen. A—a
life
engineer. Not numbers. Life! That's who I am!” I finally stopped to take a breath.

The room felt silent when I stopped. Even the reporters seemed to be holding their breath. While I'd felt like everyone had been staring at me, now they seemed to be staring at Dad.

He took his glasses out of his jacket pocket, opened them, and put them on. “I saw a boy—he was visiting at the hospital—who looked just like you.”

What was he talking about? “Dad, you can't even picture my face, so how could he remind you of me?”

“Because he was with a woman whose walk reminded me of your mother's. He was approximately three years, ten-point-five months.”

“Approximately three years, ten-point-five months? How did you come up with that?”

“Ah. I have a picture of you in my wallet.” He reached inside his jacket, wincing slightly, pulled out his wallet, opened it up, and retrieved a photo. “On the back, I wrote the date it was taken. You were three years, ten-point-five months old.”

He showed it to me. It felt kind of good that he kept a photo of me along with his credit cards and everything else, even if it was really old. “I could get you a more recent photo, Dad—if you want.”

“No need.”

My head drooped.

He put the photo back in his wallet and pulled out another. “I have every year of your school pictures in my wallet. Ten, including kindergarten and preschool.”

“You have ten photos of me in your wallet?”

“No. I have seventeen. Some are from when you were very young, and three are soccer photos.”

“Wow.” Cool. So cool my throat hurt and my eyes were stinging.

“I know I have an imagery problem, so it's my way of compensating. We all have to learn those techniques.”

I started to jump in, but he kept talking.

“Mike. Son. The reason I wanted so much to teach you math and engineering skills is simply that I can.” He glanced around the room. “But look at what you've orchestrated here. And you're only
fourteen
.” He emphasized
fourteen,
maybe to impress upon me that he actually knew my correct age. Or maybe because he really was impressed.

I was so stunned, I just stood there.

“You've inherited your mother's ability with . . . people. That's something I don't have. Math is something you can learn, but social skills, understanding people, knowing what to say—those are all things that are beyond me.” He looked up at me. Maybe because he was hunched over, maybe because he was still recovering from surgery, or maybe because I felt different myself, Dad looked like a little kid. “Math, engineering, that's all I know.”

For the first time in my life I actually felt, well, sorry for him. I didn't feel inferior. I felt like I had something at least as valuable as he did. Maybe I even had more. “Dad, I can teach you that stuff.”

His forehead wrinkled. “Really?”

I nodded. “Sure.”

I held my hand out to him, to shake his hand. He didn't extend his. Instead, he pushed against the seat of the chair, struggled to his feet, and awkwardly spread his arms into a hug.

I heard a sniffle behind me, followed by a Wookiee noise. I turned to see Past wiping his eyes and Joey kissing his hand. Past looked up, gave me a long Bono look, and nodded. I smiled back.

Behind Past, I saw Moo, her yellow sneakers peeking out from under her toga. And Poppy, clutching one of his boxes. And Gladys, sandwiched between them. And behind them, the video of Misha, holding his hands up in front of him and shouting, “Sun!”