The Absolute Value of Mike (8 page)

“Isn't he adorable?” Moo said. “Gladys is fully behind this adoption. It's almost like she's the one adopting him.” Moo paused, her hand on the bank door, and sighed. “Family is just that important to her. Oh, and you should see the bling she knits to make money for the adoption.”

Excuse me? “Bling?”

“Yes, dear. That means shiny, fun stuff. She knits all kinds of beads and sequins into her scarves, hats, and sweaters. They're beautiful.” Moo opened the bank door.

“Where does she sell them?”

“At the flea market. And Big Dawg's. Her stuff is hot with bikers and bands. She can hardly keep up with demand. Now, Mike,” Moo said, leading me over to a couple of flowered chairs in front of a desk, “come meet Gladys.”

Gladys had six earrings, a pierced cheek, a tongue stud, spiked hair, and a leather skirt so short, I couldn't take my eyes off of it and the parts of her it wasn't covering. She did not look like a Gladys.

Moo sat down next to her and patted her hand. “Hello, dear. I'd like you to meet my grandnephew, Mike.”

I stared at Gladys. She was drop-dead gorgeous. “H-huh—hi,” I stuttered. “I hear you make b-buh-bling.” I sounded like an idiot!

But Gladys smiled, making her appear almost normal. Somehow it made her black makeup and spiked hair seem softer. She held her hand out and I saw it was covered with tattoos, including a really cool one of a guitar that I was eyeing until Moo's hand clamped down over it. “Goodness! You've added some, dear, haven't you?”

“Yeah, it was after the breakup and then . . . well, we're back together again.”

Moo did not look happy. “Numnut?”

“It's Num
chuck,
remember? Because he likes martial arts.”

Moo sat up straight and sniffed in hard. “Well, if he tries any of that stuff on you, remember what I told you about where to kick him.”

She grinned and nodded. “Right in the crotch.”

I slid down into the other chair and crossed my legs.

“Here are some checks, dear. Please put them in my account right away because I'm already late.”

“You should use direct deposit,” Gladys said. “Then there'd be no question about it getting into your account on time.”

“I don't trust those little computer elves. They might run off with my money.” Moo put the electric and phone bills down on Gladys's desk, then started bragging about me for joining the adoption effort.

I saw a photo of the Romanian orphan on Gladys's desk. Even the crystal-studded, totally blinged-out frame couldn't take away from his questioning eyes. What was he searching for?

“Mike is very clever.” Moo nodded knowingly at Gladys. “Just like you. I really wish you'd take some classes at the community college.”

“I've already made assistant manager and I just graduated from high school this month,” Gladys said defensively.

“That's what I mean, dear—you're so smart.” Moo squeezed her hand and leaned in toward her. “You know I'll always love you no matter what you choose to do. It's just that you're such a clever girl. Like Mike. I think you're both ET.”

“You mean GT?” Gladys said. “Gifted and talented?”

“That's it!”

I groaned inside. I hated the GT kids. It felt like every one of them knew that Dad was always trying to get me into GT even though I didn't have the brains for it. With a last name like Frost, I guess it was easy for them to come up with “Brain Freeze” as my nickname. I wanted to yell at them, “Hey,
I'm
the reason you're ‘above average.' You should be
thanking
me!”

I looked at the other sign on Gladys's desk: We Promise You Absolute Value! Absolute value? That was the only math term I understood. It's when you take something that's worth less than zero, a negative—kind of like me—and it becomes positive. I always liked that idea. It was as if there were hope, even for me.

Moo squinted at the tellers behind the counter, leaned toward Gladys, and whispered, “New Dum Dums?”

“Moo!” I said, avoiding the eyes of the tellers she'd just insulted.

“She means the bowl of lollipops,” Gladys explained. “Moo, go on and take a few. I know there's at least one root beer pop in there.”

Moo jumped up, scurrying over to the counter.

Gladys gave me a serious look. “Does Moo still have that cell phone from Doug?”

“Yes. Why?”

Gladys picked up one of the bills and rubbed her forehead. “She can't pay both of these bills, and I think it's more important for her to have power.”

“What do you mean? It's only two bills. And she just got Social Security checks.”

Gladys crossed her arms and started rocking. “I know, but most of it will go to what's past due, and the next electric bill hits on Tuesday. I wish I got paid sooner. Then I could help.”

“It's okay,” I said quickly. “I'm getting money from my dad. How much does Moo have?”

Gladys eyed me, then Moo, who was still rifling through the bowl on the counter. “It's confidential, but I suppose if your dad is sending money, anyway, and you're family . . .” She turned the screen toward me.

I examined it, just like I did with our bank back home, ever since I was nine years old. What a joke—the kid with dyscalculia taking care of a bank account! The manager at our bank thought it was so cute, but, hey, if your dad isn't checking to see if there's enough money in the account, somebody's got to. The only difference between Moo's account and ours was the number under
Total
. Hers didn't have enough to buy a used iPod.

Moo appeared at Gladys's desk. “Oh, good! I see you met Mac. Gladys, can Mike send a message to his dad all the way in Romania on Mac?”

Gladys typed rapidly, then handed me the keyboard. “Sure.”

“Moo, what's your account number? Dad's going to put some money in it.”

Gladys froze.

So did Moo. Her voice was cold, too. “I don't need charity, Mike. I'm just fine.”

Oops. “Uh . . . it's for me,” I said, looking at Gladys for help.

“For your allowance, right?” Gladys nodded.

“Right! And also my birthday.” In November. “Plus, we can buy more vinegar.”

Gladys gave me a funny look.

“It's for making different flavored vinegars for Moo to sell and make money for the kid Karen's adopting.”

Gladys brightened. “Oh, excellent idea!”

Moo clutched Junior on her lap, absentmindedly opening and closing the buckle. “Well . . . all right, I suppose. It's for a good cause.”

Gladys had opened a browser, so I accessed my e-mail account. As I was typing, I glanced at my inbox of unread messages. One of them was from Dad! I opened it quickly.

That was it. No response to my text or voice messages. Had he even seen them yet?

I stared at the message. I'd tried to get Dad to IM for three years, but he'd refused.
Instant messaging? Uh . . . Mike . . . that sounds like instant coffee. No taste. No thought. If you have something worth saying, it should be well thought-out.
Of course, I hadn't put it in terms he could understand, like “It will facilitate more timely communication.” I'd said, “It's faster.” Stupid me. I guess now that he'd heard it from a reliable source, like a Romanian university department or something, he'd do it.

I got on AIM and saw that he was logged on, so I started typing immediately.

Right away, I decided I didn't like Ferdi. His name, his job, and his need to find me particularly challenging problems.

My fingers jammed the keys so hard, I kept making mistakes and it took me forever to spit out:

There was no typing on the other end. I asked Gladys if I could call Dad for bank business—just long enough to leave Moo's account number. Of course, he didn't answer. His phone was still turned off, so I sent another IM.

The artesian screw? Oh, crap.

“Are you finished, Mike?” Moo asked.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, my head drooping almost to the keyboard. “I'm totally finished.”

—a mirror image of a figure

 

 

I
asked Moo to drop me at the park while she went to pay the electric bill. I had to see Past. There was something about him that made him seem like a counselor, like you could tell him anything, even though that sounds weird to say about a homeless guy.

“Hey, dude,” I said, approaching his “office,” where he sat reading
The New York Times
. I slumped down on the bench next to him. “' Sup?”

He folded the paper. “The usual mayhem and carnage. What's new in your life?”

I looked at the kid on Past's cart and sighed. “The usual mayhem and carnage.”

He chuckled. “What could you have going on that's so bad?”

“Oh, gee, let's see. There's Poppy. No engineering project. My dad. Newton High. And a kid in Romania who might never find a home.”

Past frowned, looking serious. “We're working on the adoption.”

“Who's supposed to be making the boxes in Poppy's workshop?”

“That would be Poppy.”

“No, I mean, other than Poppy.”

Past grimaced. “Poppy was supposed to train the others. No one's nearly as good as he is. Not good enough to sell them.”

“Well, that's just great. Karen needs
forty thousand dollars
! In
three weeks
!”

“I know.”

Then I realized something I hadn't asked. “How much has she raised so far?”

Past lowered his eyes and spoke softly. “About . . . well . . . fifteen—”

“That's it? Fifteen thousand?”

“No. Fifteen hundred.”

“What!”

“At last count,” Past said quickly. “It might be a little more now. Maybe a couple of thousand.”

I stood up and started pacing. “I've got to get Poppy moving.”

“Is he seeing anyone? Like a therapist?”

I shrugged. “Karen's a minister, right? She came by last night.”

Past raised his eyebrows.

I shook my head. “Nothing. I'm trying to get a rise out of him. I'm talking at him, but I wouldn't exactly call it a conversation.”

Past's brow furrowed and he stood up, walking behind the bench to his cart. “Let me give you something.” After a few moments of jiggling and clanking in the blue and white cooler, he pulled out a small brown bottle. He cleared his throat and reached his arm over to me. “Here, try this.”

I took the bottle and read the gold label. “Saint John's Wort?” I'd seen this before. On our kitchen counter. Dad took it every day along with his Centrum Silver. “Thanks, but I don't think a vitamin is going to help much.” I handed it back to him.

Past leaned his forearms on the cart handle. “It's not a vitamin. It's for treating depression.”

Depression? I looked at the bottle again. It was even the same brand Dad used. “Is that all it's used for?”

“Depression and anxiety. There are other uses people have come up with, but none of them have been scientifically proven.”

Well, Dad wouldn't use it for anything that wasn't scientifically proven, that's for sure. So it had to be depression or anxiety. I had no idea.

“Just take it and try it. But tell Moo to check with his doctor first and make sure it's okay for him. We can't assume that. Assumptions like that can be dangerous.”

“Yeah, like I
assumed
Poppy was an engineer.” I told Past about the “artesian screw” disaster.

A voice came from the next bench. “Did you ever look closely at the word
ASS-ume
?”