The Absolute Value of Mike (21 page)

I saw the lights were still on in the workshop, and I needed company. Any company.

Poppy looked up when I opened the door. “One big dang mess in here,” he muttered.

I slumped against the door. “At least I cleaned up the nails. There were a lot of them.”

He shrugged. “Ever heard the expression ‘so angry you're spitting nails'?”

“Yeah . . . but it doesn't mean actually spitting nails.”

“I don't spit. I throw.”

He wasn't kidding. About two minutes later the jigsaw blade got tangled and he grabbed a handful of nails, throwing them against the far wall of the shop.

I flinched.

He grunted. “I heard about Past.”

I didn't say anything. How much had Moo told him? Everything about what a jerk I'd been?

“You like yelling at people, don't you?”

She'd told him everything. I sighed and sat down on a sawhorse.

“Don't sit on that!”

I jumped up. Why had I come in here, anyway? I glanced over to see what he was doing. “What are you working on?”

He looked at me like I was an idiot. “What do you think?”

“Boxes?”

He grunted. “A genius. Like your dad.” The jigsaw blade got stuck again and Poppy's hand dove for the box of nails.

I dove for cover.

Poppy cleared his throat. “So your dad wants you to be an engineer.”

“Yeah.”

“You'd make a lousy engineer.”

I stared at him. Did he have to be so blunt? “Because I suck at woodworking?”

Poppy squished his lips together and shook his head.

“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.

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

 

 

T
he 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:

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.

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.