The Absolute Value of Mike by Kathryn Erskine

little yellow sneakers had already disappeared inside.

7
    FORMULAS
    â€”equations describing certain relationships
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    B efore I reached the front door, I heard a loud “Moooo!” When I walked inside, I found Moo hugging a large woman with even larger hair. Her dress was only a few shades redder than her hair.
    â€œMike,” said Moo, “this is Reverend Valentine.”
    Valentine? I guess that would explain the red color.
    â€œOh, you can call me Karen! I’m so glad you’re here to help Poppy, Mike.”
    I heard a grunt from Poppy’s chair. He had a frown, or maybe I should say his usual expression, on his face and the stupid yardstick clutched in his fist.
    Moo shook her head. “I’m afraid Poppy’s still thinking about Doug.” She sucked in her lips and pulled on her hoodie strings.
    Karen heaved a big sigh and gave Moo a hug. “And the other guys are lost without Poppy. Looks like we’re going to need a miracle to get Poppy moving.”
    Moo brightened instantly. “We have a miracle!”
    Karen and I both stared at Moo. I wasn’t ready for the word that came out of her mouth. “Mike!”
    I stood there looking as petrified as Poppy, only my mouth was hanging open, as Moo told Karen about all my “miracles” to date: getting us out of the airport, making her cell phone work, and buying five pounds of scrapple.
    â€œUh, Moo, we have to talk.”
    â€œYes, dear?”
    â€œI can’t run this project. I don’t have a clue what to do. I’m just a kid.”
    She looked at me hard through her thick glasses. “And Poppy is an eighty-three-year-old geezer who’s away with the fairies.”
    Okay, she had a point. But still. An engineering project? I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but that’s . . .” I wanted to say the craziest wacko idea of this century.
    Moo’s face fell and Karen’s hair drooped.
    Karen turned around to face Poppy. “Come on, big guy! We have orders from all over the country!”
    How many artesian screws was he making? I hadn’t even seen one yet, let alone lots.
    â€œYou’ve got to get this artisan’s crew together,” Karen ordered.
    â€œArtesian screw,” I corrected her.
    Karen laughed and slapped my back so hard, I almost fell into the coffee table. “He’s a funny one, isn’t he? Now, Poppy,” Karen continued, “you’ve got to get started. You’re in charge here! We’re counting on you! Let’s get to the workshop! How about it, big guy?”
    An unearthly grunt came out of Poppy’s chair. Karen took a step back. I looked over at Poppy. His eyes had changed. They were slits, accentuating his devil hair horns. And his hands were in tight fists, one of them clutching the yellow yardstick.
    â€œI take it that’s a no, ” said Karen.
    There was a squeaky cry out of Moo. “I need to vacuum now.”
    Karen cringed. “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry!”
    Moo ran past me to the front hall closet and pulled out a vacuum cleaner and started sobbing. Karen plugged the cord into the wall and Moo fumbled with the switch until it turned on with a roar and the stench of old dust.
    As Moo vacuumed her way into the kitchen, Karen patted my shoulder. “It’s okay,” she shouted over the vacuum. “This is what she does because she doesn’t like to hear anyone cry, even herself. She vacuumed for three days straight after Doug died. When I came to pick them up for the funeral, she was still vacuuming.”
    I looked over at Poppy. “What about him?” I shouted in Karen’s ear.
    She motioned for me to follow her out onto the front porch, where we could talk a little easier, as long as you didn’t look down at the red and orange swirly carpet. “Poppy didn’t even pick up his feet when she vacuumed around his chair.”
    â€œSo he hasn’t done