The Absolute Value of Mike by Kathryn Erskine Page A

anything since Doug died?” I asked.
    â€œNot a thing. Not even a word.”
    â€œThat’s just weird.”
    â€œIt’s very upsetting to lose a child, no matter how old.”
    â€œYeah, but what about Moo? She does everything around here and he just sits there!” I thought about Dad. And me. “It’s not fair for one person to handle everything.”
    â€œI agree with you. But he’ll come around. Soon, I hope.”
    I thought about Poppy the Giant Turnip. And Dad. And I wasn’t so sure.
    â€œMaybe you can help,” Karen said.
    â€œI wouldn’t even know how to start this project.”
    â€œI meant maybe you could help bring Poppy around. But as for the project—”
    â€œForget that,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t—”
    â€œBut I need your help!”
    Why was an artesian screw so important to her? “I’m just a kid!” And not a very smart one, either.
    Karen took my hand in hers and looked at me intently. “I want a child, Mike. You have to help me.”
    My eyes popped wide open when I realized the implications of her statement. For the third time in ten minutes, I squeaked, “I’m just a kid.”
    â€œI know! And I want to adopt one just like you. Is that too much to ask?”
    â€œAdopt? Oh. No, that’s not too much to ask at all. That’s, like, totally reasonable.”
    â€œAll I’m asking is for you to help out with our project.”
    â€œOkay, but what does building an artesian screw have to do with adoption, anyway?”
    Karen’s brow wrinkled. “Artesian screw?” She pronounced the words slowly. “What is that?”
    â€œThat’s the big project Poppy’s supposed to be working on!”
    She tilted her head.
    â€œMoo told me about it.”
    Karen was still staring at me like I was making no sense.
    â€œYou know”—I gestured toward the garage—“out in his workshop?”
    â€œOh! Artisan’s crew! That’s what Moo was saying.” She laughed. “Sometimes she gets her words mixed up. Have you noticed that?”
    â€œYeah, I have. But . . . what’s the artisan’s crew?”
    She patted my shoulder. “You know what an artisan is, right? It’s someone who makes beautiful things with their hands.” She looked at me expectantly.
    I nodded slowly.
    â€œWell, Poppy does fine woodworking and is supposed to be leading a whole crew of people in making wooden boxes for—”
    â€œWait. What? Boxes?” I said. “Boxes?”
    She nodded.
    Dad’s artesian screw plan was rapidly unscrewing. “You mean it’s not some kind of engineering project?”
    Karen laughed. “Not even close!”
    â€œBut—I thought Poppy was an engineer. Like my dad.”
    She laughed again. “He drove a dairy delivery truck for sixty years.”
    I let out a long, slow breath. I couldn’t believe it. That was it, then. There was no artesian screw. No engineering project. No escape from Newton High. I looked at the orange and red swirls, felt queasy, and slumped against the door until the vacuum banged into it.
    I moved away and Moo pushed the vacuum onto the porch. She was still sniffling. Karen pulled me inside and shut the storm door as far as it could go with the vacuum cord underneath it. The noise muted slightly.
    â€œLet me explain,” Karen said. “The whole town is helping me in my adoption effort. Have you seen the signs, ‘Build a Family, Adopt a Child’?”
    I tried to nod but I was still too stunned.
    â€œWe have to work fast because the adoption laws in Romania are changing and—”
    â€œRomania? Is this the kid on Past’s cart?”
    Her smile drew up her cheeks and accentuated her heart-shaped face. “Isn’t he adorable? His eyes are so piercing.” She clenched her hands together under her chin, almost like she was