The Absolute Value of Mike by Kathryn Erskine

on the back of a flyer from Natalie’s Natural Products health food store. Those were the flyers he had in his cart, and for some reason he had a ton of them. I guess they weren’t any use to Natalie anymore, since her store was out of business.
    Fortunately, there was only one turn to get to Moo’s, so even I could follow a map like that. It was still a long walk, but I had a lot to think about, so I made a list in my head.
    Â 
    Website—call it Bring Misha Home!
    â€¢ upload pictures of Misha and tell about his life—what it is now, and what it could be
    â€¢ show countdown on website of how many days before Romania closes
    â€¢ show running tally of how much money we’ve made and how close we are to the goal
    â€¢ get Moo on camera selling her vinegar
    â€¢ get Past on camera eating Mrs. P’s fruit spread
    â€¢ get Gladys on camera playing guitar and singing?
    And the list went on and on.
    I was thinking so hard, I almost missed my turn. When I got to Moo’s, I maneuvered around the buckets in the front yard and walked up the carpeted steps. And stopped.
    A life-size rag doll sat on a chair on the porch. Wearing shorts and a striped T-shirt, like an overgrown kid. And a pink Life Is Good baseball cap. Its face was a round pale blue pillow with brown yarn hair. He had buttons for eyes, a dangly red pom-pom for a nose, and a wide, grinning mouth drawn on with black marker. It was so hideous that, well, it was kind of cute. I stared at it for a moment before I noticed the note sticking out of the shorts pocket:
    Hey, Me-Mike! This is a porch pal. He’ll bring you good luck.
    â€”Guido, Jerry, and Spud
    I couldn’t help smiling at him until I noticed the smell. Coming from the house. It was sickly sweet. And burning.
    I yanked the door open. “Moo!” I shouted.
    â€œIn here, Mike!” Moo called from the smoky kitchen.
    Poppy grunted as I ran through the living room.
    â€œMoo, what’s going on? What’s that smell?” On the kitchen counter, I saw four cookie sheets completely covered with thick, black, smoking glop.
    Moo sighed. “These cookies are for a bake sale for Misha. They didn’t turn out very well, did they?” She looked down at her recipe card and read off the items as she put her hand on each of the ingredients on the counter. “One cup of sugar, three cups of flour—”
    â€œMoo?”
    â€œYes, dear?”
    â€œThat’s not flour. You’ve got two bags of sugar.”
    She peered at the bags. “I could’ve sworn one of them was flour.”
    â€œMoo, maybe you need new glasses. Your eyes might be getting—”
    â€œMy eyes are perfectly fine!” she said, whipping her head around to glare at me.
    â€œI’m just saying . . .”
    Moo turned to glare at the cookie sheets instead. “Well, that was a bust! Never mind, I’ll clean this up and get our meal started. You go relax with Poppy for a few minutes.”
    I went into the living room and frowned at Poppy. For the first time, I noticed his feet. He wore huge duck slippers. They were realistic-looking ducks, the type with the dark green heads and necks. Other than the duck slippers, and the yellow yardstick now leaning against his recliner instead of across the arms of the wing chair, nothing had changed. Except the cat clock, which now said 5:15. Before, it had read around 8:00. Weird. I looked at Poppy. He had the same stubborn expression and devil-horn hair. His eyes were still fixed on the broken TV.
    â€œSo, Poppy, what up?”
    No answer.
    â€œHow are those boxes coming?”
    Mild grunt.
    â€œYeah, well, that’s not helping make any money to bring Misha here. Guess you don’t care about that. It’s more fun to watch a dead TV, huh?” I looked at the blank screen. “Is this your favorite show?” I cupped my hand to my ear. “What’s that? Oh, it’s a movie. My