The Absolute Value of Mike by Kathryn Erskine Page A

mistake. James Bond?”
    Moo appeared in front of me. “What are you doing, dear?”
    â€œWatching TV.”
    She walked over to the set and pressed a button, and a truck ad shouted at us. “It works much better if you turn it on.”
    Poppy let out a snort.
    â€œBut I thought—”
    â€œIt’s all right.” Moo patted my hand. “Sometimes I forget to turn it on, too.”
    â€œI didn’t forget! I thought since Poppy was watching . . . never mind.” Why would I think that Poppy would want to watch TV “live” when he could watch it dead?
    Moo beckoned me into the kitchen and I followed. “I’m not sure Poppy is the best role model for you,” she said softly.
    Poppy made a low growling sound.
    I sneered through the pass-through at him. No kidding. He was ruining my life, at least for the short term, but more importantly, he was risking Misha’s entire life.
    â€œNow, that Past,” she said, drying her hands on a towel, “he’s an excellent role model.”
    â€œA homeless guy?” I liked Past a lot, but it seemed weird to call him a role model.
    â€œOh, he’s not homeless, dear.”
    â€œUh, yeah, I think he is.”
    â€œWhy do you say that?”
    â€œFor starters, his office is a park bench. And he sleeps there, too.”
    â€œOh, that.” She stirred a pot on the stove. “It’s summer. He likes sleeping out in the open air. He used to go camping a lot, you know.”
    â€œHe eats at the soup kitchen.”
    â€œNo, he’s just there a lot because he likes to volunteer his time.”
    â€œMoo. He pushes a grocery cart around town. Doesn’t any of this sound strange to you?”
    â€œWe all need a place to put our things. I put everything in Junior. He has a lot of important things in that cart. Mike, could you hand me the parsley flakes right above you?”
    I looked through the cabinet among the cans of cat food—for Felix? “Do you guys have . . . a cat?”
    â€œNo, just Felix.”
    I stared at Moo. Someone had to tell her. “Moo, Felix is a clock.”
    â€œOh, not that Felix. The stray cat who comes by sometimes. I call him Felix.” She patted my hand and whispered, “Don’t worry, I’m not as bad off as Poppy.”
    That’s when I remembered the Saint John’s Wort. It was worth a shot. Maybe it’d take the rust out of the artesian screw.
    â€œHey, Moo? About Poppy. Have you tried Saint John’s Wort?”
    Moo stopped stirring the whitish, glue-ish stuff in the pan on the stove. “We’re not Catholic, dear.”
    What? “You don’t have to be Catholic.”
    She went back to stirring. “Well, it’s usually Catholics who pray to the saints . . . and sometimes the saint’s warts, too, apparently, although that does seem a little strange.”
    â€œNo, it’s not—it’s just—”
    â€œBut Mike, if you think it’ll work, you just tell me how.”
    â€œThis stuff is an herb that helps with your depression.”
    â€œI’m not depressed, dear.”
    â€œNo, I mean”—I lowered my voice—“you give it to Poppy.”
    â€œOh! I see.” She banged the spoon on the side of the pot until the lumps fell off of it. “Okay, where’s Junior? We’re off to get some warts.”
    â€œPast already gave me some. I just wasn’t sure if you’d want it.” She seemed kind of sensitive about other things, like failing eyesight and being tired or old.
    â€œWell, of course I do! Poppy needs something. It’s not normal to sit in a chair all day like a zombie, Mike.”
    Poppy made a strangled zombie noise from the other room.
    I made Moo call the doctor, like Past said, and she gave Moo the okay. Moo served Poppy his “special recipe” scrapple on a tray in the living room. Then she made us sit down to eat in the