Free The Absolute Value of Mike by Kathryn Erskine

you no matter what you choose to do. It’s just that you’re such a clever girl. Like Mike. I think you’re both ET.”
    â€œYou mean GT?” Gladys said. “Gifted and talented?”
    â€œThat’s it!”
    I groaned inside. I hated the GT kids. It felt like every one of them knew that Dad was always trying to get me into GT even though I didn’t have the brains for it. With a last name like Frost, I guess it was easy for them to come up with “Brain Freeze” as my nickname. I wanted to yell at them, “Hey, I’m the reason you’re ‘above average.’ You should be thanking me!”
    I looked at the other sign on Gladys’s desk: We Promise You Absolute Value! Absolute value? That was the only math term I understood. It’s when you take something that’s worth less than zero, a negative—kind of like me—and it becomes positive. I always liked that idea. It was as if there were hope, even for me.
    Moo squinted at the tellers behind the counter, leaned toward Gladys, and whispered, “New Dum Dums?”
    â€œMoo!” I said, avoiding the eyes of the tellers she’d just insulted.
    â€œShe means the bowl of lollipops,” Gladys explained. “Moo, go on and take a few. I know there’s at least one root beer pop in there.”
    Moo jumped up, scurrying over to the counter.
    Gladys gave me a serious look. “Does Moo still have that cell phone from Doug?”
    â€œYes. Why?”
    Gladys picked up one of the bills and rubbed her forehead. “She can’t pay both of these bills, and I think it’s more important for her to have power.”
    â€œWhat do you mean? It’s only two bills. And she just got Social Security checks.”
    Gladys crossed her arms and started rocking. “I know, but most of it will go to what’s past due, and the next electric bill hits on Tuesday. I wish I got paid sooner. Then I could help.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” I said quickly. “I’m getting money from my dad. How much does Moo have?”
    Gladys eyed me, then Moo, who was still rifling through the bowl on the counter. “It’s confidential, but I suppose if your dad is sending money, anyway, and you’re family . . .” She turned the screen toward me.
    I examined it, just like I did with our bank back home, ever since I was nine years old. What a joke—the kid with dyscalculia taking care of a bank account! The manager at our bank thought it was so cute, but, hey, if your dad isn’t checking to see if there’s enough money in the account, somebody’s got to. The only difference between Moo’s account and ours was the number under Total . Hers didn’t have enough to buy a used iPod.
    Moo appeared at Gladys’s desk. “Oh, good! I see you met Mac. Gladys, can Mike send a message to his dad all the way in Romania on Mac?”
    Gladys typed rapidly, then handed me the keyboard. “Sure.”
    â€œMoo, what’s your account number? Dad’s going to put some money in it.”
    Gladys froze.
    So did Moo. Her voice was cold, too. “I don’t need charity, Mike. I’m just fine.”
    Oops. “Uh . . . it’s for me,” I said, looking at Gladys for help.
    â€œFor your allowance, right?” Gladys nodded.
    â€œRight! And also my birthday.” In November. “Plus, we can buy more vinegar.”
    Gladys gave me a funny look.
    â€œIt’s for making different flavored vinegars for Moo to sell and make money for the kid Karen’s adopting.”
    Gladys brightened. “Oh, excellent idea!”
    Moo clutched Junior on her lap, absentmindedly opening and closing the buckle. “Well . . . all right, I suppose. It’s for a good cause.”
    Gladys had opened a browser, so I accessed my e-mail account. As I was typing, I glanced at my inbox of unread messages. One of them was from Dad! I opened it quickly.
    While