Kimchi & Calamari (7 page)

I really wanted to know. No, I
needed
to know. There had to be a way to find out, I decided, even if the essay was already finished. I know Nash would help me. I'd tell him what Kelly said about that adopted Russian girl posting a note on the Internet. Maybe we could try that!

That's what was on my mind more than anything else. Even more than Kelly.

A
few days later, I rang the doorbell at Nash's house less than ten minutes after he called. I licked my lips. They still tasted like the spice from the barbecue chips I'd wolfed down.

“You found something out about me, didn't you?” I asked as we ran upstairs.

“You bet I did,” he said.

While we waited for the computer to boot up, Nash told me about his new lab partner in science. “I think she's Korean, Joseph, no kidding. She's really pretty and smart.”

It had to be Ok-hee. I reminded him about Yongsu being the new kid in band and told him that was her brother. “The Hans bought the Jiffy Wash, near my mom's shop,” I said.

“I'll carry towels for your mom whenever she wants,” said Nash, “as long as Ok-hee's there.”

Nash sounded slick, but I knew him well enough to know he probably acted shy around Ok-hee.

The computer screen finally lit up. With a click Nash called up a website called “Finding Your
Ki-bun
.”

“What's
ki-bun
?” I asked.

“It sounds like good spirit, inner peace, that sort of thing. This website is for Korean adoptees tracing their family connections.”

I wanted to do this, but my hands still trembled as I looked at the screen.

“You're not alone, Joseph. Check out these messages,” Nash said.

The listings reminded me of newspaper classifieds, only sadder:

Nash broke the silence. “Some stories, huh?”

“Do we know if any of these people found their families?” I asked.

Nash highlighted a message from a twenty-four-year-old graphic designer in Phoenix. “Look, Joseph. This lady made a connection.”

I tried to imagine meeting a Korean relative for the first time. Somebody who looks just like me. Would I crack a joke? Would my voice quiver when I introduced myself? Would we hug?

Nash roamed around the website. He clicked the e-form for making a posting and waited for me to say something.

Then Chicken Calderaro started clucking. “I don't know what I'm getting into, Nash. Maybe this was a bad idea. What do you think?”

“I'd want to know my story. But what do
you
want?”

I stared at the computer screen and reread the message from the lady in Phoenix. Then I looked right at Nash. “I want to know,” I finally replied.

“Then let's go for it.”

Well, if I was going to search, my message was going to get noticed. “I'll talk, you type, Nash. Here's the lead-in:

“W
hy would anyone name a band Chicago?” Steve whispered from the bass drum.

“It sure beats calling it Hoboken,” I said.

“Hey, watch what you say, Joseph. I was
born
in Hoboken.”

“Yeah, I can tell by your bad breath,” I shot back, and we both laughed.

Mrs. Athena had summoned us for a special early-bird session. We were working on “Saturday in the Park,” a seventies hit that leaned heavy on drums and trumpet. This was supposed to be the kickoff song for the concert,
but Mrs. Athena said it needed some TLC. Personally, I think it was those can't-reed-to-save-their-lives clarinets that needed help, not the rest of us.

Jeff was absent, so Steve and I were multitasking most of the percussion instruments. It felt like circuit training—intervals of banging mallets on the xylophone, whacking the timpani, and then running to the snare, all while handling cymbals, too. Here's one of many band myths: people think cymbals are the musical equivalent of wrecking balls that crash into each other randomly, but there's more of an art to it than that. If you play them right, cymbals should slice each other like you're cutting cheese off a pizza.

I sang along as I banged out the beat. Dad owns
Chicago's Greatest Hits
, so I knew all the lyrics.

“Yo, Joseph.”

“What, Steve?”

“When do you think Mrs. Peroutka will hand back our essays? The odds are fifty-fifty that I'm going to summer school, and I
really
need a decent grade in social studies.”

“Should be any day now.” I wanted to get a good grade on the essay too. That way I'd make high honor roll again. Right now my grade was a B+. But thinking about my essay got my stomach fluttering. What if Mrs.
Peroutka caught me in the act of re-creating history? I actually lost my place worrying about it and came in a half measure late on xylophone.

“Everything okay, Joseph?” Mrs. Athena called. She never misses a beat.

 

“Any day now” turned out to be the next day.

“Welcome, class,” Mrs. Peroutka cawed when we filed into social studies.

There was no mistaking me for Sammy Sunshine that Friday morning. My déjà-vu dream returned again last night, and this time it felt more like a nightmare. I was back walking on that dirt road and pulling that wagon, only this time I was by myself. It was dark and pouring rain, and I could hear animal noises in the distance. I woke up in a cold sweat.

Then, after another burned Pop-Tart breakfast, a bird pooped on my Yankees cap at the bus stop, and someone stole my shorts from my gym locker. In the words of a true Korean, I was not feeling good
ki-bun
.

But Mrs. Peroutka was all smiles as she stood in front of the classroom. She was wearing a shiny green dress that made her look like a waxed lime.

The bell rang, and she picked up a stack of papers.

“I'm delighted to return your essays,” she began. “I was impressed by the quality of your writing and moved by the emotion you all conveyed in your stories.”

Twenty-five deep sighs of relief followed.

“Unlike my fifth and sixth periods, no one here earned less than a B. Each of you shared fascinating details about your family's legacy.”

Phew.
I had at least a B. That was decent, but I wanted an A.

I glanced at Steve. He flashed me a metal mouth smile. That B meant a get-out-of-summer-school-free pass for him.

Mrs. Peroutka walked from desk to desk, placing the papers facedown. “Before you read my comments, I want to say something that I didn't tell you earlier, mostly because I hoped you'd write from the heart.”

Then she explained that she had the difficult task of selecting what she considered to be the finest essay from all her students. That essay would be entered in a national essay contest that complemented our heritage unit. The decision was especially difficult, she said, because of all the wonderful writing.

“I can only submit one essay for the contest, but I intend to display all of them at the Celebrating Our
Heritage Night next week. And I was hoping that some of you would read excerpts for your families that night as well.”

No thanks, I thought. I'll pass on that ordeal.

Mrs. Peroutka's eyes twinkled behind her glasses. “I'm pleased to announce that I've selected Joseph Calderaro's inspiring story about his grandfather Sohn Kee Chung, the Olympian.”

Gulp.
Me? The winner?
My armpits got sweaty like I'd been doing pull-ups. My cheeks felt like they'd been slapped. And dread burned in my throat like I'd swallowed too many jalapeño peppers.

The class was silent, and then everyone started clapping.

“Way to go, Timpani Man!” Steve cheered.

“An Olympian?” Robyn called out. “I've suffered through the mile run with you. Who knew you had running genes?”

Mrs. Peroutka kept smiling, but I couldn't even look her in the eye. I couldn't say a word, even though everyone stared at me, expecting to hear something. My stomach convulsed like I'd drunk a milkshake without taking a lactose pill.

Lucky for me, the fire alarm sounded off and we filed out of class. Usually fire drills are the high point of a day,
total time wasters, but not today. As the kids and teachers stood around waiting by the tennis courts, I avoided eye contact with everybody, as if I had a giant zit on my nose.

“You rock, Joseph. You must be way proud of your grandfather,” Robyn whispered while Mrs. Peroutka counted heads.

“Thanks,” I said, sheepishly.

“And I thought it was impressive that my uncle won five thousand dollars at the Monmouth Park Racetrack. Speaking of horses, why did the horse go behind the tree?” she asked.

I shrugged.

“To change his jockeys!”

Robyn waited for me to laugh or come back with my own lame joke. But I stood quietly, pretending to take the fire drill seriously, even though we were allowed to talk now.

But I couldn't pretend I didn't hear my name being called—loud.

“Congrats, Joseph!” Kelly yelled across the crowd of kids talking.

I nodded. What else could I do? Everyone looked at me, probably wondering what I'd done and why a girl like Kelly cared.

The assistant principal gave the hand signal that the
fire drill was over, and everyone funneled back into school. Fate had it that my class reached the door just as Kelly's did.

“I just heard your essay won, and that you wrote about your grandfather, the Olympic star. Wow! Did your Korean family tell you all that?”

I stared at the back of the head in front of me. “Sort of.”

“A gold-medal-winning relative. That is sooo cool,” she said.

“Thanks.”
If only you knew,
I thought.

“Well, if you feel like celebrating, I'm going miniature golfing next Saturday with a bunch of my friends. You can come if you want.”

Kelly was inviting
me
to hang out with
her
? Meanwhile I felt like Chicken Little with the sky falling down.

“Maybe” is all I could manage to squeak in return.

 

On the way home I kept thinking about ways to get out of this mess. Confess over dinner? No way. Mom and Dad would lose it right between the antipasto and the main course. Worse, I could almost feel the weight of their disappointment already, since dishonesty is a big no-no for us Calderaros. Ask Mrs. Peroutka to withdraw me as the winner? Then she'd want to know why. Do
nothing? Nah, I couldn't live with my sleazy secret forever. I'd be like that eighties rock group Aunt Foxy told me about, Milli Vanilli. She said they made millions of dollars by lip-synching other people's music, but eventually the truth came out and they had to face their
own
music.

On top of all that, I was feeling guilty—about forgery, history tampering, or whatever crime it was that I'd committed. Dad always bragged that I was a straight-as-a-ruler kid. It used to be true.

As I walked up the driveway, this random quote popped into my head. It was something our teacher made us memorize last year after we finished reading Shakespeare's
Othello
:

Even Spider-Man couldn't untangle this web.

T
he house stank like broccoli when I walked in the doorway. Dad was in the kitchen wearing the chef's apron Mom had given him for Father's Day. He was home early, he said, because a customer had cancelled at the last minute. Usually that made Dad furious, but today he seemed cheery, like maybe he didn't want to be up on a ladder with dirty water running down his forearms, washing some doctor's windows on a Friday afternoon.

He was standing over a pot of boiling water. “Tonight we feast on linguini with creamy broccoli sauce, salad
drizzled with balsamic vinegar, and bruschetta.
Deliziosa cena!
”

Dad doesn't cook all that often, but when he does, he goes all out. Opera music was playing in the family room. Blasting, actually.

“Want a sample?” he asked as he stirred the sauce.

“Maybe later.” At that moment no meal in the world could get me drooling. My stomach still felt like someone was wringing it out with bare hands.

I knew I had to level about what I'd done.

One on one is easier than two on one when you're breaking bad news to parents. I decided to tell Dad first and Mom later, when she got home.

I pulled a kitchen stool close to the counter, where Dad was chopping onions and garlic, and sat down.

“I did something you're not going to be happy about, Dad.” I spoke loudly over the mezzo-soprano.

Dad stopped chopping.

“Remember that essay I had to write about my ancestors?”

He nodded.

“Well, I didn't know anything about my Korean relatives, so I sort of made up a story about my grandfather…in Korea.”

“What do you mean, ‘made it up'?”

“I wrote about this Korean runner named Sohn Kee Chung who won a gold medal at the Olympics in 1936. That part's true. Thing is, I said he was my grandfather. And now my essay won a contest.”

The timer went off, and Dad carried the pot over to the sink and drained the pasta. He was shaking his head while the steam rose from the colander.

“You're an honest kid, Joseph. Why'd you do that? You could have written ten pages about Grandpa Calderaro and his tailor shop.”

“I told you already, it's supposed to be about
my
heritage, not yours.”

“You know what Mark Twain said about telling the truth?” Dad asked.

Of course I didn't give a rat's poop about what Mark Twain said in whatever classic Dad had read. I said nothing.

“He said, ‘If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything.'”

“Then how come the telling part doesn't work when it comes to me being adopted!” I yelled.

Dad's face tensed up, and the Mad Meter started pulsing fast like the maracas in “La Cucaracha.” “You think being adopted gives you the right to disrespect me?”

Respect had nothing to do with it. “You don't under
stand and you won't talk about anything.” I shook my head and crossed my arms.

“How can you say this isn't your
real
family? I've tried to be the best father I can be for you, Joseph. That's what
I
understand. Every day I go out there and break my back for you and your sisters. So does your mother.
That's
family!”

Dad stomped over to the family room and turned the music down. Meanwhile, his temper rose way up with his voice.

“I've never been dishonest about your adoption, Joseph. The truth is, Mom and I know very little. That's how it is in Korea!”

I could yell too. “It's not just about what you know, Dad! Why can't you deal with who I am? I couldn't count on you to help me write one lousy essay. Last time I checked, being adopted wasn't a crime, but you sure act like it is!”

I stormed upstairs and slammed my bedroom door. Then I opened my socks-and-underwear drawer, grabbed the box with the
corno
, and threw it across the room.
Whack
! It hit my Amazing Spider-Man poster and fell behind my bed. The poster came crashing down behind it. Even the coolest superhero had collapsed from the stress of living in this house.

 

I walked to Nash's house, but nobody was home. Then I headed toward Shear Impressions, but turned around. I didn't want to face Mom yet.

Somehow I ended up at the Jiffy Wash.

“Yongsu's out back,” Mrs. Han said, carrying a stack of shirts and jerking her head in that direction.

I was heading for the door when Ok-hee walked in.

“Mrs. Peroutka told my class that you won the essay contest,” she said with an unexpected smile.

I nodded, wishing I could disappear between the hangers of shrink-wrapped clothes.

“My essay was about my great-grandmother in Taegu. She made beautiful mother-of-pearl jewelry boxes. What did you write about?”

“Miscellaneous Korean stuff,” I said. Ok-hee was finally acting normal, not superior, but this topic was off limits.

A customer walked in with a blanket in her arms, and Mrs. Han turned around.

“I'd like to read your essay,” Ok-hee said.

Double geez.

“Sorry, left it at school. See ya!” I said, tearing out of there faster than the Flash, the quickest dude in the comic book universe.

Yongsu was in the parking lot, fooling around with an old skateboard he'd found next to the Dumpster. He got us root beers from the fridge, and we hung out for a while. We didn't talk about school, Korea, or anything, really. I just watched him try skateboard jumps and wipe out a lot. He took so many spills that we started counting them and laughing.

I almost forgot about that lousy essay. Almost.