Kimchi & Calamari (9 page)

N
ash and I locked our bikes in front of the comic book store. It was drizzling and windy and we knew we were nuts to have ridden into town, but we both needed a pick-me-up. Nash wanted to join a summer roller hockey league, but his mom wouldn't let him because of his migraines. And last night had been the Celebrating Our Heritage Night at school, but my family hadn't gone. Mrs. Peroutka encouraged me to go, but I couldn't get past Essaygate. Everyone would have whispered and stared at me like I was an ex-con.

All wasn't doomed, however. Today was the last
Wednesday of the month, which meant good news for diehard comic fans: the latest
Amazing Spider-Man
would be on the shelf!

I wiped rain off my forehead as Nash opened the door to Nothing But Comics. It felt warm inside and it smelled musty, as usual. No one was there but Corn Head, the guy who owns the store. He's got choppy dark hair, but he bleaches the tips yellow like corn kernels. For five years Nash and I have been coming to this store, and I doubt Corn Head has ever said more than ten words to us. Me, if I owned a comic book store—and I just might someday—I'd yack for hours with my customers. And I'd copycat the bookstore chains and open up a Superhero Café right inside. Only I'd skip the lattes and biscotti and sell barbecue potato chips, candy bars, and sodas. Nothing else goes better with a crisp new comic.

Nash and I walked straight to the Marvel section, and I grabbed “Amazing Spider-Man #788.” He picked up the latest “Wolverine,” then put it back again.

“Just this,” I said, handing the comic and my money to Corn Head. Then I waited for Nash. I had a feeling he was low on cash, so I tried to give him my change, but he shook his head no.

“Take it. It's not like I've got a girl to spend it on,” I said.

I knew Nash wanted the comic. The cover had an awesome hologram of Wolverine with his claws wrapped around Magneto's neck, on top of a skyscraper.

“Thanks. I'll pay you back, promise,” he assured me.

“Just think of it as a cash advance for my search fee,” I said.

We crossed the street and went to Salvo's Corner Store. I was drooling for some chocolate, and we still had money to blow.

“So what happened with Kelly?” Nash asked as we walked to the back of the store.

“She turned on me after Essaygate. It hurt her reputation to hang out with a pond-scum plagiarizer,” I said.

Nash pulled open the refrigerator case and grabbed two root beers off the shelf. “What does Kelly Gerken know? The only subject she's an expert on is herself,” he said, shaking his head.

The rain was pouring down in buckets when left the store, so we waited under the awning for it to stop. We watched the street get soaked, drinking our root beers and splitting a Baby Ruth bar.

“Talk about bad luck, Joseph. I finally got my chance to talk with Ok-hee the other day because we'd finished our lab before the rest of the class. But wouldn't you know, I get called down to the office. My mom signed me
out of school for
another
neurologist appointment.”

“That stinks worse than skunk juice!”

He nodded. “My mom's
obsessed
with my migraines. She's dragged me to three doctors so far this month.”

“Can't they just give you something to stop them?” I asked.

Nash shrugged. “It's not that easy. My mom still thinks sports trigger the headaches since they started last year during hockey. But I read that sometimes it's diet. I've started keeping track of what I eat and drink every day to figure it out myself.”

“You should rig your journal to prove homework causes migraines,” I suggested.

“Hmm,” Nash said, rubbing his chin.

We both laughed.

As we walked back toward our bikes, Nash told me he'd been checking my posting every day. “One response came in yesterday, but the guy sounded messed up. He wrote that he was your long-lost brother, and that he wanted to reunite on a live talk show.”

“What makes you so sure he's a fake?”

“He wanted a hundred bucks first.”

“Good thing I've got you looking out for me,” I said. But inside I didn't feel good about the search. Or hopeful. “Nothing's going to turn up, Nash. I'm starting to think
the adoption agency just pulled me out of a deep dark hole. Abracadabra, one Korean kid.”

“We've got a chance. Your posting had more details than some of the others. It just takes time.”

Maybe it was hearing about the adoption scam artist. Or maybe it was talking about the essay and Kelly. But suddenly I felt empty—like the soda bottle in my hand.

Yet it was like Nash could read my mind, because quick as lightning, he hopped on his bike and shouted, “I should write in your posting how your best friend can kick your butt in a bike race!”

And off he flew, racing down the street, zigzagging from one side to the other.

My down-in-the-dumps mood disappeared faster than that Baby Ruth bar. Challenging Joseph Calderaro is risky business. I pushed up the kickstand, jumped on my seat, and took off.

Pedaling like a Tour de France champion, I whizzed by Nash, my face and hair dripping wet. I knew that his mom wouldn't be happy with our racing, but Nash sure looked headache free to me.

“You gotta do better than that, Wolverine Wannabe!” I shouted out to him, pedaling furiously with my back to the wind.

“J
oseph, telephone!” Sophie shouted that night. I jumped up from my desk, thrilled with an excuse to stop working on Version Two of The Essay That Destroyed My Life.

The voice on the phone was so squeaky that, at first, I thought it was a girl.

“Do you want to come to my house for dinner tomorrow night?” Yongsu asked. “My mom's making
bulgogi
, and we can watch a Jackie Chan video afterward.”

“Bulgogi?”

“Bul-go-gi,”
he answered slowly. “It means ‘fire meat.'”

“Oh, it's spicy?”

“It's thin beef strips that get marinated and grilled. Tastes a little spicy and a little sweet.”

Yum. “Does your mom know you're asking me?”

“Sure,” he said. “Your mom permed my mom's hair yesterday.”

Aha. Maria Calderaro's manicured fingers were meddling again. She must have come up with this plan as a way for me to learn about Korea. I could just hear her bribing Mrs. Han: “You give my kid the Korean lowdown and I'll perm you for half price.”

But I wasn't sure about this dinner. Mrs. Han still treated me like the poster boy for Korea's shame, and the Hans' house was the real deal. How could I enjoy
bulgogi
while feeling like a Korean knucklehead?

Well, I had no plans anyway. Nash was going to visit his sister at college. And Frankie was grounded all week for using his mom's cell phone to interview Farewell Formal date candidates.

Besides, nobody smashes heads and breaks bones better than Jackie Chan. And I
was
curious about the Hans.

“Sure, I can come, Yongsu. Just make sure it's one of
the
old
Jackie Chan movies.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “He kicks and punches way better in the old ones.”

 

Garlic and soy sauce. Yongsu opened the front door and that's all I smelled. Our house smells garlicky too, but more like garlic and tomato.

I followed Yongsu into the Hans' narrow kitchen. Mrs. Han was standing near the stove, scooping rice out of a pot. The walls were covered with orange wallpaper. Above the kitchen table was a painting of two Korean men, sitting cross-legged, playing instruments that looked like coconuts strung together. Asian drummers, I thought. Like me.

“Hello, Mrs. Han.” I spoke politely, bowing like Yongsu did when he greeted his dad. I handed her the wrapped pignoli cookies that Mom picked up from Randazzo's.

She smiled, then said something that I didn't understand.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“
Gamsa hamnida
, thank you.”

I smiled.

“You say, ‘you're welcome,'
ch'onman-eyo
. You try.”

I did, but those sounds didn't roll off my tongue as smoothly. I felt like a toddler taking his first steps. Then
Mrs. Han spoke to Yongsu in Korean. I could tell it was about me.

Yongsu nudged my elbow. He pointed to my sneakers. “We don't wear shoes in the house.”

I looked in the hallway. A row of shoes rested against the wall.

Duh. A real Korean would have known that.

Full of dread, I untied my sneakers. One of my socks had a huge hole in the heel, and the other looked more brown than white.

Classical music floated from the room off the kitchen. It sounded like a song we'd played once in a concert. I peeked over the half wall and saw Ok-hee curled up on the couch, reading.

“Ah, Vivaldi. I know him well,” I called to her as I followed Yongsu into the wood-paneled room.

“Lucky guess,” she answered without even looking up from
Teen People
. Mom always keeps a copy of that magazine in the shop. It didn't exactly fit Ok-hee's brilliant babe image, but I guess smart girls just want to be girls too.

“You must be who I'm playing the duet with for the moving-up ceremony,” Ok-hee added casually.

“Mistaken identity,” I said. “That would be Steve. I'm the gifted drummer with the solo.”

Ok-hee laughed.

This seemed like a good time to put a word in for Nash.

“Do you know my friend Pete Nash?” I asked. “He plays trumpet.”

She nodded. “We're lab partners in science. He's kind of quiet.”

“He just seems shy until you get to know him. Get him out of that academic dungeon and he really opens up. He's a computer whiz and a great hockey player, too.”

“I didn't know he played hockey.”

“Yeah, well, there's a lot more to Nash than his freckles.”

Yongsu nudged me. “C'mon, let's start
Dragons Forever
before dinner.”

Dragons Forever?
That's my all-time favorite Jackie Chan movie. “Let's do it. What could be better than Jackie's jump in the last fight scene?”

 

An hour later we gathered for dinner around a card table that Mrs. Han had covered with a crocheted tablecloth. I sat next to Yongsu, across from Ok-hee.

Mr. Han was the last to join us. He'd come home from work later than Mrs. Han. I noticed that nobody touched a thing, not even a water glass, until he was ready.

Before we started eating, Mr. Han turned to me. “Joseph, your mother tells us you need to learn about Korea. You ask us any questions you want.”

I nodded, but I felt insulted. Was this supposed to be dinner, or an educate-the-confused-Korean mission? No way would I act like that. Korean blood flowed through my veins just like theirs.

Mrs. Han walked from seat to seat, scooping mounds of sticky white rice into small bowls near our plates. Then she placed a large bowl next to the meat platter. It was full of vegetables covered in an orangey sauce, and it smelled like rotten fish.

Yongsu must have seen me staring. “That's kimchi,” he explained.

“I know,” I said, but I didn't really, although I'd read about Sohn Kee Chung's family eating kimchi.

There were no knives or forks, but chopsticks lay next to each folded napkin. Mine were wooden. The Hans' were silver.

Everyone dug in after Mrs. Han sat down, but I hesitated. Whenever I use chopsticks in a restaurant, the floor beneath my chair collects more food debris than the Meadowlands Arena after a rock concert.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Yongsu eat. He quickly picked bits of food off his plate with his
chopsticks as if they were pinchers extending from his fingers. But my chopsticks had a mind of their own. The harder I squeezed, the wider they swung apart. Halfway to my mouth, most of the food fell. So I tried pushing them together and using them like a shovel, but you don't shovel much rice with chopsticks.

Without a word Mrs. Han came over, took one of my chopsticks, placed it against the crook of my thumb, and wrapped my middle and ring fingers around it like it was a pen. Then she tucked the other between the tip of my thumb and my pointer finger.

“Hold the bottom one still,” she explained, pivoting the top one like a lever.

I pressed too hard and the bottom stick wobbled.

“Relax your hands,” she added, adjusting my grip.

I tried again with lame results. And again, only this time I speared a piece of
bulgogi
.

Mrs. Han readjusted my fingers. “No poking with chopsticks. You can do it, Joseph.”

Eyeing a big clump of rice in my bowl, I tried her technique, holding the bottom chopstick steady. This time the rice made it all the way to my mouth. I grinned, savoring the hard-earned taste.

“Thanks, the chopsticks are different at my house,” I said, just as—
plop!
—a piece of
bulgogi
slipped between
my chopsticks and into my water glass.

Everyone laughed, even me. It
was
funny.

“Try some kimchi,” Mrs. Han said after I fished the meat out. I tasted a small piece. Kimchi sure was a spicy veggie with a lot of “character.” Dad always says that about hot foods.

“So your family's Italian?” Ok-hee asked.

“Seriously Italian. We eat pasta three times a week and we all talk with our hands.” I took a big gulp of water. Sesame seeds were floating on top from the stray
bulgogi
.

“My best friend Lisa in Flushing is Italian. Her mom makes this delicious bean soup with tomatoes and macaroni,” Ok-hee said.

“Pasta fagioli. My mom has a hundred-year-old family recipe, only she loads it up with sausage. I call it fagioli carnivory. Mmm, makes my mouth water.”

“Ok-hee's a vegetarian,” Yongsu whispered.

Mr. Han quickly turned the conversation to school. “So, Joseph, do you get good grades?” he asked, scooping more rice into his bowl.

“Straight As, most of the time.”

Ok-hee rolled her eyes. “School matters more than happiness to Korean parents,” she said.

“Working hard helps you
find
happiness,” Mr. Han
quickly answered. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he spoke.

All this good-student talk made me nervous.
What if they asked about my essay?

Redirect the conversation. Like Mom does when customers suggest dyeing their hair ridiculous colors. “What do you miss most about Korea, Mr. Han?”

He paused. “In Korea, young people show respect for elders. They understand that age has earned such respect. Not so here.”

I nodded. Dad would agree with Mr. Han, though he'd say it in his own Jersey way.

“Would you like to visit Korea, Joseph?” he asked.

“Definitely. I want to check out Pusan.” I tried to chew without opening my mouth.

“My brother and I worked at the Pusan docks in the summer when we were your age,” he said.

I thought about the police station where they found me, wondering how far it was from those docks. Mr. Han could have passed that station every day when he was a kid.

“People from Pusan are different.” Mr. Han smiled at Mrs. Han. “Wouldn't you agree?”

She nodded as she poured soy sauce over her rice. “They have a funny accent, like Americans down South.
And they are…how can I explain? Straight talkers, they speak their mind. You understand?”

“Sure,” I said. Like me, I thought, suddenly getting excited.
She's describing me!

“Pusan has beautiful sandy beaches,” Mr. Han said. “And it's very hilly. If you arrive there at night, you think, Look at all the tall buildings lit up! But in daylight, you see they are hills with one-story houses, not skyscrapers.”

I bit into another piece of
bulgogi
. My stomach was expanding like a water balloon. I wanted Mr. Han to describe Pusan's hills, the docks, the kids playing whatever games kids play there. Finally I'd be able to fill in the details of my déjà-vu dream. To know what it was like where I was born.

“Joseph won a school essay contest about his Korean family,” Ok-hee announced.

“Didn't you write about Sohn Kee Chung?” Yongsu asked.

Every Han stopped chewing.

“What was your essay about?” Mr. Han asked, his eyes wide.

Gulp.

“Nothing special. Basic Korean stuff.” My forehead was shooting sweat like a busted fire hydrant.
Somehow Yongsu and Ok-hee mustn't have heard about Essaygate. Time to redirect again. “So, what's your favorite part of Korea, Ok-hee?” I asked.

“Right now Ok-hee's favorite place is Europe,” Yongsu said as he mixed kimchi in with his
bulgogi
. “She wants to study abroad.”

“I've lived in Korea and America. I want to check out someplace else,” Ok-hee said, pouting. “Mrs. Peroutka says we should think about global careers. You want me to be successful, don't you?”

“Remember, you are thirteen years old, not twenty,” Mrs. Han answered. “More kimchi, Joseph?”

“Yes, please.” I could feel bullets flying in this Han family cross fire. It was a familiar feeling, given my feisty twin sisters. “My parents can't agree on a favorite Italian city. Mom says Naples, but Dad says Florence. They're both loyal to where their parents were born.”

Ok-hee smiled. “I'd love to spend a semester in Italy. And tenth grade would be perfect, before all that college entrance prep begins.”

“What language do you study?” Mrs. Han asked me.

“Spanish.” Didn't most kids take Spanish, except the ones whose parents force French on them?

“Ok-hee takes Italian,” Mrs. Han said. “We do not understand why.”

“Because it's a beautiful language. And if I study there, I'll use it,” she answered. She sounded satisfied, like when Sophie has a good comeback for Mom.

Mr. and Mrs. Han just kept eating.

“Do you know anything about the Korean language?” Mr. Han asked.

I shook my head.

“Korean is considered a ‘polite language' because the words spoken may be formal or informal, depending on the person you are addressing. It is based on Hangul, the Korean alphabet with twenty-four characters. Which is the—”

“Most perfect writing system in the world, “Yongsu and Ok-hee said in unison, imitating their father.

“This is true,” Mr. Han said, amused.

“We've been studying Hangul every Saturday since we left Korea, just in case we forget it.” Yongsu groaned.

I smiled at him sympathetically, like what a pain that would be. But the truth was, I wished I could speak Korean too.

After dinner we carried our dishes to the kitchen. I handed Mrs. Han the empty
bulgogi
platter.

“Gamsa hamnida,”
I said, trying hard to make the right sounds.

She bowed and smiled back.

Yongsu and I stacked the dishes in the sink. Mrs. Han washed and Ok-hee dried. There was no dishwasher in sight.

“
Uhmma
, I need a haircut,” Ok-hee said to her mother.

“Joseph's mother cuts hair very nice,” Mrs. Han said.

“And you could practice your Italian on her,” I added.