Kimchi And Calamari Part 9

"How so?"

I told her about Korea's occupation, and how Sohn Kee Chung had to run wearing a j.a.panese jersey. "Some Koreans were upset with him for running. Like it was his fault that his country got invaded."

"That was a difficult time for Korea," she said, nodding.

"But even with the j.a.panese threatening him, he never missed a chance to tell reporters that Korea was his mother country," I added.

Mrs. Peroutka kept asking questions, and I had answers. I was surprised how much I remembered from that library book.

Then she kicked in with the self-examining stuff. "Why do you think I a.s.signed this essay, Joseph?"

"So someone from our school can win the contest?" I was joking, sort of.

She frowned, and I wished I'd zipped my lips.

"I want my students to spend time thinking about their families, living and deceased. Sometimes it feels like the here and now is all that matters, but we have legacies that help shape who we are. I think about my relatives on my mother's side. They were Polish Jews who came to America to escape persecution. They never took for granted the freedom they made a difficult journey to discover."

She paused, then added, "Did this essay make you curious about yourself?"

I nodded. It had made me curious enough to query the world about my birth via the Internet. But it had also unleashed epic problems, kind of like the demons inside Pandora's box.

Mrs. Peroutka continued probing. "In what way?"

"It just added to it. Being adopted makes me wonder about stuff anyway. I wish I could stop wondering."

"Good for you that you wonder, Joseph. It's a sign of a maturing mind," she said with a smile. Suddenly I had a feeling that I wouldn't be spending the afternoon in detention after all.

I glanced out the door of the cla.s.sroom. Yongsu pa.s.sed by and waved wildly.

"Joseph, it sounds as if you can't write about your biological lineage right now. But it seems to me that you are quite reflective about your past, your family, and your origins. And I bet you've already started discovering some things about what it means to be Korean."

The one-minute-until-you're-late bell rang, but Mrs. Peroutka kept going. "I think the circ.u.mstances justify my giving you a second chance. Your makeup essay can address your ethnicity and other aspects of your ident.i.ty-including your adoption, if you want. It doesn't have to be about your blood relations," she added, wiping chalk from her hands.

"Thanks, Mrs. Peroutka," I said. "I mean...well, for listening to me."

I owed her that. She'd given me a do-over when she could've sliced the you-flunk guillotine on my neck.

"One more thing, Joseph," she called as I started to leave. "Your revised essay is due next Tuesday. And while I enjoy your storytelling, I expect nonfiction this time."

I stood in the express checkout lane that night feeling half-and-half, like the cream Mom sent me in for. I felt half relieved that I'd made my confession, and half crummy that the truth was out. Rumors were spreading at school that I'd bought an essay over the Internet and tried to pa.s.s it off as my own. As if. We're not even online at my house.

Just as I put the cream, bread, and Capicola ham on the conveyor belt, Kelly walked into the supermarket.

For a second I pretended not to see her, what with all the talk going around about me. But no, Kelly and I were friends. She'd understand. So as soon as I paid the cas.h.i.+er, I walked over to her in the floral section. We hadn't talked since she'd asked me about playing miniature golf, and I wondered if we were still on.

I tapped her on the shoulder. "What's up, MVP?"

"Nothing," she snapped back without looking at me. Her arms were crossed, and she kept staring at the bouquets on the $5.99 display rack.

"Whatsamatta?" I rested the grocery bag on the floor.

"You're a big liar, that's what. I heard about your fake essay. And to think I fell for your 'I'm adopted and writing letters to my birth family' story."

She kept staring at those flowers. I felt like jumping up on the display just to get her attention.

Dad told me once how President Nixon lied and had to leave the White House in disgrace because of a scandal called Watergate. Looking at Kelly's scowling face, I realized that I was caught up in Essaygate.

"I wasn't lying, Kelly. I am adopted. And if I wanted to impress you, I would've come up with a much better story. Trust me."

No response.

"Listen, I couldn't write the essay because I don't know my birth family," I said, staring down at my sneakers. "My parents don't know anything either, and I panicked."

Finally she looked at me. "You told me you were writing back and forth with your family in Korea," she said.

"I want to...I mean, I'm going to. It's complicated."

"I don't respect dishonest people," she declared. And she walked past me so fast that I felt a breeze.

That was when I felt my blood really starting to boil, as Aunt Foxy says. How dare she suggest I'm dishonest! Last year I found five dollars wedged in the seat on the school bus and I turned it in to the bus driver.

Besides, Kelly didn't have a clue what it was like being adopted. Not a clue.

I marched right up beside her, next to a giant cactus. "Know what, Kelly? I don't respect golden girls who rush to judge others without checking the facts. And by the way, I'll pa.s.s on miniature golf this weekend. I've got commitments." Then I picked up the grocery bag and headed toward the automatic exit door.

Like Dad, I mixed metaphors, but I got my point across.

Then the door shut behind me. On Kelly and any wish I had for us to go to the Farewell Formal together.

Comic Relief.

Nash 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 Cafe 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 skysc.r.a.per.

"Thanks. I'll pay you back, promise," he a.s.sured 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-sc.u.m 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 cla.s.s. 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 b.u.t.t 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.

Korean Culture 101.

"Joseph, 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, n.o.body 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.

"h.e.l.lo, 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.