Kimchi & Calamari
The Evil Eye
Bread crumbs come in regular or Italian. So do suits, though Dad says the Italian ones fit better across his thick shoulders. And I know Mom wouldn’t dare make her chicken cacciatore with anything but Italian plum tomatoes. But who knew that jewelry was made especially for natives of the boot-shaped country? And why should I, of all people, care about that?
“I’m so stuffed that eggplant Parmesan is coming out my pores,” I said to Nash as we waited for Mom to finish slicing the cake. Not that second helpings of dinner would stop me from digging into dessert. Nash can eat me under the table, and he’d still fit in an envelope. Me, from the moment I arrived from Korea, I was nicknamed Buddha Baby. The name fit then and it still does, though I’m not really fat—just stocky with a barrel chest and stubby arms and legs.
“Mommy said for us to get the presents,” Sophie said to Gina in what Mom calls her “eight-year-old Mussolini voice.” My twin sisters scooted out from behind the kitchen table with Frazer, our plump old boxer, trotting behind them. They were back in a flash, carrying boxes they could barely hold. One fell out of Gina’s arms and she quickly picked it up, though she didn’t notice the bow sticking to her knee.
But Nash and I did, and we laughed. He’s used to my wacky family. Pete Nash moved to Nutley in first grade. Back then kids called him Nash Potato because he brought mashed potatoes and gravy in a thermos for lunch all the time. He took some brutal teasing about that thermos, but he kept showing up with it anyway. Which I can understand because his mom’s mashed potatoes taste mighty delicious.
“Wait! Don’t open any presents until you read your you-know-what, Joseph,” Mom said. “For good luck. It’s under your plate as usual.”
Rats. I thought Mom forgot about that weird horoscope tradition. I lifted my plate and unfolded the clipped newspaper page.
Taurus: Understand that you are entering a new chasm of change. Any benefits or gains you make this new year may not be obvious at first, though the pain is.
I frowned after I read it. Funny thing was, I did feel different. And not just because my voice was starting to crack and I was getting a hairy-creature-in-puberty look. Melodramatic “Who am I?” questions kept popping into my mind all afternoon. Probably because of that rotten essay assignment.
Mom must have noticed my expression. “Don’t read bad into it, Joseph. Change can be good. Yesterday I turned a washed-out brunette into a stunning blonde, and she was thrilled with that change.”
“Can we eat our cake now? I’m starving!” Gina whined.
“Yuck. Cannoli frosting,” Sophie groaned.
“It’s Joseph’s birthday, remember?” Dad said, sipping his coffee. “Go ahead and open your presents, son.”
I started ripping through shiny paper and shouting out the “Wow, you shouldn’t have!” comments that parents get all gushy about. And I did like my gifts, especially the Spider-Man alarm clock that I’d been eyeing at the mall. Spider-Man is The Man, and my hero. I love how his alias, Peter Parker, forgets stuff and blabs dumb comments to girls like the rest of us. But in the end he always delivers the spider goods. Which is to say he saves the world, tells a joke or two, and beats the sinister snot out of his archenemy, Venom.
Nash likes comic book heroes too, though his favorite is Wolverine, the furry X-Man with retractable claws. Not that we discuss this stuff in school. Being known as a comic book dork is worse than wearing jeans that fit right, or a ski hat with a giant pom-pom.
The next gift was a video game from Mom and Dad, the very one I was hoping for. I guess writing “Get Joseph a video game” in washable marker across Mom’s hairstylist station mirror did the trick. Then Gina and Sophie gave me a huge bag of peanut M&M’s, and Nash gave me a joke book.
“Without further ado, let’s hit the game controls,” I told Nash after my last forkful of cake.
But Dad stopped us. “Wait a second, Joseph. Mom and I have one more present for you.”
“I’ll get it, Vinny.” Mom walked into the laundry room and returned with a small box.
“What is it? What is it?” Gina jumped in her chair.
My fingers ripped through the wrapping paper. I opened the box and then I saw it: a gold chain with a tiny gold horn, shaped like an antler.
I almost blurted out, “What the heck is this thing?” when I remembered how Dad wears something like this all the time. It’s on the same chain as his crucifix, and it bops up and down when he’s doing push-ups. And the last time we visited our relatives in Florida, I noticed Uncle Biaggio had one on when he went swimming.