Nothing unusual. Robyn and I always do juvenile stuff to shock each other.
She was waiting for my comeback, so I stuck my drumsticks in my ears and started rocking back and forth while I crossed my eyes and stuck out my tongue. Robyn giggled, then covered her mouth to prevent a full-blown laugh attack.
“Aha, as I suspected, a cracked reed,” Mrs. Athena said to a sixth grader. She helped replace it, and we picked up where we left off. Surprise, surprise, we sounded cheery. And patriotic. And in sync. I could see the flags waving now.
“Finally!” Mrs. Athena called, jumping pogo stick–style. “Let’s celebrate with a trip to the Caribbean.”
“Jamaican Farewell,” my favorite. Just tapping to that calypso beat works like a natural antidepressant for me. This sounds crazy, but it’s true: I was born in Korea and my family is Italian, but I’ve got the soul of a reggae drummer.
Nash once told me I get this faraway look in my eyes when we play “Jamaican Farewell.” He said my shoulders move up and down to the beat, like I’m sitting on top of a mountain playing bongos for the gods.
He’s right. When my drumsticks are tapping, I’m gone to Planet Harmony. Nothing else matters. Not Kelly, not my essay, nothing. It felt that way from the first time I played rudiments in fourth grade. Drumming must be in my blood. Maybe my birth father is a drummer in Pusan.
“Hey, Joseph, check out the new kid,” Steve said. He pointed a mallet toward the flute section.
Talk about being distracted. I hadn’t even noticed the unfamiliar face only a few seats down from Robyn.
The new kid had thick black glasses. He was squinting as he read his music, and he was wearing a pink sport shirt. Pink, with a collar, on a regular school day. I kept looking over at him in between full measure rests.
He was Korean. I just knew it. There was something about how his bangs spiked up like teeny black porcupine quills. Like mine.
Round and round my sisters spun.
“They don’t give refunds if you puke,” I whispered that afternoon to Sophie and Gina, who were squeezed next to each other in the same stylist chair. Their knees were pulled up to their chests, lollipops were sticking out of their mouths, and they were grinning like they were on a roller coaster.
As soon as Mom walked over, Sophie stuck her foot down and stopped moving.
“Hi, honey. Didn’t see you come in. Are you busy?” Mom asked me.
Translation: Time for a walk, Towel Boy.
Before I could answer, she handed me a bag of dirty towels and some money. “Here, get yourself something at Randazzo’s on the way. But don’t forget the towels. There’s thirty-five in there.”
“I need some amaretti, Mommy. They’re my favorite cookies. Can I go with Joseph?” Sophie asked.
“Me too. Pleeease?” Gina added.
“You both had a snack already. Study for your spelling quiz.” Mom pointed at their backpacks and covered her ears as the twins wailed.
“Want some biscotti?” I called to Aunt Foxy at her station.
“I’d love some, but I better pass. Gotta get more fiber in my diet.”
Nothing is private in a hair salon: constipation, cheating boyfriends, bad grades. Nothing.
After Randazzo’s, I headed toward the Jiffy Wash Laundry. I was expecting the usual thirty-second chitchat with Mrs. Faddegan. I’d forgotten that she’d sold the business until I pulled open the door and nearly plowed into the new kid from band.
“Hey!” I said, surprised and a little embarrassed.
“Hey back,” he said with a laugh. He was holding a soda and a deck of cards.
He was at least two inches shorter than me and had a narrow face. But we both had the same nose: wide and smooth with a flat bridge. Koreans are a bridgeless bunch, which causes problems when you try to impress a girl. One minute you’re talking, and the next you look down and your sunglasses fall off.
“I’m Joseph,” I said. “Joseph Calderaro. I saw you in band. I play drums.”
“I’m Yongsu Han. Mrs. Athena told me about you.”
“Don’t believe everything she says. She just wants to keep me from joining chorus.”
He laughed. “Today was my first day. I’m in eighth grade. You?”
“Today was my hundred and fifty-ninth day of school, and you can bet I’m still counting,” I replied. “I’m in eighth grade too.”
I dropped the sack of towels on the counter, noticing the bag had a slight rip in the bottom.
“Uhmma!” he called into the back room. Or something like that. No Uhmma came, though the mail carrier walked in and handed the new kid a stack of letters.
“You’re Korean, too?” Yongsu asked.