Kimchi & Calamari(11)

“Sort of,” I said.

He pushed his glasses back on his nose. The way a geek would right before the bully pops him.

A woman walked out from the back room. Korean, of course, so I figured Uhmma meant “Mom.” Suddenly I felt out of place. Like how a Vulcan would feel at a Romulan festival in an old Star Trek episode. The Hans were real Koreans.

The new kid’s mom held an armful of tangled wire hangers, which she threw in a plastic bin beside the cash register.

Then she spun around and noticed me. She lifted her eyebrows slightly, like she was suspicious, and grinned, showing big teeth. Not exactly buckteeth, like Mom says mine would be if she and Dad hadn’t dropped three grand on my braces, but big like horse teeth, with a lot of gum.

“Ahn nyong ha seh yo?” she said.

Both Yongsu and his mother stared at me.

I shrugged. “I don’t know any Korean.”

The new kid said something in Korean, and his mom nodded. She started pulling wet towels out of the sack and counting them.

“There’s thirty-five,” I said, remembering what Mom said.

But she counted anyway. So much for trust among Koreans.

“What’s your family name?” Her accent sounded much thicker than Yongsu’s.

“Calderaro,” I said, speaking slowly. Up went her suspicious eyebrows. “The towels are from my mom’s shop. She’s a hairdresser.”

“You’re missing one towel.”

I felt like she was accusing me.

“Maybe it fell.” I pointed to the floor on her side of the counter. She bent over and picked up a towel.

“Your mom Korean?” she asked as she reached for an order slip. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke, a little like Gina’s when she’s got a secret.

“No, she’s Italian. My dad, too. But I’m Korean, which you probably figured out,” I said as my mouth started running away from my face.

Mrs. Han didn’t understand.

“I’m adopted,” I explained.

Mrs. Han stared at me with icy eyes, but didn’t say a word. It was as if she’d taken out a name tag, scribbled “fake Korean” on it, and stuck it to my T-shirt.

Then she muttered something quickly in Korean to her son. He picked up the towels and carried them to the back room. A bell jingled as another customer walked in.

“Phone number?” Mrs. Han asked, and I rattled off the number for Shear Impressions. She tore the yellow customer’s copy from the order slip and handed it to me.

Mrs. Faddegan never used slips. She just billed Mom and Aunt Foxy once a month.

Mrs. Han quickly turned her attention to a man who’d just dropped a bunch of shirts on the counter.

No good-bye, no thank you from Uhmma.

I pushed hard on the door to get the heck outta there.

“Joseph, wait!”

“Whaddaya want?” I snapped with as much Jersey attitude as I could muster. The Hans could go back to doing laundry in Flushing, if that was even what they did there. Or better yet, Korea.

“You like to play war or poker?” The new kid was still holding the deck of cards.

The thought of playing cards in this sticky place was about as appealing as the stomach flu on Christmas morning.

“It’s too hot in here.” I kept on walking.

He followed me outside. “We’ll play behind the store. You like soda? We’ve got cans in the fridge, in the back room. Ginger ale, orange, root beer, whatever you like.”

I was about to say no again. Why should I spend time with this guy? But then again, my other options weren’t so great: either walking the two miles home to get going on my social studies essay or hanging around Shear Impressions for a couple of hours and listening to the hairdressers’ gossip, since I knew Mom had back-to-back appointments until seven.

And root beer was my favorite.

“Okay,” I said. “What’s your name again?”

He smiled. “Yongsu Han.”



The back of the building had two tiny windows that reminded me of portholes on a submarine. One was blocked by an air conditioner. The other had a ripped screen. Yongsu and I started playing war on the rusted metal picnic table, on a patch of brown grass beside the parking lot. I took a long swig of root beer. I’d never heard of this brand, but it sure was cold and bubbly.

I looked up and saw Mrs. Han staring from one of the windows. I could tell she was scowling. She wasn’t discreet, the way Mom is when she peeks through the dining room curtain at our neighbor whose boyfriend drives a Harley and wears leather everything.

Obviously Mrs. Han thought I was a cheap Korean imitation, maybe even a troublemaker who needed watching. It hurt my ego, because most of my friends’ parents make a big fuss over me, like I’m this funny, well-balanced influence on their kids. I thought about asking Yongsu what was up with his mom, but he seemed so thrilled to have me around that I couldn’t do it.