Kimchi & Calamari(22)

I sang along as I banged out the beat. Dad owns Chicago’s Greatest Hits, so I knew all the lyrics.

“Yo, Joseph.”

“What, Steve?”

“When do you think Mrs. Peroutka will hand back our essays? The odds are fifty-fifty that I’m going to summer school, and I really need a decent grade in social studies.”

“Should be any day now.” I wanted to get a good grade on the essay too. That way I’d make high honor roll again. Right now my grade was a B+. But thinking about my essay got my stomach fluttering. What if Mrs. Peroutka caught me in the act of re-creating history? I actually lost my place worrying about it and came in a half measure late on xylophone.

“Everything okay, Joseph?” Mrs. Athena called. She never misses a beat.



“Any day now” turned out to be the next day.

“Welcome, class,” Mrs. Peroutka cawed when we filed into social studies.

There was no mistaking me for Sammy Sunshine that Friday morning. My déjà-vu dream returned again last night, and this time it felt more like a nightmare. I was back walking on that dirt road and pulling that wagon, only this time I was by myself. It was dark and pouring rain, and I could hear animal noises in the distance. I woke up in a cold sweat.

Then, after another burned Pop-Tart breakfast, a bird pooped on my Yankees cap at the bus stop, and someone stole my shorts from my gym locker. In the words of a true Korean, I was not feeling good ki-bun.

But Mrs. Peroutka was all smiles as she stood in front of the classroom. She was wearing a shiny green dress that made her look like a waxed lime.

The bell rang, and she picked up a stack of papers.

“I’m delighted to return your essays,” she began. “I was impressed by the quality of your writing and moved by the emotion you all conveyed in your stories.”

Twenty-five deep sighs of relief followed.

“Unlike my fifth and sixth periods, no one here earned less than a B. Each of you shared fascinating details about your family’s legacy.”

Phew. I had at least a B. That was decent, but I wanted an A.

I glanced at Steve. He flashed me a metal mouth smile. That B meant a get-out-of-summer-school-free pass for him.

Mrs. Peroutka walked from desk to desk, placing the papers facedown. “Before you read my comments, I want to say something that I didn’t tell you earlier, mostly because I hoped you’d write from the heart.”

Then she explained that she had the difficult task of selecting what she considered to be the finest essay from all her students. That essay would be entered in a national essay contest that complemented our heritage unit. The decision was especially difficult, she said, because of all the wonderful writing.

“I can only submit one essay for the contest, but I intend to display all of them at the Celebrating Our Heritage Night next week. And I was hoping that some of you would read excerpts for your families that night as well.”

No thanks, I thought. I’ll pass on that ordeal.

Mrs. Peroutka’s eyes twinkled behind her glasses. “I’m pleased to announce that I’ve selected Joseph Calderaro’s inspiring story about his grandfather Sohn Kee Chung, the Olympian.”

Gulp. Me? The winner? My armpits got sweaty like I’d been doing pull-ups. My cheeks felt like they’d been slapped. And dread burned in my throat like I’d swallowed too many jalapeño peppers.

The class was silent, and then everyone started clapping.

“Way to go, Timpani Man!” Steve cheered.

“An Olympian?” Robyn called out. “I’ve suffered through the mile run with you. Who knew you had running genes?”

Mrs. Peroutka kept smiling, but I couldn’t even look her in the eye. I couldn’t say a word, even though everyone stared at me, expecting to hear something. My stomach convulsed like I’d drunk a milkshake without taking a lactose pill.

Lucky for me, the fire alarm sounded off and we filed out of class. Usually fire drills are the high point of a day, total time wasters, but not today. As the kids and teachers stood around waiting by the tennis courts, I avoided eye contact with everybody, as if I had a giant zit on my nose.

“You rock, Joseph. You must be way proud of your grandfather,” Robyn whispered while Mrs. Peroutka counted heads.

“Thanks,” I said, sheepishly.

“And I thought it was impressive that my uncle won five thousand dollars at the Monmouth Park Racetrack. Speaking of horses, why did the horse go behind the tree?” she asked.

I shrugged.

“To change his jockeys!”

Robyn waited for me to laugh or come back with my own lame joke. But I stood quietly, pretending to take the fire drill seriously, even though we were allowed to talk now.