Kimchi & Calamari(25)

“You wouldn’t want to be the same as Sophie,” I said.

“Yes I would.” She grabbed another Oreo and banged it on the kitchen table. It broke and fell to the floor. “See? Even eating cookies is a tragedy for me!”

I stifled a laugh. “Having clone Sophies would be like sticking two fighting fish in the same tank. Besides, different doesn’t mean you’re not as good.”

She kept shaking her head. I knew that whatever I said was going to sound lame, like a parent insisting “you tried your best” after you got cut from the team.

Hadn’t I felt second-rate when Gina and Sophie were born? I remember looking down at their cute little faces in their matching wicker bassinets, wondering if Mom and Dad would still call me their baby. Nonna Sculletti said the twins had Sculletti noses, and Nonna Calderaro called them the picture of Dad. Of course, no one said any of that about me.

As I got up to refill my glass, I thought about an Italian saying Nonna Calderaro uses: Only the spoon knows what’s stirring the pot. I had adoption stuff on my mind, and meanwhile, Gina, the cutest tadpole from Mom and Dad’s own gene pool, had her own identity crisis. Who knew?

“Okay, here’s something that makes Gina Calderaro special in my book. Nobody sings ‘Hakuna Matata’ like you. Keep it up, and you just might get into Disney University.”

A smile slowly crossed Gina’s face. “I love singing. You really think I’m good?”

“You bet your donkey.” I tugged on Eeyore’s floppy ear.

“There’s no such place as Disney University, Joseph,” she said with her mouth showing mashed cookie.

“Says who? I read about this geeky guy who graduated first in his class from Disney U. He wore glasses and had a twin, too. Now he’s got the lead on Broadway in Beauty and the Beast.”

Gina was giggling now, her long hair swinging forward and almost falling into her glass of milk.

“He’s a lot hairier than you, but you’ve got time.” I swiped the last unlicked Oreo.

“Mommy said the Y is offering kids’ singing lessons starting this month. She says she’ll sign me up if I promise not to change my mind like last year, after she paid.”

“Go for it, Gina,” I said.

Then I saw Mom and Dad stand up from their patio chairs. They looked as if they were coming my way, so I headed out of their way. Upstairs.



I was in bed reading an oldie-but-goodie comic, “The Revenge of the Green Goblin,” when I heard the knock. Actually it was more like knock-knock-BANG!, which could only mean one thing: Mom was on a rampage.

Since dinner I’d felt like a gunfighter readying myself for a showdown. Not only was the waiting stressful, but I had indigestion from the creamy broccoli sauce.

Mom barged in. “Talk to me about this essay,” she demanded, her arms crossed over her checkered nightgown.

“Didn’t Dad give you the Reader’s Digest version?”

She grabbed a sock off the floor and flung it at me. “What were you thinking, making up that story?”

Mom started pacing, which isn’t easy to do in my room. Gina and Sophie have the longer room, which gives Mom more space. Then she started pouring on the guilt gravy—how she’s never hidden anything from me, how she’s always tried to be truthful, and how come I wasn’t honest in my essay.

“What, we embarrass you, is that it?” she shouted, her hands flailing up and down like railroad crossing signs. “Your father is so upset, he barely touched his dinner—and he made it!”

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, Mom.”

She kept shaking her head. Without makeup her skin looked chalky against her dark eyes, and that made her seem even madder.

“It was a dumb mistake. I’m sorry.” I stared at my stack of comic books underneath the nightstand.

“You know what plagiarism is, Joseph?”

“This isn’t plagiarism, Mom. I wrote the story myself. I didn’t copy it.”

“But that man wasn’t your grandfather. You stole him from a book! Your father and I decided that for lying, you’re sentenced to a weekend of yard work. No going over to Nash’s house, no TV, and no video games.”

I pouted my lips, but actually I’d gotten off easy. Maybe Mom was going light on me because she knew how bad I’d get hassled at school. They might suspend me, or even expel me. Then I’d have to go to a reform school with psychopaths who’d cut off my ears if I didn’t hand over my lunch money.

Mom walked toward the door, but then she stopped. “Lying, trouble in school—this isn’t like you, Joseph. You’re adopted, and that’s perfectly fine. Why didn’t you tell the truth?” She rubbed her eyelids with her fingertips.