Kimchi & Calamari(29)

Yet it was like Nash could read my mind, because quick as lightning, he hopped on his bike and shouted, “I should write in your posting how your best friend can kick your butt in a bike race!”

And off he flew, racing down the street, zigzagging from one side to the other.

My down-in-the-dumps mood disappeared faster than that Baby Ruth bar. Challenging Joseph Calderaro is risky business. I pushed up the kickstand, jumped on my seat, and took off.

Pedaling like a Tour de France champion, I whizzed by Nash, my face and hair dripping wet. I knew that his mom wouldn’t be happy with our racing, but Nash sure looked headache free to me.

“You gotta do better than that, Wolverine Wannabe!” I shouted out to him, pedaling furiously with my back to the wind.





Korean Culture 101




“Joseph, telephone!” Sophie shouted that night. I jumped up from my desk, thrilled with an excuse to stop working on Version Two of The Essay That Destroyed My Life.

The voice on the phone was so squeaky that, at first, I thought it was a girl.

“Do you want to come to my house for dinner tomorrow night?” Yongsu asked. “My mom’s making bulgogi, and we can watch a Jackie Chan video afterward.”

“Bulgogi?”

“Bul-go-gi,” he answered slowly. “It means ‘fire meat.’”

“Oh, it’s spicy?”

“It’s thin beef strips that get marinated and grilled. Tastes a little spicy and a little sweet.”

Yum. “Does your mom know you’re asking me?”

“Sure,” he said. “Your mom permed my mom’s hair yesterday.”

Aha. Maria Calderaro’s manicured fingers were meddling again. She must have come up with this plan as a way for me to learn about Korea. I could just hear her bribing Mrs. Han: “You give my kid the Korean lowdown and I’ll perm you for half price.”

But I wasn’t sure about this dinner. Mrs. Han still treated me like the poster boy for Korea’s shame, and the Hans’ house was the real deal. How could I enjoy bulgogi while feeling like a Korean knucklehead?

Well, I had no plans anyway. Nash was going to visit his sister at college. And Frankie was grounded all week for using his mom’s cell phone to interview Farewell Formal date candidates.

Besides, nobody smashes heads and breaks bones better than Jackie Chan. And I was curious about the Hans.

“Sure, I can come, Yongsu. Just make sure it’s one of the old Jackie Chan movies.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “He kicks and punches way better in the old ones.”



Garlic and soy sauce. Yongsu opened the front door and that’s all I smelled. Our house smells garlicky too, but more like garlic and tomato.

I followed Yongsu into the Hans’ narrow kitchen. Mrs. Han was standing near the stove, scooping rice out of a pot. The walls were covered with orange wallpaper. Above the kitchen table was a painting of two Korean men, sitting cross-legged, playing instruments that looked like coconuts strung together. Asian drummers, I thought. Like me.

“Hello, Mrs. Han.” I spoke politely, bowing like Yongsu did when he greeted his dad. I handed her the wrapped pignoli cookies that Mom picked up from Randazzo’s.

She smiled, then said something that I didn’t understand.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Gamsa hamnida, thank you.”

I smiled.

“You say, ‘you’re welcome,’ ch’onman-eyo. You try.”

I did, but those sounds didn’t roll off my tongue as smoothly. I felt like a toddler taking his first steps. Then Mrs. Han spoke to Yongsu in Korean. I could tell it was about me.

Yongsu nudged my elbow. He pointed to my sneakers. “We don’t wear shoes in the house.”

I looked in the hallway. A row of shoes rested against the wall.

Duh. A real Korean would have known that.

Full of dread, I untied my sneakers. One of my socks had a huge hole in the heel, and the other looked more brown than white.

Classical music floated from the room off the kitchen. It sounded like a song we’d played once in a concert. I peeked over the half wall and saw Ok-hee curled up on the couch, reading.

“Ah, Vivaldi. I know him well,” I called to her as I followed Yongsu into the wood-paneled room.

“Lucky guess,” she answered without even looking up from Teen People. Mom always keeps a copy of that magazine in the shop. It didn’t exactly fit Ok-hee’s brilliant babe image, but I guess smart girls just want to be girls too.

“You must be who I’m playing the duet with for the moving-up ceremony,” Ok-hee added casually.

“Mistaken identity,” I said. “That would be Steve. I’m the gifted drummer with the solo.”