Kimchi & Calamari(31)

All this good-student talk made me nervous. What if they asked about my essay?

Redirect the conversation. Like Mom does when customers suggest dyeing their hair ridiculous colors. “What do you miss most about Korea, Mr. Han?”

He paused. “In Korea, young people show respect for elders. They understand that age has earned such respect. Not so here.”

I nodded. Dad would agree with Mr. Han, though he’d say it in his own Jersey way.

“Would you like to visit Korea, Joseph?” he asked.

“Definitely. I want to check out Pusan.” I tried to chew without opening my mouth.

“My brother and I worked at the Pusan docks in the summer when we were your age,” he said.

I thought about the police station where they found me, wondering how far it was from those docks. Mr. Han could have passed that station every day when he was a kid.

“People from Pusan are different.” Mr. Han smiled at Mrs. Han. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

She nodded as she poured soy sauce over her rice. “They have a funny accent, like Americans down South. And they are…how can I explain? Straight talkers, they speak their mind. You understand?”

“Sure,” I said. Like me, I thought, suddenly getting excited. She’s describing me!

“Pusan has beautiful sandy beaches,” Mr. Han said. “And it’s very hilly. If you arrive there at night, you think, Look at all the tall buildings lit up! But in daylight, you see they are hills with one-story houses, not skyscrapers.”

I bit into another piece of bulgogi. My stomach was expanding like a water balloon. I wanted Mr. Han to describe Pusan’s hills, the docks, the kids playing whatever games kids play there. Finally I’d be able to fill in the details of my déjà-vu dream. To know what it was like where I was born.

“Joseph won a school essay contest about his Korean family,” Ok-hee announced.

“Didn’t you write about Sohn Kee Chung?” Yongsu asked.

Every Han stopped chewing.

“What was your essay about?” Mr. Han asked, his eyes wide.

Gulp.

“Nothing special. Basic Korean stuff.” My forehead was shooting sweat like a busted fire hydrant. Somehow Yongsu and Ok-hee mustn’t have heard about Essaygate. Time to redirect again. “So, what’s your favorite part of Korea, Ok-hee?” I asked.

“Right now Ok-hee’s favorite place is Europe,” Yongsu said as he mixed kimchi in with his bulgogi. “She wants to study abroad.”

“I’ve lived in Korea and America. I want to check out someplace else,” Ok-hee said, pouting. “Mrs. Peroutka says we should think about global careers. You want me to be successful, don’t you?”

“Remember, you are thirteen years old, not twenty,” Mrs. Han answered. “More kimchi, Joseph?”

“Yes, please.” I could feel bullets flying in this Han family cross fire. It was a familiar feeling, given my feisty twin sisters. “My parents can’t agree on a favorite Italian city. Mom says Naples, but Dad says Florence. They’re both loyal to where their parents were born.”

Ok-hee smiled. “I’d love to spend a semester in Italy. And tenth grade would be perfect, before all that college entrance prep begins.”

“What language do you study?” Mrs. Han asked me.

“Spanish.” Didn’t most kids take Spanish, except the ones whose parents force French on them?

“Ok-hee takes Italian,” Mrs. Han said. “We do not understand why.”

“Because it’s a beautiful language. And if I study there, I’ll use it,” she answered. She sounded satisfied, like when Sophie has a good comeback for Mom.

Mr. and Mrs. Han just kept eating.

“Do you know anything about the Korean language?” Mr. Han asked.

I shook my head.

“Korean is considered a ‘polite language’ because the words spoken may be formal or informal, depending on the person you are addressing. It is based on Hangul, the Korean alphabet with twenty-four characters. Which is the—”

“Most perfect writing system in the world, “Yongsu and Ok-hee said in unison, imitating their father.

“This is true,” Mr. Han said, amused.

“We’ve been studying Hangul every Saturday since we left Korea, just in case we forget it.” Yongsu groaned.

I smiled at him sympathetically, like what a pain that would be. But the truth was, I wished I could speak Korean too.

After dinner we carried our dishes to the kitchen. I handed Mrs. Han the empty bulgogi platter.

“Gamsa hamnida,” I said, trying hard to make the right sounds.

She bowed and smiled back.

Yongsu and I stacked the dishes in the sink. Mrs. Han washed and Ok-hee dried. There was no dishwasher in sight.