I laughed out loud as I ran downstairs. Nash and I were both hot on the trail of Korean women.
Dad was already in the kitchen, ready for work, when I walked in and stuck a Pop-Tart in the toaster. He’d hired a college student to help with business until he got the cast off, even though he said he’d still be working in a “limited way.” How he’d limit himself as a window washer, I don’t know, but he promised Mom he’d be careful.
He poured coffee into his Yankees mug. “You’re up early, son.”
“Today’s a big day.”
Dad nodded and sat down in front of his breakfast.
I grabbed my Pop-Tart from the toaster, and a pen and pad from the kitchen drawer and sat next to him.
“Would you translate a letter into Italian, Dad?” Sometimes Nonno Calderaro still talked to Dad in Italian, especially when he was excited, so I knew he could.
“My spelling isn’t so hot, but I could try. What’s it for?”
“Nash wants to ask a girl to the Farewell Formal. We think writing a note in Italian might get her to say yes.”
Dad reached for the pen and pad. “Good thing I didn’t break my right arm. Go ahead, I’m ready for dictation, Caruso.”
“Who’s Caruso?” I bit into my Pop-Tart. Ouch, the filling burned my tongue.
“Only the greatest Italian tenor of all time. He was born in Naples. Talk about someone who had a way with the ladies.”
I unfolded Nash’s scribbled note and read it out loud:
Ok-hee,
You’re smart and pretty. And you play piano like a pro. You also make me smile. Would you go to the Farewell Formal with me?
From your loyal lab partner,
Pete Nash
“Ok-hee doesn’t sound like an Italian name,” Dad said between bites of his bagel.
“It’s Ok-hee Han. The Hans who bought the Jiffy Wash, remember?”
“The Korean family—where you had dinner?”
I nodded.
“This could only happen in New Jersey.”
I felt goofy, sitting in the kitchen reading Nash’s words to Dad, but I could tell he enjoyed playing Italian translator. Besides, what other choice did I have? Asking Mom to write the note would’ve been even more embarrassing, because then all the ladies in the shop would hear about it. And the only Italian my sisters knew were the swear words Mom yells when we’re in trouble.
Dad scribbled it all down and slid the notepad over to me. “Tell Pete he’s got the heart and soul of a romantic. Now who are you asking?”
“Robyn Carleton. She plays flute. And no, she doesn’t read Italian.”
He stood up and brought his dishes to the sink. “A girl with the gift of music. I like her already. Do you have any tricks up your sleeve to get her to say yes?”
“Nope. I’m just going to ask her. Straight up.”
“Attaboy, Joseph,” Dad said, picking up his keys. “Well, I better get going. We’ve got an apartment complex scheduled in Passaic today with lots of windows.”
Then he paused. “Mom’s going to call the agency for you later. Hopefully we’ll get some answers.”
He put on his Calderaro Window Washers cap and headed for the door. “Good luck today, Joseph.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You take it easy.” But I couldn’t help wondering—did he mean good luck with the adoption agency, or with Robyn?
Like When Billybob Died
The air felt soupy as I ran up the driveway after school that afternoon. Gina and Sophie were running through the sprinkler on the front lawn. Frazer lay on the soggy grass nearby with his tongue hanging out.
Nash had stayed after school, so I didn’t know whether he’d given Ok-hee the note. And I hadn’t seen Robyn all day, so I didn’t get to ask her to the dance. But Mom always comes through when she makes a promise, and I was bursting to hear what the agency told her.
“Mommy’s been on the phone talking about you,” Gina shouted. The sprinkler gushed water into her face as she spoke.
I blew past her excitedly, my backpack banging up and down.
“What did they say?” I called as I charged into the kitchen.
Mom’s face was flushed. She didn’t answer, but she crossed her arms across her tank top and looked down at the kitchen floor.
“Did you call the agency?” I asked.
“Have some lemonade before we talk,” she said.
Years ago, before we got Frazer, I had a pet hamster named Billybob. One day while I was at school, Mom found Billybob balled up stiff in the corner of the cage. That moment Mom had the same expression as when Billybob died.
“Tell me.” I wiped my forehead.
Mom sat in a kitchen chair, but I kept standing, leaning against the fridge and tapping my foot. And not like I was playing the timpani for fun either.