Kimchi & Calamari by Rose Kent

discovering some things about what it means to be Korean.”
    The one-minute-until-you’re-late bell rang, but Mrs. Peroutka kept going. “I think the circumstances justify my giving you a second chance. Your makeup essay can address your ethnicity and other aspects of your identity—including your adoption, if you want. It doesn’t have to be about your blood relations,” she added, wiping chalk from her hands.
    â€œThanks, Mrs. Peroutka,” I said. “I mean…well, for listening to me.”
    I owed her that. She’d given me a do-over when she could’ve sliced the you-flunk guillotine on my neck.
    â€œOne more thing, Joseph,” she called as I started to leave. “Your revised essay is due next Tuesday. And while I enjoy your storytelling, I expect nonfiction this time.”
    Â 
    I stood in the express checkout lane that night feeling half-and-half, like the cream Mom sent me in for. I felt half relieved that I’d made my confession, and half crummy that the truth was out. Rumors were spreading at school that I’d bought an essay over the Internet and tried to pass it off as my own. As if. We’re not even online at my house.
    Just as I put the cream, bread, and Capicola ham on the conveyor belt, Kelly walked into the supermarket.
    For a second I pretended not to see her, what with all the talk going around about me. But no, Kelly and I were friends. She’d understand. So as soon as I paid the cashier, I walked over to her in the floral section. We hadn’t talked since she’d asked me about playing miniature golf, and I wondered if we were still on.
    I tapped her on the shoulder. “What’s up, MVP?”
    â€œNothing,” she snapped back without looking at me. Her arms were crossed, and she kept staring at the bouquets on the $5.99 display rack.
    â€œWhatsamatta?” I rested the grocery bag on the floor.
    â€œYou’re a big liar, that’s what. I heard about your fake essay. And to think I fell for your ‘I’m adopted and writing letters to my birth family’ story.”
    She kept staring at those flowers. I felt like jumping up on the display just to get her attention.
    Dad told me once how President Nixon lied and had to leave the White House in disgrace because of a scandal called Watergate. Looking at Kelly’s scowling face, I realized that I was caught up in Essaygate.
    â€œI wasn’t lying, Kelly. I am adopted. And if I wanted to impress you, I would’ve come up with a much better story. Trust me.”
    No response.
    â€œListen, I couldn’t write the essay because I don’t know my birth family,” I said, staring down at my sneakers. “My parents don’t know anything either, and I panicked.”
    Finally she looked at me. “You told me you were writing back and forth with your family in Korea,” she said.
    â€œI want to…I mean, I’m going to. It’s complicated.”
    â€œI don’t respect dishonest people,” she declared. And she walked past me so fast that I felt a breeze.
    That was when I felt my blood really starting to boil, as Aunt Foxy says. How dare she suggest I’m dishonest! Last year I found five dollars wedged in the seat on the school bus and I turned it in to the bus driver.
    Besides, Kelly didn’t have a clue what it was like being adopted. Not a clue.
    I marched right up beside her, next to a giant cactus. “Know what, Kelly? I don’t respect golden girls who rushto judge others without checking the facts. And by the way, I’ll pass on miniature golf this weekend. I’ve got commitments.” Then I picked up the grocery bag and headed toward the automatic exit door.
    Like Dad, I mixed metaphors, but I got my point across.
    Then the door shut behind me. On Kelly and any wish I had for us to go to the Farewell Formal together.

Comic Relief
    N ash and I locked our bikes in front of the comic book