Kimchi & Calamari by Rose Kent Page B

guy sounded messed up. He wrote that he was your long-lost brother, and that he wanted to reunite on a live talk show.”
    â€œWhat makes you so sure he’s a fake?”
    â€œHe wanted a hundred bucks first.”
    â€œGood thing I’ve got you looking out for me,” I said. But inside I didn’t feel good about the search. Or hopeful. “Nothing’s going to turn up, Nash. I’m starting to thinkthe adoption agency just pulled me out of a deep dark hole. Abracadabra, one Korean kid.”
    â€œWe’ve got a chance. Your posting had more details than some of the others. It just takes time.”
    Maybe it was hearing about the adoption scam artist. Or maybe it was talking about the essay and Kelly. But suddenly I felt empty—like the soda bottle in my hand.
    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.
    â€œYou gotta do better than that, Wolverine Wannabe!” I shouted out to him, pedaling furiously with my back to the wind.

Korean Culture 101
    â€œJ oseph, 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.
    â€œDo 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.”
    â€œBulgogi?”
    â€œBul-go-gi,” he answered slowly. “It means ‘fire meat.’”
    â€œOh, it’s spicy?”
    â€œIt’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?”
    â€œSure,” 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.
    â€œSure, I can come, Yongsu. Just make sure it’s one ofthe old Jackie Chan movies.”
    â€œOh yeah,” he said. “He kicks and punches way better in the old ones.”
    Â 
    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.
    â€œHello, Mrs. Han.” I spoke politely, bowing like