Kimchi & Calamari Read Online Free PDF Page A

mind.
    Call me Chicken Calderaro. Just thinking about this suddenly made me clammy. “I’ve got to write an essay, Dad, about my ancestry. Family roots from Korea, that sort of stuff.” I bounced the basketball as I spoke. “But I don’t know where to start.”
    Dad scratched his back. “I could tell you plenty of stories about Nonna and Nonno Calderaro. How they came from Siena, just south of Florence, in August of 1947.”
    I said nothing.
    â€œNew York City was an oven in the summertime back then,” he continued. “Nonno told me it hit a hundred and three degrees when he and Nonna arrived, and the water fountain broke, no kidding. The only valuable thing Nonno brought from Italy was a pair of silver shears his father gave him. Which his father’s father gave him .
    â€œBoth your grandparents worked in an upholstery factory in Brooklyn for three years, six days a week. They saved every nickel until they could open their own tailor shop.” Dad paused, then added, “A tailor shop that made custom suits for Wall Street bankers.”
    I was listening, but honest to God, I didn’t get Dad. He knew I’d heard Nonna and Nonno Calderaro’s immigrant rags to middle-class riches story umpteen times. I knew things were hard back then. But why was my life hard for Dad to talk about? After all, he chose to adopt me.
    Dad kept going on about the neighborhood his parents moved to after they opened the tailor shop. Italian Harlem, that’s what they called it. I grew madder with each word. Why’d I ever think I could talk to him about this?
    â€œThey’re not my ancestors,” I blurted, interrupting Dad.
    The Mad Meter suddenly switched on and started pulsing at an eighth-note tempo.
    â€œThat’s a heck of a thing to say about your grandparents,” he said.
    â€œThey’re great, Dad. But I’m asking you about my Korean relatives, and you’re not helping.”
    â€œI don’t know any more than you do, Joseph. Talk to your mother about that.”
    Dad picked up his water bottle and T-shirt from the grass. Time to go home.
    Talk to your mother, he’d said. As if I’d asked what’s for dinner.

Towel Boy
    O n Monday afternoon the school bus screeched to a halt in front of the post office and I hopped off. Rain sprinkled on my face like salt on french fries. I was headed to the library. So far, the only thing Nash had found about the day I was born was that Pusan had set a record for rainfall. That would hardly take fifteen hundred words to describe. So I decided to get a few library books and load my essay up with a bunch of who-what-where facts about Korea—in case Nash didn’t find anything in time. Maybe if my writing was clever enough, Mrs. Peroutka would forget about all that ancestry stuff.
    First, though, I’d stop at Mom’s shop to get money for a snack.
    By the time I got to Shear Impressions, my backpack was soaked and my hair looked like black spaghetti. Nutley was setting its own record for rain.
    â€œJoseph, my little water rat. Where’s your umbrella?” Mom called from the register as she rang up a customer.
    â€œHold the flattery, Mom. I’m off to the library on an empty stomach. Can I have three bucks for a salad?”
    â€œSalad my behind. You’re headed to Randazzo’s Bakery,” she said.
    Mom’s customer handed her a tip and smiled as if she was in on the joke, too. She was one of what Mom calls her SOWS, Sweet Old Wash ’n’ Setters.
    Aunt Foxy walked out from the back room with her arms full of wet towels. She was dressed up fancy: a red satin blouse, huge hoop earrings, and a suede skirt, which meant she was over her recent wrecked romance. Aunt Foxy usually wears a sweat suit without makeup when she’s recovering from a breakup. She’s had plenty of boyfriends, but Mom says no one ever treats her good enough. Not that I’m betraying