Kimchi & Calamari Read Online Free PDF

any deep family secrets by saying this stuff. You hang out in a hair salon for more than ten minutes and you could write a biography about any one of the hairdressers.
    â€œI’m so happy to see my favorite teenaged godson,” Aunt Foxy called out.
    â€œWouldn’t have to do with that sack of towels, would it?” I pointed to the plastic bag she was filling on the floor.
    She came over and gave me a hug. “Of course not.”
    I knew Aunt Foxy’s joy had just as much to do with the towels as it did with my being her favorite godson. (I’m her only godson, by the way.) Whenever I walk into Shear Impressions, Mom and Aunt Foxy immediately see me as Joseph the Towel Boy. I’ve been carrying wet towels to Jiffy Wash Laundry ever since they bought the shop together five years ago.
    Jiffy Wash was only a block away from the library, so I didn’t mind running this errand. Besides, doing a good deed might earn me extra moolah to get two sprinkle cookies and a soda. Niente per niente. Mom taught me well.
    Mom opened her purse. “Here’s four dollars. Odd numbers are bad luck,” she said.
    I stuck the money in my back pocket just as a tall, older girl walked in. She had a pierced nose and a butterfly tattoo on her shoulder. If I could’ve teleported a message to Mom and Aunt Foxy, it would have said, “Don’t treat me like Towel Boy in front of her . Please.”
    But I wasn’t so lucky.
    Aunt Foxy rested the towel bag right smack in front of me. “I counted forty-six towels. This is heavy, so don’t drag it on the sidewalk—it might rip.”
    The girl didn’t even look at me. She grabbed a magazine and sat down. She probably thought I was a busboy from the Chinese restaurant across the street. People always think I’m Chinese; they think anyone with narrow eyes is. It used to bug me, but like Mom always says, you gotta get over the idiots in this world.
    She was too old for me anyway. Besides, she wasn’t as cute as Kelly.
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    Mrs. Faddegan flashed a toothy yellow smile as I dropped the towel bag on the counter.
    â€œThanks, Joseph. And tell your mom and Aunt Foxy that I’ll stop over later to say good-bye.”
    â€œGood-bye?”
    â€œGuess you didn’t hear. We’re moving to Florida. No more high taxes and damp winters for us.”
    Her news surprised me, though Mrs. Faddegan had been threatening to leave New Jersey for years.
    â€œHerb and I bought a condo in Boca Raton,” she said, sliding a brochure across the counter. “Comes with a community hot tub and free cable TV.”
    â€œDoes that include HBO and Showtime?” I asked.
    â€œI’m not sure,” she answered, her face serious, like she wanted to call Florida to find out.
    Mrs. Faddegan started to say something else, hesitated, and then started again. “You might like to know that the couple who bought the business are Korean.” She spoke loud over the rumbling of washers and dryers.
    I nodded, not sure what to say. Mostly I was wondering how I could get out of there fast. Everyone knew that Randazzo’s ran out of sprinkle cookies around four o’clock, and I definitely didn’t want their anisette cookies, which taste nasty, like black licorice.
    â€œThe new owners open tomorrow,” she said. “They’re from Flushing. Too crowded for them in the city, I guess. ’Course, I didn’t tell them how traffic backs up on Grant Avenue once the packing plant lets out at five.”
    The Jiffy Wash was sticky hot, and the strong smell of bleach was giving me a headache. I had to hurry to get to Randazzo’s and the library before they closed.
    â€œGood-bye, Mrs. Faddegan. Good luck in Florida. And definitely get HBO. You deserve it.”

Playing Bongos for the Gods
    â€œS top right there. Clarinets, start earlier—after the refrain,” Mrs. Athena, our pint-sized band director, called from