Kimchi And Calamari Part 10

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"Gamsa hamnida, thank you."

I smiled.

"You say, 'you're welcome,' ch'onman-eyo. You try."

I did, but those sounds didn't roll off my tongue as smoothly. I felt like a toddler taking his first steps. Then Mrs. Han spoke to Yongsu in Korean. I could tell it was about me.

Yongsu nudged my elbow. He pointed to my sneakers. "We don't wear shoes in the house."

I looked in the hallway. A row of shoes rested against the wall.

Duh. A real Korean would have known that.

Full of dread, I untied my sneakers. One of my socks had a huge hole in the heel, and the other looked more brown than white.

Cla.s.sical music floated from the room off the kitchen. It sounded like a song we'd played once in a concert. I peeked over the half wall and saw Ok-hee curled up on the couch, reading.

"Ah, Vivaldi. I know him well," I called to her as I followed Yongsu into the wood-paneled room.

"Lucky guess," she answered without even looking up from Teen People. Mom always keeps a copy of that magazine in the shop. It didn't exactly fit Ok-hee's brilliant babe image, but I guess smart girls just want to be girls too.

"You must be who I'm playing the duet with for the moving-up ceremony," Ok-hee added casually.

"Mistaken ident.i.ty," I said. "That would be Steve. I'm the gifted drummer with the solo."

Ok-hee laughed.

This seemed like a good time to put a word in for Nash.

"Do you know my friend Pete Nash?" I asked. "He plays trumpet."

She nodded. "We're lab partners in science. He's kind of quiet."

"He just seems shy until you get to know him. Get him out of that academic dungeon and he really opens up. He's a computer whiz and a great hockey player, too."

"I didn't know he played hockey."

"Yeah, well, there's a lot more to Nash than his freckles."

Yongsu nudged me. "C'mon, let's start Dragons Forever before dinner."

Dragons Forever? That's my all-time favorite Jackie Chan movie. "Let's do it. What could be better than Jackie's jump in the last fight scene?"

An hour later we gathered for dinner around a card table that Mrs. Han had covered with a crocheted tablecloth. I sat next to Yongsu, across from Ok-hee.

Mr. Han was the last to join us. He'd come home from work later than Mrs. Han. I noticed that n.o.body touched a thing, not even a water gla.s.s, until he was ready.

Before we started eating, Mr. Han turned to me. "Joseph, your mother tells us you need to learn about Korea. You ask us any questions you want."

I nodded, but I felt insulted. Was this supposed to be dinner, or an educate-the-confused-Korean mission? No way would I act like that. Korean blood flowed through my veins just like theirs.

Mrs. Han walked from seat to seat, scooping mounds of sticky white rice into small bowls near our plates. Then she placed a large bowl next to the meat platter. It was full of vegetables covered in an orangey sauce, and it smelled like rotten fish.

Yongsu must have seen me staring. "That's kimchi," he explained.

"I know," I said, but I didn't really, although I'd read about Sohn Kee Chung's family eating kimchi.

There were no knives or forks, but chopsticks lay next to each folded napkin. Mine were wooden. The Hans' were silver.

Everyone dug in after Mrs. Han sat down, but I hesitated. Whenever I use chopsticks in a restaurant, the floor beneath my chair collects more food debris than the Meadowlands Arena after a rock concert.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Yongsu eat. He quickly picked bits of food off his plate with his chopsticks as if they were pinchers extending from his fingers. But my chopsticks had a mind of their own. The harder I squeezed, the wider they swung apart. Halfway to my mouth, most of the food fell. So I tried pushing them together and using them like a shovel, but you don't shovel much rice with chopsticks.

Without a word Mrs. Han came over, took one of my chopsticks, placed it against the crook of my thumb, and wrapped my middle and ring fingers around it like it was a pen. Then she tucked the other between the tip of my thumb and my pointer finger.

"Hold the bottom one still," she explained, pivoting the top one like a lever.

I pressed too hard and the bottom stick wobbled.

"Relax your hands," she added, adjusting my grip.

I tried again with lame results. And again, only this time I speared a piece of bulgogi.

Mrs. Han readjusted my fingers. "No poking with chopsticks. You can do it, Joseph."

Eyeing a big clump of rice in my bowl, I tried her technique, holding the bottom chopstick steady. This time the rice made it all the way to my mouth. I grinned, savoring the hard-earned taste.

"Thanks, the chopsticks are different at my house," I said, just as-plop!-a piece of bulgogi slipped between my chopsticks and into my water gla.s.s.

Everyone laughed, even me. It was funny.

"Try some kimchi," Mrs. Han said after I fished the meat out. I tasted a small piece. Kimchi sure was a spicy veggie with a lot of "character." Dad always says that about hot foods.

"So your family's Italian?" Ok-hee asked.

"Seriously Italian. We eat pasta three times a week and we all talk with our hands." I took a big gulp of water. Sesame seeds were floating on top from the stray bulgogi.

"My best friend Lisa in Flushing is Italian. Her mom makes this delicious bean soup with tomatoes and macaroni," Ok-hee said.

"Pasta f.a.gioli. My mom has a hundred-year-old family recipe, only she loads it up with sausage. I call it f.a.gioli carnivory. Mmm, makes my mouth water."

"Ok-hee's a vegetarian," Yongsu whispered.

Mr. Han quickly turned the conversation to school. "So, Joseph, do you get good grades?" he asked, scooping more rice into his bowl.

"Straight As, most of the time."

Ok-hee rolled her eyes. "School matters more than happiness to Korean parents," she said.

"Working hard helps you find happiness," Mr. Han quickly answered. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he spoke.

All this good-student talk made me nervous. What if they asked about my essay?

Redirect the conversation. Like Mom does when customers suggest dyeing their hair ridiculous colors. "What do you miss most about Korea, Mr. Han?"

He paused. "In Korea, young people show respect for elders. They understand that age has earned such respect. Not so here."

I nodded. Dad would agree with Mr. Han, though he'd say it in his own Jersey way.

"Would you like to visit Korea, Joseph?" he asked.

"Definitely. I want to check out Pusan." I tried to chew without opening my mouth.

"My brother and I worked at the Pusan docks in the summer when we were your age," he said.

I thought about the police station where they found me, wondering how far it was from those docks. Mr. Han could have pa.s.sed that station every day when he was a kid.

"People from Pusan are different." Mr. Han smiled at Mrs. Han. "Wouldn't you agree?"

She nodded as she poured soy sauce over her rice. "They have a funny accent, like Americans down South. And they are...how can I explain? Straight talkers, they speak their mind. You understand?"

"Sure," I said. Like me, I thought, suddenly getting excited. She's describing me!

"Pusan has beautiful sandy beaches," Mr. Han said. "And it's very hilly. If you arrive there at night, you think, Look at all the tall buildings lit up! But in daylight, you see they are hills with one-story houses, not skysc.r.a.pers."

I bit into another piece of bulgogi. My stomach was expanding like a water balloon. I wanted Mr. Han to describe Pusan's hills, the docks, the kids playing whatever games kids play there. Finally I'd be able to fill in the details of my deja-vu dream. To know what it was like where I was born.

"Joseph won a school essay contest about his Korean family," Ok-hee announced.

"Didn't you write about Sohn Kee Chung?" Yongsu asked.

Every Han stopped chewing.

"What was your essay about?" Mr. Han asked, his eyes wide.

Gulp.

"Nothing special. Basic Korean stuff." My forehead was shooting sweat like a busted fire hydrant. Somehow Yongsu and Ok-hee mustn't have heard about Essaygate. Time to redirect again. "So, what's your favorite part of Korea, Ok-hee?" I asked.

"Right now Ok-hee's favorite place is Europe," Yongsu said as he mixed kimchi in with his bulgogi. "She wants to study abroad."

"I've lived in Korea and America. I want to check out someplace else," Ok-hee said, pouting. "Mrs. Peroutka says we should think about global careers. You want me to be successful, don't you?"

"Remember, you are thirteen years old, not twenty," Mrs. Han answered. "More kimchi, Joseph?"

"Yes, please." I could feel bullets flying in this Han family cross fire. It was a familiar feeling, given my feisty twin sisters. "My parents can't agree on a favorite Italian city. Mom says Naples, but Dad says Florence. They're both loyal to where their parents were born."

Ok-hee smiled. "I'd love to spend a semester in Italy. And tenth grade would be perfect, before all that college entrance prep begins."

"What language do you study?" Mrs. Han asked me.

"Spanish." Didn't most kids take Spanish, except the ones whose parents force French on them?

"Ok-hee takes Italian," Mrs. Han said. "We do not understand why."

"Because it's a beautiful language. And if I study there, I'll use it," she answered. She sounded satisfied, like when Sophie has a good comeback for Mom.

Mr. and Mrs. Han just kept eating.

"Do you know anything about the Korean language?" Mr. Han asked.

I shook my head.

"Korean is considered a 'polite language' because the words spoken may be formal or informal, depending on the person you are addressing. It is based on Hangul, the Korean alphabet with twenty-four characters. Which is the-"

"Most perfect writing system in the world, "Yongsu and Ok-hee said in unison, imitating their father.

"This is true," Mr. Han said, amused.

"We've been studying Hangul every Sat.u.r.day since we left Korea, just in case we forget it." Yongsu groaned.

I smiled at him sympathetically, like what a pain that would be. But the truth was, I wished I could speak Korean too.

After dinner we carried our dishes to the kitchen. I handed Mrs. Han the empty bulgogi platter.

"Gamsa hamnida," I said, trying hard to make the right sounds.

She bowed and smiled back.

Yongsu and I stacked the dishes in the sink. Mrs. Han washed and Ok-hee dried. There was no dishwasher in sight.

"Uhmma, I need a haircut," Ok-hee said to her mother.

"Joseph's mother cuts hair very nice," Mrs. Han said.

"And you could practice your Italian on her," I added.

Ok-hee touched her barrette, the way girls always do when they're talking about hair.

Dad was reading in his recliner when I got home. "There's blueberry pie in the fridge," he called from behind The Great Gatsby.

"I'm stuffed." I walked past him toward the stairs.

He looked like he expected me to start a conversation. Why did it always have to be me? He could've asked how things went at the Hans.

I hadn't even reached the top step when Mom's questions began. "Tell me all about it," she said, walking out of the bathroom with a mud mask on her face.