by Rose Kent
Mom frowned at him. “Will you please try to be positive?”
“She’s my birth mother. I know it,” I said, purposely not looking at Mom. I just couldn’t.
“Are they Christian, Joseph?” she asked. “Remember how I told you that the note from your birth mother asked that you be placed with a Christian family?”
“I think so.” Actually, I’d forgotten to ask Jae that. But a gut feeling told me this would match up too, just like everything else Jae had said. Like the stars and planets on Mom’s astrology charts when things were meant to be.
The clock chimed. Midnight. Mom yawned. We got up and headed upstairs.
“Joseph?” Dad called when I reached the top step.
“Yeah, Dad?”
“Doesn’t matter if they’re Korean, Italian, or Swahili—families are never perfect. Whatever you find, it’s okay. You’re my boy.” He looked choked up.
“Don’t worry,” I said, and inside I felt happy that Dad was thinking about me that way. And that my parents and I were finally in this together.
“Go to bed, Mr. Tough Guy,” Dad said, and he took Mom’s hand as they walked toward their room.
I woke Monday morning even before Spider-Man zapped me with his danger alarm. My head felt like a two-lane highway with thoughts whizzing in opposite directions: first on contacting Hea after Mom spoke with the agency, and second on making plans for the Farewell Formal. Time was running out. I had to bite the bullet and ask Robyn. And I’d promised Nash that I’d get Dad to write the note for Ok-hee.
I laughed out loud as I ran downstairs. Nash and I were both hot on the trail of Korean women.
Dad was already in the kitchen, ready for work, when I walked in and stuck a Pop-Tart in the toaster. He’d hired a college student to help with business until he got the cast off, even though he said he’d still be working in a “limited way.” How he’d limit himself as a window washer, I don’t know, but he promised Mom he’d be careful.
He poured coffee into his Yankees mug. “You’re up early, son.”
“Today’s a big day.”
Dad nodded and sat down in front of his breakfast.
I grabbed my Pop-Tart from the toaster, and a pen and pad from the kitchen drawer and sat next to him.
“Would you translate a letter into Italian, Dad?” Sometimes Nonno Calderaro still talked to Dad in Italian, especially when he was excited, so I knew he could.
“My spelling isn’t so hot, but I could try. What’s it for?”
“Nash wants to ask a girl to the Farewell Formal. We think writing a note in Italian might get her to say yes.”
Dad reached for the pen and pad. “Good thing I didn’t break my right arm. Go ahead, I’m ready for dictation, Caruso.”
“Who’s Caruso?” I bit into my Pop-Tart. Ouch, the filling burned my tongue.
“Only the greatest Italian tenor of all time. He was born in Naples. Talk about someone who had a way with the ladies.”
I unfolded Nash’s scribbled note and read it out loud:
Ok-hee,
You’re smart and pretty. And you play piano like a pro. You also make me smile. Would you go to the Farewell Formal with me?
From your loyal lab partner,
Pete Nash
“Ok-hee doesn’t sound like an Italian name,” Dad said between bites of his bagel.
“It’s Ok-hee Han. The Hans who bought the Jiffy Wash, remember?”
“The Korean family—where you had dinner?”
I nodded.
“This could only happen in New Jersey.”
I felt goofy, sitting in the kitchen reading Nash’s words to Dad, but I could tell he enjoyed playing Italian translator. Besides, what other choice did I have? Asking Mom to write the note would’ve been even more embarrassing, because then all the ladies in the shop would hear about it. And the only Italian my sisters knew were the swear words Mom yells when we’re in trouble.
Dad scribbled it all down and slid the notepad over to me. “Tell Pete he’s got the heart and soul of a romantic. Now who are you asking?”
“Robyn Carleton. She plays flute. And no, she doesn’t read Italian.”
He stood up and brought his dishes to the sink. “A girl with the gift of music. I like her already. Do you have any tricks up your sleeve to get her to say yes?”
“Nope. I’m just going to ask her. Straight up.”
“Attaboy, Joseph,” Dad said, picking up his keys. “Well, I better get going. We’ve got an apartment complex scheduled in Passaic today with lots of windows.”
Then he paused. “Mom’s going to call the agency for you later. Hopefully we’ll get some answers.”
He put on his Calderaro Window Washers cap and headed for the door. “Good luck today, Joseph.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You take it easy.” But I couldn’t help wondering—did he mean good luck with the adoption agency, or with Robyn?
Like When Billybob Died
The air felt soupy as I ran up the driveway after school that afternoon. Gina and Sophie were running through the sprinkler on the front lawn. Frazer lay on the soggy grass nearby with his tongue hanging out.
Nash had stayed after school, so I didn’t know whether he’d given Ok-hee the note. And I hadn’t seen Robyn all day, so I didn’t get to ask her to the dance. But Mom always comes through when she makes a promise, and I was bursting to hear what the agency told her.
“Mommy’s been on the phone talking about you,” Gina shouted. The sprinkler gushed water into her face as she spoke.
I blew past her excitedly, my backpack banging up and down.
“What did they say?” I called as I charged into the kitchen.
Mom’s face was flushed. She didn’t answer, but she crossed her arms across her tank top and looked down at the kitchen floor.
“Did you call the agency?” I asked.
“Have some lemonade before we talk,” she said.
Years ago, before we got Frazer, I had a pet hamster named Billybob. One day while I was at school, Mom found Billybob balled up stiff in the corner of the cage. That moment Mom had the same expression as when Billybob died.
“Tell me.” I wiped my forehead.
Mom sat in a kitchen chair, but I kept standing, leaning against the fridge and tapping my foot. And not like I was playing the timpani for fun either.
“I’m sorry, Joseph. Hea can’t be your birth mother. I called Jae today, before I called the adoption agency. To check on her aunt’s religion. It turns out Hea isn’t Christian like your birth mother.”
I swallowed hard. “So what? The agency could’ve made a mistake.”
Mom shook her head. “I talked to the social worker, too. She checked the files.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about!” I pounded my fist against the fridge. Magnets and papers went flying.
“No, honey. We got you earlier than expected because the agency honored your birth mother’s wish. And the social worker told me that in all likelihood your mother didn’t live in Pusan like Hea. She said it was common for mothers from surrounding villages to leave their babies in the city.”
“You wanted this to happen. You didn’t want me to know!” I screamed, my whole body quivering.
“No, Joseph! God no!” Mom started crying.
I cried too, heavy, like a dam unleashed. Mom rushed over and put her arms around me, but I pushed her back.
“Leave me alone!” I growled like a wounded dog.
I pushed the patio screen door open and ran out to the backyard. Past Mom’s flowers, past Dad’s tomato plants, way back to the shade of the willow tree. I sank down into the coolness of the grass, my head between my knees so no one would see my tears. But Mom followed and sat down next to me. She wrapped her arms across my shoulders and patted my back.
I cried so hard I started hiccupping. Mom kept holding me, wiping back my hair and tears with her purple fingernails.
“How could she just dump me like a bag of trash?” I wailed. “I hat
e her!” And I did. I hated my birth mother and all the real Koreans. All their faces merged into a kaleidoscope of tears and scowls and empty bassinets.
“I’m sure she loved you, Joseph. She probably felt so frightened, being young, unmarried, and pregnant.” Mascara ran down her cheeks. “I know she thinks of you all the time, every single day.”
“I came so close to finding her.”
“I know this feels awful, but even if you don’t find your birth mother—or at least not now—you will find out more about who you are. And this time your father and I will help. We promise.”
The back gate swung open. “Mr. Twistee is coming down the street, Mom! Can we get ice cream?” Sophie shouted. Gina stood next to her with water dripping from her bikini.
I pulled away from Mom.
“Take some coins from the lunch money jar and leave us alone,” Mom said firmly.
“Why’s Joseph crying?” Gina asked.
I didn’t stick around for the answer. I leaped toward the house. As I passed Mom’s flowers, I pointed at Saint Joseph’s concrete chin.
“It’s all your fault!” I shouted.
“Phone, Joseph!” Gina yelled outside my bedroom door, later that evening.
“Go away.”
“But it’s a girl. You always talk when girls call.”
“I don’t care if it’s a supermodel. Buzz off.”
Close to dinnertime came another knock. “Come eat something, sweetie,” Mom said softly.
I kept the door locked and my eyes staring up at Pegasus on the ceiling, though it was harder to make out the stars during daytime.
Finally I dozed off. When I woke, my Spidey clock flashed 7:52. The sun was setting, and I heard two fists banging from the hallway.
“You gotta let us in, Joseph,” Gina pleaded. “We’ve got three ice-cream sandwiches and a can of root beer we snuck out of the kitchen while Mommy and Daddy went for a walk. If they come home and catch us up here with this stuff, we’re dead meat.”
“And the ice cream is melting!” Sophie added.
I let them in. They wouldn’t care that I had puffy red eyes.
The three of us sat by the foot of my bed in silence, eating drippy ice-cream sandwiches and taking turns gulping the soda. I took a long sip and passed the root beer to Sophie.
“Aren’t you going to say, ‘No backwash’ like you always do?” she asked.
I shook my head. I still wasn’t up for talking.
“It’s because he’s got hurt feelings,” Gina said, patting me on the arm with her sticky fingers. “Mom told us everything.”
“Told you what?”
“About your birth mother being missing.”
“She’s not missing, Gina. It’s more like she’s hiding.” Why was I discussing this with two clueless second graders?
“That makes us really mad!” Sophie shouted.
“Why are you guys mad?”
“Your birth mother is not nice!” Gina agreed, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses. “She’s wicked like the evil queen in Snow White.”
“No, she’s not. You just don’t get it.” I shook my head, but for some strange reason, I suddenly felt a little better.
“Joseph’s right, Gina. We shouldn’t be mad at his birth mother. I’m glad she let Mommy and Daddy have him because otherwise he wouldn’t be in the same family. He wouldn’t be our brother.” Sophie flashed those big brown eyes of hers. She looked so innocent that I felt guilty for all the times I swore she was possessed.
Gina licked her fingers. “You’re wrong, Sophie. Joseph would always be our brother. It’s just his birth mother would be our mom.”
“Then who would Mommy be?” Sophie asked, totally confused.
“She’d be your hairdresser,” I said, fighting back a laugh.
The Three-Eyed Alien
We had a sub in English the next day who let us talk, but I was in no mood for chitchat. Especially with all the jabbering about who was going with who to the dumb dance. Like I cared about eating chicken wings in that stinky gym with a tie on. I mean, I was happy for Nash; Ok-hee had said yes. And her parents were okay with it too—in part because Nash was friends with me, so they figured he wasn’t a serial killer or anything. But hearing the rest of the eighth-grade lovebirds annoyed me. Then I overheard Jackie Tozzi say that Kelly was going to the Farewell Formal with Lewis Knight, and that did it. I finished my worksheet, got a pass, and escaped to the library.
“Hey, Joseph!”
I peeked in the gym as I passed, only to see Yongsu waving at me and bouncing a Hacky Sack next to Whitney Bailey. That was a surprise. We call her the Wordless Word Queen because she won the state spelling bee twice, but other than that she barely opens her mouth. Yet there she was, giggling away with Yongsu.
At least someone felt happy.
I walked to the back of the library and searched through the stacks of old Mad magazines. They usually cheer me up, even on the darkest day. Finally I found one from two years ago that I hadn’t read yet.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” a throaty voice growled from behind me.
I jumped, turned around, and nearly fell back into the shelves. A three-eyed alien glared at me!
Then a hand with half-moon fingernails pulled off the mask. “Gotcha!” Robyn laughed so hard she dropped her alligator mini-pack.
I stood up and shook my head. “Yeah, you got me” was all I could say. But then I cracked up, too. Why is it that getting scared-to-death actually feels hilarious afterward?
“Serves you right. Don’t you return phone calls?” she asked. She was wearing paper clip earrings and her hair was pulled back into a braid with loose strands sticking out the sides.
Whoops. I remembered Gina telling me about a phone call. “Sorry, I didn’t know it was you. And I went to sleep early.”
We stood there snatching glimpses of each other while pretending we were looking around the library. Robyn began saying something, stopped, and started again. A librarian wheeled a cart of books by. She noticed the mask in Robyn’s hand, and smiled.
“I was talking to your friend Pete Nash the other day. I didn’t know you read comic books. So do I.” Her voice was almost a whisper.
“Read ’em? I could be president of the Spidey Fan Club,” I said. “I know everything about Spider-Man, from which superhero he met on Christmas Day to Peter Parker and Mary Jane’s special love song.”
Robyn looked like she was about to burst. “He met The Human Torch and, duh, their song was ‘Kung Fu Fighting!’ Spider-Man rocks, but Storm’s my girl. She who controls the weather, controls the world.”
“I never knew that you liked comic books, Robyn.”
“I bet there’s a lot we don’t know about each other.”
Here was my chance. Yoda’s words echoed in my head: There is no try.
“Robyn, would you go to the Farewell Formal? With me, I mean?”
“I would, but—”
She stopped. Here we go again. Rejection City, two days straight. Maybe God was punishing me for saying I hated my birth mother.
“Don’t even say it Robyn. I understand.” Why not spare us both the painful details of her excuse.
“Say what?” She looked hurt.
“Whatever you’re going to say to let me down easy.” I tossed the Mad magazine back on the stack.
Robyn pouted her lips. Her face wasn’t as furious as the three-eyed alien’s, but it wasn’t warm and fuzzy, either.
“So you’re making up my mind for me? Is that how it works, Joseph?”
Now I felt like the president of Idiots-R-Us. “No, I misunderstood. I mean…what do you mean?”
“I was about to say I’ll go with you, but not because you’re funny. You are funny, but not funny looking. You’re kind of cute, if you must know.” She folded up the mask and stuck it in her mini-pack.
“Really? I mean, thanks,” I said. How did she know about my humor dilemma? Nash must have said something to her. And whatever he said had h
elped, because she was going to the dance with me!
“Did you really think I looked put together last week in study hall?” she asked as we walked toward the front of the library.
“Very put together,” I said. I just knew my face was reddening from my goofy attempt to sound like a ladies’ man.
We cut across a line of sixth graders checking out books at the circulation counter. I told her I’d buy our dance tickets tomorrow during lunch, since the dance was Friday. Nothing like waiting until last minute.
“Sure,” she said, distracted. Then she grabbed my arm—not exactly a yank, but firm enough—and pulled me into the side room where the microfiche viewers are kept.
Our faces were inches away from each other, so close I could count her eyelashes. I half expected her to tell me a dumb riddle, but she didn’t say a word.
Instead, she grabbed my chin and kissed me.
“That was no joke,” she said. And she strolled away, the alligator tail on her mini-pack bopping up and down behind her, leaving me standing in the library as limp as a rubber band.
I walked into Spanish, my last period class, feeling higher than the world’s tallest man on stilts. Happier than a dog with a T-bone. I was the luckiest guy in Nutley, New Jersey. Robyn and I would have a blast at the Farewell Formal. Not that I had to daydream about her or anything, since she was sitting three desks over.
After class I was still in a daze and nearly ran into Mrs. Peroutka in the hallway. She asked if I’d come to her classroom.
I followed her, and she pulled a paper out of a folder. “Here’s your makeup essay, Joseph. I wanted to talk about it privately.”
Privately? Did that mean more trouble? My eyes zeroed in on the top of the first page. All I saw was a big fat A.
Yowza!
“Thanks,” I said, reaching out to shake her hand.
“Describing yourself as an ethnic sandwich was funny and honest, Joseph. You seem to understand your layers better than most people.”
“I’m trying,” I said, shrugging.
“And I would agree that being adopted, as you wrote, must raise a ‘boatload of questions that don’t have easy answers.’ You’ve shown insight that, for some, takes a lifetime to discover.”