Free Kimchi & Calamari by Rose Kent Page B

just like me. Would I crack a joke? Would my voice quiver when I introduced myself? Would we hug?
    Nash roamed around the website. He clicked the e-form for making a posting and waited for me to say something.
    Then Chicken Calderaro started clucking. “I don’t know what I’m getting into, Nash. Maybe this was a bad idea. What do you think?”
    â€œI’d want to know my story. But what do you want?”
    I stared at the computer screen and reread the message from the lady in Phoenix. Then I looked right at Nash. “I want to know,” I finally replied.
    â€œThen let’s go for it.”
    Well, if I was going to search, my message was going to get noticed. “I’ll talk, you type, Nash. Here’s the lead-in:
    New Jersey Italian Stallion looking for Korean connection: Clue lies in the basket a little old lady found at the Pusan police station in May fourteen years ago….

Too Tangled for Spider-Man
    â€œW hy would anyone name a band Chicago?” Steve whispered from the bass drum.
    â€œIt sure beats calling it Hoboken,” I said.
    â€œHey, watch what you say, Joseph. I was born in Hoboken.”
    â€œYeah, I can tell by your bad breath,” I shot back, and we both laughed.
    Mrs. Athena had summoned us for a special early-bird session. We were working on “Saturday in the Park,” a seventies hit that leaned heavy on drums and trumpet. This was supposed to be the kickoff song for the concert,but Mrs. Athena said it needed some TLC. Personally, I think it was those can’t-reed-to-save-their-lives clarinets that needed help, not the rest of us.
    Jeff was absent, so Steve and I were multitasking most of the percussion instruments. It felt like circuit training—intervals of banging mallets on the xylophone, whacking the timpani, and then running to the snare, all while handling cymbals, too. Here’s one of many band myths: people think cymbals are the musical equivalent of wrecking balls that crash into each other randomly, but there’s more of an art to it than that. If you play them right, cymbals should slice each other like you’re cutting cheese off a pizza.
    I sang along as I banged out the beat. Dad owns Chicago’s Greatest Hits , so I knew all the lyrics.
    â€œYo, Joseph.”
    â€œWhat, Steve?”
    â€œWhen do you think Mrs. Peroutka will hand back our essays? The odds are fifty-fifty that I’m going to summer school, and I really need a decent grade in social studies.”
    â€œShould be any day now.” I wanted to get a good grade on the essay too. That way I’d make high honor roll again. Right now my grade was a B+. But thinking about my essay got my stomach fluttering. What if Mrs.Peroutka caught me in the act of re-creating history? I actually lost my place worrying about it and came in a half measure late on xylophone.
    â€œEverything okay, Joseph?” Mrs. Athena called. She never misses a beat.
    Â 
    â€œAny day now” turned out to be the next day.
    â€œWelcome, class,” Mrs. Peroutka cawed when we filed into social studies.
    There was no mistaking me for Sammy Sunshine that Friday morning. My déjà-vu dream returned again last night, and this time it felt more like a nightmare. I was back walking on that dirt road and pulling that wagon, only this time I was by myself. It was dark and pouring rain, and I could hear animal noises in the distance. I woke up in a cold sweat.
    Then, after another burned Pop-Tart breakfast, a bird pooped on my Yankees cap at the bus stop, and someone stole my shorts from my gym locker. In the words of a true Korean, I was not feeling good ki-bun .
    But Mrs. Peroutka was all smiles as she stood in front of the classroom. She was wearing a shiny green dress that made her look like a waxed lime.
    The bell rang, and she picked up a stack of papers.
    â€œI’m delighted to return your essays,” she began. “I was impressed by the quality of