Sophia says, “I want eggs. I’m hungry.”
I say, “I wish we were still at the refugee camp.”
Frank, Dean, and Sammie in descending order watch from the sofa like monkeys in a banyan tree. Frank, the oldest, rolls his eyes and says, “That’s lame. You’d be dead if you were still there.” He is ten and only two years older than me but he acts like he’s already grown.
I say, “At least we went swimming there.”
In Malaysia, my dad would take all the kids to a swimming hole made entirely of black shells. He taught us how to swim. He taught us how to dig for clams. He taught us times tables. My dad’s a good teacher because he used to be one. One day, he taught us how to make paper kites out of yesterday’s newspaper and spoiled white rice for glue. The adults cheered when they saw the kite tails flapping in the wind. They said it looked like freedom.
The little kids jump up and down on the hardwood floors and raise their hands in the air. “I want to go swimming,” they say. “Me too, yay, me three!”
The boys pull the sofa-bed away from the wall and throw the cushions to the floor. Between the mattress folds and tangled sheets there are coins disguised as dust balls. The girls look in the kitchen. We find a lonely nickel behind the refrigerator. It’s no surprise. There’s never anything in our kitchen except the piled up government cartons of powdered milk and canned meats that our parents don’t know how to eat.
Frank is the oldest boy of the oldest man in the house so he gets to be the boss. He makes all of us sit in a straight line on the floor. We have to report what we put into the community pot. But when we get to Marcel, he just shrugs his shoulders.
Franks says, “You little cheap skate, you’re going into the phone booth.”
Marcel shoves his shiny red lock box under his t-shirt. His belly jingles filled with the coins.
Frank says, “Hand over your money or you’re going in.” He eyes the chipped paint of the closet door. Frank is like his father. He’s tall and handsome. He can be kind or cruel.
The hallway closet is called the phone booth because it has the magical power of transformation. Like when Superman goes inside and changes from a nerdy journalist into a superhero. Our parents keep their shared interview clothes in there. They go in looking fresh off the boat and come out looking like shiny Americans of the future. They don’t mind the smell of mothballs mixed with each other’s faded imposter cologne. They think it will bring them closer to the American Dream. On an interview day, they put on these costumes bought on layaway from Sears, and fly off with Mercedes dreams gleaming in their eyes like stars.
The phone booth is also where we go when we get punished. We have to kneel in the dark until our parents let us out. Uncle Lam makes the boys kneel on rice grains. Sometimes they’re in there until their knees bleed. My dad says it’s not right. My mom says it’s none of our business. I say the stink in there is bad enough.
Marcel says, “But I’m saving for when my dad comes.”
Frank says, “You’re a liar. You don’t have a dad. You’re a bastard.”
Sophia screams, “We do too have a dad!”
Sammie copies his older brother and chants, “You don’t have a da-ad. You don’t have a daad. You’re a bass-turd.”
Sophia starts crying. Marcel who is protective of his little sister grabs a fierce fistful of Sammie’s hair and yanks it.
Dean says, “Let go of my little brother,” and punches Marcel in the back.
Sophia kicks Dean in the shin. Frank pushes her off.
It’s the Rat Pack against the Italian movie stars and I don’t know where to look or what to do so I count the money. “Stop it! Stop it! Look, we have enough.”
Frank says, “Yeah, right. You’re just a girl. You don’t know how to do math.”
“Then you stay home smarty pants.” I stand up with my hand on my hip. I swivel and arch my back the way they do it in the Sergio Valente commercial. My sister Michelle and I have been practicing in front of the mirror. We flip our hair, swing our heads, and say, “We love you Sergio!” I stick my butt out and turn to them and and say, “I don’t know about you guys but I’m taking the clean towel.” Michelle who always copies me does the same and follows down the long dark hallway.
Outside, it’s so hot it feels like our eyelashes will get charred. The Avenues are empty. We live in the Sunset District where rows and rows of attached houses line the streets like soldiers, shoulder to shoulder, in waiting. Every now and then a car passes with floats and hula hoops and colored umbrellas poking out the windows like a carnival. I picture them going to the beach, playing tag, catching the sea breeze. They’re having a picnic. They’re eating fried chicken, and potato salad, and if they’re really lucky maybe their mom even made lettuce wraps with shrimp.
We are a family of dark-haired pigeons. We flit in the heat of the city streets, pecking at nothing but crumbs and cement. Frank is wearing his new black shades from Woolsworth’s and tries to keep a cool distance. He swaggers ahead, with his feathered hair and a comb sticking out of his back pocket. Behind him Dean and Marcel are buddies again. They kick at crumpled soda cans glinting in the gutter. Michelle chases after them. The little ones, Sophia and Sammie, waddle like ducks with orange floaties strapped to their arms. I anchor the flock.
They’re chirping, “Are we there yet?”
They’re twittering, “How much longer?”
They squawk, “It’s so hot. It’s so hot. It’s so hot.”
I say, “Don’t be such babies.” The sweat streams down my chest. I pull out my collar and blow down. Frank stops to watch.
He says, “Look, what a perv, she’s trying to check herself out.” The little kids laugh because they don’t know any better. Dean and Marcel are old enough to blush and turn away.
On Quintara Ave., there’s an old white man watering his plants. He’s wearing plaid shorts and a blue fishing hat and he’s the only person we’ve seen outside all day. Frank says, “Check out Humpty-Dumpty,” because the man is round as a ball. When we get closer, we see that his plants and bushes are shaped like animals. We gasp because it’s as if we’ve walked into a zoo. “How cool,” I say because it’s beautiful. The boys say, “That’s bad, blood,” because they want to sound tough.
At the man’s knees, the bush is in the shape of a big turtle. It has a leafless twig for a tail. The green hose sprays water on the turtle’s shell. There is also a bear, a dog, and a bunny! Little Sophia reaches for the pointy ears. It’s dotted with pretty purple flowers. I say, “Don’t even try.”
I don’t think he wants us kids to bother him until he turns, raises the sprayer to the sky, and showers us. We giggle beneath the umbrella of sprinkles. Above us, a rainbow stretches across the curtain of mist. We stand still, side by side, single file like we’ve been taught at school. “More, me more,” each one says because nobody wants to get passed up. He directs the water from left to right, back and forth. It rains down on us in big refreshing drops, splattering our faces. I open my mouth and soon the younger ones do the same. We chirp with our begging beaks lifted to the skies. And while we laugh with our throats bared and our eyes squinting against the sun, he lowers the nozzle and aims directly at our bodies. He presses the handle all the way. The water sprays an angry blast.
“Stop it,” I say, “it hurts.” After this, he aims only at me. The blast stings like being slapped again and again. The water pushes me off the curb.
“Sneaky rats, my brother marched at Bataan,” he says. I drink water and choke for air. My hair gags me. “C’mon ya dirty Japs, I’m goin’ wash you up.” The man is cursing so hard he’s spitting.
I turn my back and curl into a snail with my knees on the ground. The blast pounds