Right now she probably does not want to go outside, because Tomas would not want the client to see her. Also, movie types and other important people make her self-conscious about her accent. Sometimes she has me come with her to do errands so I can do the talking for her; I do not mind so long as we go someplace like the DMV, where I am unlikely to run into someone from school. At my school—Saint Dominic’s—everyone thought I was white, for a while. Tomas had gone there first and he had passed as a white surfer. There were no other surfers there, but he was known as one—he even bought a board and had our mother take him to the beach three times a week—and he put Sun-In in his hair, though instead of turning blond it went all red. Then he began hanging out with Mexicans, who are tougher. He stopped surfing and dyed his hair black again. If anyone tried calling him an Asian he beat them up, and he started taunting these Korean kids who could barely speak English. Father Ryan brought him in to talk about it, to see a school psychologist. And he hated it when Tomas started wearing a big gold cross; that was what Mexican gangsters wore then. Each time my brother taunted a Korean kid Father Ryan would call our mother in to pick Tomas up, and it embarrassed her. She would lower her head and apologize, saying she was a bad mother, so finally Father Ryan had to reassure her. It angered him that Tomas made her feel ashamed. In the classroom Father Ryan called on Tomas and ridiculed his answers and made pointed comments about the way he dressed and looked. Finally, Tomas got kicked out of school for smashing a Japanese boy’s car window with a tire iron. By then people had figured out I am part Filipino. Still, I do not like having her pick me up from school. She is short and dark and wears funny-looking giant purple glasses that are trendy on other people’s mothers but which do not match her brown skin tone.

I emerge into the brilliant backyard, the sun on my face, while behind me the aluminum screen door clatters into its loose frame. The producer appears to be the sort of man who takes walks on Montana Avenue upright and confident, even when he passes skinny models, though today he does not look too confident. Seeing me, he acts uncertain, as if I were important and not just a fifteen-year-old brother, probably wondering if he should tell Tomas I’m here.

My brother can hear me approaching, but he takes a few drags on his cigarette before turning around. You can see the Virgin through his shirt back, the Devil’s horns beneath her feet.

He turns to me. What you want?

How long are you gonna be?