On the way, we stop at Teresita’s pink house for her CD player. Then we walk along, our heads bobbing to the beat of Eminem.

I’m slim shady, yes, I’m the real shady …

At Lorenzo’s house three workmen carry a hot tub toward his front door. Lorenzo follows close behind, his arms waving in the air. “Careful, careful,” he tells them. “Do you know how much money that cost me?”

Last year, Lorenzo put a swimming pool in his backyard. The swimming pool stretches beyond the sides of his tiny house. It has a diving board. Lorenzo doesn’t even swim in it. About a hundred chicken pens dot his yard. Those chickens paid for the swimming pool and the hot tub.

Lorenzo bought his chickens with money he earned sewing up prized ones at the cockfights. People pay a lot of bucks to squeeze a few more games out of a winning chicken.

Teresita learned to sew up the chickens from Lorenzo. He didn’t offer to teach her. She watched. Lorenzo claims she stole from him because now a lot of people run outside the dome with their chickens for Teresita to fix instead of waiting in Lorenzo’s line. Costs them half as much, too. Teresita sews them up in the parking lot because she’s too young to be inside. Before she started her side business, she watched the fights inside the dome and no one said anything. But now Lorenzo watches with snake eyes, ready to tell the authorities if Teresita sets a toe inside the dome.

I’m slim shady, I’m the real shady …

Teresita and I slide right on by Lorenzo’s house. We don’t even say hey.

The Fish Artist

Teresita and I eat our hot dogs and sour papaya at the pier. Mrs. Cruz, the fish artist, sits surrounded by her paintings while she waits for the tourists. Her huge thighs pour over the lawn chair. If she stood quickly, the chair would stick to her behind like the shell on a tortoise’s back.

“Hafa adai, Isabel. Did you hear? I’m going to be a grandmother.”

“Yes, congratulations.”

“You’ve grown so much since I’ve seen you last. You’re pretty enough to be fiesta queen.”

Teresita snickers. We’ve spent many afternoons making fun of the fiesta queen pageant.

“Thank you,” I say, “but no, not me.”

“Your mother was Malesso’s prettiest fiesta queen.” I don’t say a word, but I don’t have to. The boat is pulling up to dock and Mrs. Cruz stands up, ready for action. Amazingly, the chair stays in place.

You’re not supposed to sell things to the tourists on the pier, but no one says anything to Mrs. Cruz. Her paintings are the way she feeds her pregnant daughter and son, John Wayne, since her husband left them for another woman—Mrs. Cruz’s sister—and escaped to her island, Palau.

People talked that it was because of their son that Mr. Cruz left. John Wayne is not right in the head. His face looks like a pug dog’s—he has a flat nose and his eyes are wide apart. He’s thirteen, the same age as me, but he acts like a five-year-old. Roman says even though John Wayne is mentally retarded, he’s one of the smartest people he knows. “Never mind that John Wayne can’t read or write,” he says. “He’s a great spear fisherman.”