“Five chances,” Roman says, waving his tickets. “Five chances for five thousand dollars.”

“Or maybe nothing,” I say.

“Maybe second place. One thousand dollars.” He grins.

“Maybe nothing.”

“Or perhaps the refrigerator or freezer.”

“Or maybe fifth place,” I say. “Three hundred cans of tuna.”

“No, I’m going to win big this year. I can feel it.”

“That’s what Teresita’s uncle says every cockfight and look what happened to him. Lost all his chickens.”

“This year is different.”

“How?” I ask him.

“Well, for one thing, who in a million years thought Teresita would run for queen?”

I give him a look like he’s kaduku—the craziest boy in Malesso.

“Teresita would never run.” I remember last year, when she made fun of the contestants. Teresita twisted her heinie and waved, flashing every tooth in her mouth. We laughed and laughed. I laughed so hard, my side ached.

Teresita, who would rather box chickens than go to Pirate Joe’s for a hamburger? Teresita, who never wears a dress, who spits when she’s mad, who cusses better than any guy? Not possible.

“Yep, this is my lucky year!” Roman says.

I leave him shuffling his tickets like a gambler with his lucky cards.

The Blue Dress

Auntie Bernadette is making the blue dress for Teresita. She tells me this after she asks why I didn’t come by. I tell her I couldn’t find Frank to watch the store. I don’t want her to know I thought the fabric was for me. I consider telling Auntie about Frank, about the scar, about the words on his wall. But she’s too happy, too busy with the dress.

“You’re wasting your time making the dress,” I say. “Teresita will never go through with it.”

“Why do you say that?” she asks.

“Teresita? Cockfighting Teresita?”

“Maybe she knows when to put childish things away and become a young lady.”

I sigh. “What did you want, Auntie?”

“I need you to go through your mother’s drawers and get her pageant dress.” Auntie could do that. There must be some other reason she wants me to sift through my mother’s things.

“I made that dress for her.”

“Yes.” I’ve heard her say this all my life. How could I not remember? “I don’t know what drawer the dress is in.”

“Open one drawer. If it isn’t there, open another.”

“Can’t you find it?”

“You’re her daughter. I’m her sister. If I hunt for it, people will think I’m a busybody.”

“Who would ever think anything like that?”

I say this as if that’s exactly what I think, but Auntie Bernadette just strokes the blue satin as if it were a kitten.

The Boy Who Likens to Blend

by Isabel Moreno

Some can cry
He can only bleed
Every drop of blood
is a tear shed
He wears his scars like badges
for his eyes alone
I wish he’d scream
I wish he’d cry
But he just bleeds

My Essay

The school bell rang five minutes ago and I’m sitting in front of Sister Rachel’s desk, staring down at a big fat F on my paper, “The Boy Who Likes to Bleed.”