The man on the radio says, “San Francisco put away your frying pans. It’s so hot today you can cook an egg on the pavement!”

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.