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.