Like some random, windblown weeds, we landed in L.A., home to movie stars and crazies and crazy movie stars.

Luckily, I had some English when I got here. “It is good to have Eeenglish in your pocket,” my parents pressed us always, “por las cochinas dudas.” For the dirty doubts, that is. Just in case. So, for the dirty doubts, we’ve all got a little English.

In school, I get Miss Pringle. Miss Pringle’s okay, I guess. She’s always kind of floating where she goes, and talking in a bright and airy way. My friend Raúl says she’s got excessive sparkle.” Raúl loves weird words.

ANYWAY, first day of school, Miss Pringle, all chipper and bearing a rubbery-dolphin smile, says, “Class, this is Arthur Rodriguez.” Probably to make things easier on herself. Without asking. Ya estuvo. Like a used-up word on the chalkboard, Arturo’s erased.

Who cares? Not me. With such a name as Arthur, I’ll fit in at this school real well. Like a pair of chewed-up Nikes. Not stiff and stumblingly new. American names are cool. Frank. Mike. Jake. They sound sharp as nails shot from guns.

I’m not the only one who’s been gringo-ized. There’s Jaime and Alicia and Raúl. Presto change-o! With one breath of teacher-magic, they’re James and Alice and Ralph. (Our friend Lloyd, alias Rat Nose, is already a gringo, so his name’s untouchable.)

When we’re together, we joke about our new names.

“So, ’mano,” Raúl says with bravura (another one of his words), “how’s it feel to be Arthur, like a Round Table guy?”

“Muy cool.” I slip into full pocho, an English-Spanish mix. “Hey, Alice,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Seen Alicia?”

She scans the hall. Digs in her backpack.

“No, man. She’s gone.”

We all laugh. But I notice Alicia’s eyes, like two dark and hurting bruises. I fluff it off, easy as dandruff flakes in a TV ad.

My parents hate that I’m Arthur. I mean, totally H-A-T-E. I can tell because when