At every chance she turns “Arturo” on her tongue, like a pearl.

What does she know, this thin-asan-eyelash old woman from Hot Waters, Mexico? Man, this is L.A. To get by, you need American names.

Apart from problems of names, here there are problems of gangs. Like those saber-toothed tigers in pits of tar, kids get sucked into them. For protection from invaders from other areas. Or to have a place to go, or something to do. Even some old guys, fathers with kids, are gang members.

My father’s the kind of person who removes his hat in a restaurant and blesses his plate of tacos. Not prime gang material. I hope I’m not, either. Though the pull at school is pretty strong, I keep looking for something else to do.

My friends live on my block. All the time they come over to hang out in Abuelita’s kitchen. They’re there now, dragged by their noses. By the pure power of chili dust. And the tang of cilantro.

When they enter, she pinches their cheeks and claims they are “muchachos muy lindos” and calls them by their true names: Jaime, Alicia, Raúl.

“Hola, Lloyd.” She aims a dripping spoon straight for Rat Nose. “You love menudo? You taste.”

Abuelita speaks with such excessive bravura, each name scrapes my mind like the scritch-scritching claws of a feisty rooster.

“Jeez!” I say to myself, cringing with shame. But my friends seem totally unfazed. Even pleased. Raúl’s got a heart tattoo (not real, just inked on). It’s so big, it blues his muscle. Grinning, he pumps his tattoo for Abuelita. ¡Caray! Don’t they remember? We peeled off those old names, like onion skins. Still, a worm of doubt squirms in my mind.

My friends slump themselves over the arms of chairs like overcooked noodles and chat easily with my grandmother. Alice’s eyes—at the sound of her real name, they flame up, bright with excessive sparkle. Por please!