“Rat Nose lives. We’ll call ourselves whatever we want, but those teachers can’t make us into someone new. Those teachers, they must be formal.”

They’re pretty cool with that. Especially Alice. Little stars bloom in her eyes. Ralph’s already itching for morning, he says, so he can apprise Miss Pringle. I itch to apprise my family, now snoring deeper than zombies. Especially Abuelita.

We make a pact. Right there in her chili-laden kitchen. On the most Mexican thing around—one by one we place our hands on Abuelita’s molcajete, ugly as a pockmarked thug.

In solemn ceremony we retrieve our names. Ourselves. Into the bold night air we say with utmost bravura:

¡Raúl!

¡Alicia!

¡Jaime!

¡Lloyd!

¡Arturo!

When we apprise her of our stand on names, Miss Pringle’s pretty surprised. But she limps along with it. (A result of “the incident” is that other kids go for their own “name-reclaimment.”)

Not long after, they’re selling T-shirts and plants and stuff at school. To raise funds for a computer. I buy a little cactus, prickly to touch and with one red bloom.

After school, I give it to Abuelita: “Ta-ta!” she laughs when I spring it from behind my back, and she hugs me with the gift between us, but somehow we don’t get poked.

“¡Ay, Arturo, mi pequeño cactus!” Abuelita exclaims. Like I’m prickly sometimes, but have a chance of flowers.