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him.”
    When the kid is perfectly framed in a big opening in the canopy, Gordo cocks his arm back.
    Oh please miss!
    Gordo bites down on his tongue, like he does when he’s about to throw a fastball. He winds up and then lets go. The almond draws a straight green line out of the tree, and then smacks into the middle of the kid’s forehead. His head snaps back, his mouth stretches open, but no sound comes out. Then his eyes roll like two black olives in bread pudding, searching the trees, asking, “Who, why me?”
    â€œGordo, why’d you have to hit him in the head like that?”
    Gordo pulls me down. “Quiet, don’t move.”
    We peer through the leaves as the boy runs into his house crying.
    â€œThat’s what he gets for being a spy.”
    â€œYou could have poked his eye out!”
    â€œJulian, when are you going to grow up? You can’t let people get away with things. That’s the way it is in the real world.” Gordo jumps to the ground. “You’re hopeless,” he says and then walks away.
    â€œMaybe I just don’t want to be like you,” I say, knowing he won’t hear me. Then I yell as loud as I can, “And I’m not hopeless!”

PORK CHOPS
    Tonight my brothers and I set the table. This is the first time that my mother has cooked dinner since Bebo left three days ago. When she finally comes out of the kitchen she’s carrying a plate stacked with something that smells like burning meat. She swings the plate over my head, and then sets it down in the middle of the table with a flourish of her hands.
    We all nod admiringly at the dark smoldering shapes. My father is the first to guess.
    â€œPork chops?”
    â€œI traded my alligator shoes for them,” she says proudly, and then launches into the story of the pork chops.
    Just as she’s getting to the end of her complicatedstory the little woman and her son slam through the kitchen door into the dining room.
    My mother bangs her glass down so hard I thought it was going to shatter.
    â€œWho let you in to my house?”
    My father pushes his chair back slowly and then gets up. “How may we help our neighbor?”
    The little woman points at her son, leaning into the wall behind her. “Today someone hit my boy with a rock, almost blinded him.”
    We all stare up at the angry red egg growing out of his forehead. Gordo looks down, trying to hide a smile.
    She glares at us, searching our faces for a sign of guilt. “He couldn’t see who it was, but he’s sure the rock came from the almond tree in front of your house,” she says. “But we do know who broke into the empty house. My son is sure now that he saw your oldest son in the kitchen.”
    Gordo looks across the table at Alquilino.
    â€œThat’s impossible, they were in bed. You saw them,” my father says.
    â€œSave it for the judge. I’ve filed the papers—I have my witness. Your son will be charged with trespassing on government property.” As she speaks her dull eyes range over every item on the table.
    â€œIt will take a little time but—” Then her eyes land on the now-cold, rigid pork chops. “There were no pork chops in the stores this week, or in the ration book.”
    She picks up the burned meat, pointing it at us like an accusing finger. “How did you get this?”
    Suddenly my mother grabs the plate, pushes her hip into the door and then disappears into the kitchen. The door closes, plates crash into the sink. When it swings open again, she steps out empty-handed, looking like she’s about to explode.
    â€œMagic,” she says calmly. “I clicked my heels and my alligator shoes turned into pork chops! Now, if there’s nothing else we can do for our dutiful neighbor . . .” She pauses for a breath and then screams, “get out of my house!”
    â€œSeñora! It is against the law to buy food on the