Summer's heat hovered like an abuela's hug -- soft, suffocating and unrelenting.

"Coca-Cola, one-dollar!"

Hotdogs wrapped in bacon sizzled alongside slivers of sweet, browning onions. Every few feet, vendors were selling eight-ounce hunks of pineapple and guava skewered on wooden dowels. Sweating children were placated with golden globes of salted mango, fresh juice dripping cool and sticky down their arms.

Alma wanted to grab a handful of melting ice from one of the fruit stands and rub it all over her neck.

'Ma, what if I pay half? I'll pay half.'�

'You think I'ma lechu pay a hundred-and-fifty dollar for dress on sale?'�

If it was waiting for her in an air-conditioned venue with sanitary dressing rooms, then yes, yes, and yes.

Alma tried again. 'It's my money, Ma.'�

'You wan walk to mall? Your choice.'�

They had been on foot for about forty-five minutes, every flat carrying a million copies of the same nine dresses. Racks of fuschia, gold, and lavender were vomiting miles of wasted fabric, each space as claustrophobic as the next.

Above almost every shopping flat was a second floor that appeared to have no access to the first. No visible signs of fire escapes or elevators connected the two stories. The only things that indicated that there was anything upstairs at all were the iron bars jailing each window.

Alma pulled a rectangle of catalog paper from her back pocket and unfolded it. And there it was, that turquoise satin-and-tulle Jessica McClintock gown with silver beading and a sweetheart neckline. How could anything as beautiful as this be found in such a crowded and dirty-looking place?

A hand reached out and snatched the glossy paper from her hand.

'Going to prom? What size arjju? A four? A two? Let's try a four,'� said a woman with fried auburn hair and brown lipstick.

A pair of hands stripped her down to her underwear and enveloped her in layers upon layers of cool, turquoise satin.

"Ma--!" Alma uttered.

But the hands weren't listening. Instead, they spun her around and pushed her towards a dusty mirror.

'Pretty girl, look at that.'�

It was her dress. And it fit. And it was beautiful.

The woman handed Alma back her papered reference and pointed to her reflection in the mirror. Friendly smile, 'Same dress, yeah?'�

'It doan fit right.'�

Alma turned to face her mother. How could she betray her like that?

But the saleswoman remained as sweet as the smell of her pan-stick makeup. 'You juss need a padded bra for your cositas, but otherwise perfect, yeah?" Outstretched palm. "Sixty, cash.'�

'Forty-five.'�

Alma wanted to cry.


A truck paused, and then gunned it in front of the store.

A smoking trail of gasoline was left to permeate the space, destined to become trapped within the fibers of the unsold fabric.

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