Echo Park is like a river that cannot be stepped in the same way twice. As with so many corners of Los Angeles, the Mexicans in this part of town watch with dismay and denial as their own few blocks are steadily encroached upon by gentrification, racism, and the inevitable passage of time. Yet even as the world keeps turning, many of the residents are frozen in place, tied together by the common misfortune of poverty and the uncommon moment when a little girl rocking out to Madonna is killed in the crossfire of a drive-by shooting.

The facts may be invented, but the total portrait of a shifting city is alarmingly realistic. Giving voice to the varied vignettes are eight different narrators who are all possessed of the characters' similar sorrows, awes, and outrages. Their stories can stand alone, but are much more deeply poignant when taken together. We have Aurora, who the bullet barely missed, and her mother, a maid in a house that is already clean. We have the crazy Coat Queen, who think she's seen the Virgin Mary, and the mysterious Jesus, who thinks he is The Lord. We have the illegal day laborer, who is asked to cover up one murder, and the citizen bus driver, who is asked to reveal another murder.

Throughout this remarkably astute observation of urban decay, the cacophony of voices piles up into a clear and singular tone of struggle. They struggle for their very lives; they struggle to find forgiveness for crimes long since past; they struggle to find meaning in the ever-changing storefronts and ever-shifting boundaries of a city divided by race and wealth. Each narrator in turn steps up to deliver the sad reports, the astonishing connections, and the overdue diatribes. The end result is a debut novel that manages to uncover some glints of optimism in its unflinching portrayal of Mexican life in The City of Angels. —Megan Volpert