The Time It Snowed in Puerto Rico by Sarah McCoy Page B

as Teline and I finished the last egg. Our fingers were sore from breaking the shells and scooping out the yellow. We only threw out three that bled orange-red sunsets, silent baby chicks. The juice stuck to my palms. At the door, Papi greeted the men and welcomed in their bongos, guiros , guitars, and maracas. The troubadours’ songs were better than any other music— -jíbaro or American—because they weren’t just choruses and chants hummed over and over, they were stories, long and real and full of adventure.
    Papi led the musicians through the kitchen back door to the outside tent he’d put up for the parranda . All of my cousins and Tío Benny filed out behind. I wanted to go too, but I couldn’t leave Teline, and my hands stank raw. Mamá mixed the yolks with a wire whisk while Titi Lolaadded thick, sweet milk from a can, juice squeezed from the coconut flesh, sugar, and rum.
    On the way out, a young troubadour with maracas nodded hello to Mamá and Titi Lola, then shook his batons. “Me gusto coquito, coquito, coquito. Ay mi coquito, bebo todo el día,” he sang, and shimmied to the door.
    Mamá and Titi Lola laughed loud and hummed the tune as they mixed, their hips swaying.
    “Taste,” Mamá said. She poured the creamy mix into a chipped china cup and handed it to Titi Lola.
    Titi drank and puckered her lips. “More rum.”
    They went on mixing and singing.
    “Taste-taste,” Mamá said again, and she handed Titi the cup again.
    “Almost,” Titi Lola said, and poured in gulps from the gold-labeled bottle.
    “Can I taste?” Teline asked.
    “No, not until you are older. This is for the mamás and papás,” Titi explained. “But you can dance with me.”
    She took Teline by the hands and twirled her around. “Me gusto coquito, coquito, coquito …”
    Mamá put down her whisk and clapped along, salsaing to the rhythm. “Come on, Verdita,” she called.
    I had been mad at Mamá for months, but it was the Navidad , and Santa Claus was coming with reindeer, and we were having a parranda with troubadours, and despite myself, I couldn’t help but miss her, just a little. So I figured, for that night I could forgive. I took her hand.
    “Follow me,” she said.
    We danced around the kitchen, stepping back, stepping forward, spinning and moving our hips as we sang until Titi Lola’s gold spike heel slipped beneath her and she nearly fell. Mamá caught her by the arm, and they laughed together until tears and spit mixed on their lips. Whatever this coquito was, it seemed to bewitch.
    Titi took one last taste before deciding it was ready, and Mamá put a plate over the bowl. It had to marinate. Mamá and Titi Lola walked arm in arm to the parranda tent. More guests arrived, but, hearing the music, they followed the sound to the backyard instead of coming through the house. Teline and I were alone. Tío Benny’s voice, already warm and sweaty with gin, began to sing. Mamá and Titi Lola’s voices hummed along. I knew they were probably sitting under the tent, listening some, singing some, and all raising warm glasses. What magic this coquito must be for the troubadour to sing of it, for Titi Lola to say the word like a spell.
    “Teline.” I gestured with my lips toward the bowl. “Taste?”
    “No! My mami will knot my head with cocotazos .” She crossed her arms.
    “I dare you to take one sip,” I said. But Teline didn’t know the States games.
    “No,” she said.
    “Are you a chicken? Afraid?”
    “Sí . Of my mami,” she said.
    I would never admit to a thing like that, and neither would Omar.
    “Fine. I’ll do it. I’m not a coward.” I went to the bowl, making sure to check over my shoulder in case Mamá or Papi came inside.
    I slid the lid halfway off. The smell burned my nose. Medicina and coconut soap. I wanted to cover it back up and forget the whole thing, but it was a dare—even if I had been the darer—and I couldn’t let it beat me. Teline stood close behind, watching. I took