The Time It Snowed in Puerto Rico by Sarah McCoy

church or at home?” I asked.
    He cleared his throat and scratched his nose with his thumb. “I think God hears us no matter where we are.”
    “That’s why you don’t go to church, like Mamá?”
    “I don’t need a priest to hear God. I hear him all the time when the wind blows through corn and sugarcane. You know that whistle?” Papi puckered his lips and blew a squeal. I knew it. He was good at whistling. Where Mamá was always reading and humming, Papi sucked his teeth and whistled.
    “So, when you whistle while you read the newspaper, are you talking back to him?”
    “Some days, Verdita. When your mamá is in a mood,” Papi laughed. It made our bench jiggle. “We see God in different places, your mamá and I. Women need the church, you see.” He tossed a cleaned ear into the pot of golden cobs.
    “They do?” I wasn’t a woman yet, but I would be someday, and it worried me that I’d have to spend my time sittingin the musty pews, my knees aching, my fingers cramped with holy beads.
    “Sí , because of Eve,” Papi said.
    I didn’t follow.
    “Adam and Eve,” Papi explained. “Everything in this world goes back to them, Verdita. When Eve bit the apple and handed it over to her husband, Adam, she created the first sin and she passed that guilt along to her daughter and her daughter’s daughter, all the way down to Mamá. Women are always trying to purify themselves. That’s why they go to church so much. While men, you see, we know that we were not the ones to pluck the apple from the tree.” Papi pulled back the silk threads of his ear to find a brown hole. He broke off the wormy end and threw the rest into the pot, then continued, “And every woman’s guilty apple is different.”
    I didn’t have a guilty apple. I hadn’t done anything wrong. If anyone should feel guilty, it was him and Mamá. There were lots of things they should feel guilty about, and I could list them easy. I sighed and kicked the basket with my toe. Obviously, Papi couldn’t hear my spirit like he used to. Maybe he wasn’t listening, maybe the new baby’s spirit was talking to him now.
    I slid my hand along my clean cob, healthy rows of yellow teeth. I wasn’t going to spend my days in a moldy church, feeling guilty over things I didn’t do. I didn’t believe what Papi said about women, but I did believe whathe said about hearing God. I heard God in the snap of peapods, smelled him in the banana leaves, saw him in the bright corn rows, and tasted him in every mouthful of bright white coconut. I didn’t hear him in the church songs and sermons, and I had a feeling I never would.

An Explanation: Puta
    B Y EARLY J UNE MY HAIR HAD GROWN OUT SOME . Teline said I looked like an Oreo. I had to agree. Titi Lola bought the cookies at Walgreen’s, and Teline ate a handful every afternoon; she carried them in a paper bag everywhere she went, and her teeth always looked like they had dirt stuck in the cracks. Oreos were from the States, more expensive than our island cookies. Papi didn’t like the way they tasted. Too sweet. So I only got to eat them when I visited Teline and only when she had an extra.
    That summer, when Omar came to visit, he brought his friend Blake with him. A few days before they arrived, Mamá bought a whole package of Oreos. She said she wanted to make Blake feel at home. But it wasn’t his home, and I was annoyed at her for saying so. Before they arrived, I ate as many as I could and fed the rest to the goats.
    When they finally came, Papi took one look at Omar and said he was becoming a man. He patted him on the back and smiled so wide I thought his eyes might disappear into his cheeks. He never smiled like that at me. He never noticed how I was growing. I looked Omar over. I didn’t see a man. He was the same, but taller. So was I, though. He bragged about the dark hairs growing under his arm. Stuck his armpit in my face so I could see. Big deal. I didn’t tell him that I had them too, between my