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

sounded like fun. Omar and his dumb games.
    “Well, it’s nice here. Not cold at all,” I said. “I’ll get my real gifts on Three Kings Day. I got new pumps—those are shoes with heels. And a journal.”
    “Cool,” said Omar.
    “No.” I was confused and annoyed with Omar and his new best friend. “It’s warm .”
    “Yeah, okay. Well, I got to go. Blake’s ready to play. ‘Bye, Verdita.”
    I handed the phone back to Papi. “How’s Omar?” he asked.
    “Don’t know. He had a friend over. They’re playing some cold game.” I rolled my eyes.
    Truth was, I missed him. We never said we were best friends, but I always kind of thought it. It stung my ears to hear him say it about somebody else.
    “Omar is stupid,” I whispered under my breath. Papi heard.
    He took the phone and scrunched his eyebrows together, but didn’t say anything, just went over to Mamá and kissed her neck and took a bite of mango. I thought of Teline’s kiss at the parranda; goosebumps rashed over my skin, and I shivered in the heat of Christmas morning.

A Blond Bomb
    B Y SPRING, THE CURLS I’D CUT AWAY ON THE DAY we went to see President Kennedy had grown back in sprouts that stuck straight out of my temples, too short to pull back in my ponytail and too long to stay hidden. I tried to pomade them down, but they always sprang up and dried, crispy wet. Mamá noticed and asked me what I’d done to myself. I told her it was my hair, and I liked it that way, even though I didn’t.
    She started snooping through my stuff around then, cleaning my room when I told her not to, asking if I had any dirty clothes to wash, standing outside the bathroom every time I came out. The two of us were home alone a lot. Papi stayed out later and later. He said they were a man short on the finca , but his razor box was empty. I knew where he was. I hadn’t forgotten the jíbaros bar—the pilesof money and the easy way he held the red playing cards. But I wouldn’t tell Mamá. I’d keep his secret.
    After school each day, I wrote in my journal on the front porch, making myself too busy to be bothered. I cut out pictures from Mamá’s magazines and catalogs—pictures of pretty dresses and shoes and hairstyles. I taped them to the pages of my journal and wrote on the top of each why I liked them and where I imagined wearing the outfit. The first picture was the blond Simplicity girl with the bluebonnet dress. I liked everything about her: her dress, her shoes, her hair. At the top of the page, I wrote that I’d wear her every day and everywhere. I hid the journal under my mattress, pushing the book as far into the middle as my arm could reach. I didn’t want Mamá finding it and reading, like I knew she would. It was only fair—if Mamá and Papi had secrets, I could have them too.
    Around the same time, thin, light hairs grew down low on my private parts. At first it was just a few, and I pulled them out thinking that maybe the curlicues I chopped off my head had accidentally found a spot somewhere else. But where I plucked one, five more grew. I hadn’t seen Mamá under her skirt before, but Papi’s arms and legs had dark curls, so I figured I took after him. The coloring was different, though, and I liked it—light brown and sometimes blond in the light. Once a week I locked myself in my bedroom and used Mamá’s clamshell mirror to look at them. I thought they were the prettiest part of me. I wanted all my hair to change color to match and thought maybe itwould, but after a few weeks of waiting, the hair on my head stayed black and fuzzy. I was sick of looking at it, especially now, with the sprouts at my temples. Titi Lola owned a hair salon. If anybody could help, she could.
    “I want to get my hair done,” I announced one day. It was the first time I’d spoken directly to Mamá in a while. She smiled wide and put down the blue and white striped blanket she’d been crocheting since the Navidad . It lay over her lap like a giant doll