{"product_id":"the-time-it-snowed-in-puerto-rico-isbn-9780307460172","title":"The Time It Snowed in Puerto Rico","description":"\u003cb\u003eA “beautiful” (\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e) novel about a young Puerto Rican girl discovering her power—and finding the strength to follow her heart—from the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Baker’s Daughter\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“[A] touching coming-of-age debut novel [that] transcends borders and times.”—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt is 1961, and Puerto Rico is trapped in a tug-of-war between those who want to stay connected to the United States and those who are fighting for independence. For eleven-year-old Verdita Ortiz-Santiago, this is a battle fought much closer to home. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVerdita has always been safe and secure in her sleepy mountain town, far from the excitement of the capital city of San Juan or the glittering shores of the United States, where her older cousin lives. She will be a \u003ci\u003eseñorita\u003c\/i\u003e soon, which, as her mother reminds her, means that she will be expected to cook and clean, go to Mass every day, choose \u003ci\u003earroz con pollo\u003c\/i\u003e over \u003ci\u003ehamburguesas,\u003c\/i\u003e and give up her love for Elvis Presley. And yet, as much as Verdita longs to escape this seemingly inevitable future and become a blond American bombshell, she is still a young girl who is scared by late-night stories of the \u003ci\u003echupacabra\u003c\/i\u003e, who wishes her mother would still rub her back and sing her a lullaby, and who is both ashamed and exhilarated by her changing body.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA modern-day classic about the growing pains of adolescence, \u003ci\u003eThe Time It Snowed in Puerto Rico \u003c\/i\u003eexplores the struggle to break free from the people who have raised us, the difficulties of leaving behind one’s homeland for places unknown, and the heart-wrenching choices we each face in order to become who we are meant to be.“This touching coming-of-age debut novel transcends borders and times. Readers will laugh and cry along with Verdita as she navigates a tumultuous adolescence, easily identifying with her problems and struggles. As a result, the novel will appeal to a wide range of readers, and the addition of discussion questions is a plus for book groups.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The book is ripe with the lush island’s landscape, culture, and foods, as well as the political upheaval of the 1960s. Verdita’s experience, though, is universal, as she must reconcile both the passion she witnesses and the changes in her own body with a child's perspective of the world. McCoy’s intoxicating novel is perfect for multicultural literature classes and best compares with Sandra Cisneros’s \u003ci\u003eThe House on Mango Street\u003c\/i\u003e and Julia Alvarez’s \u003ci\u003eHow the García Girls Lost Their Accents\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Beautiful . . . steeped in Puerto Rican culture and rich in authentic detail, McCoy’s debut captures the essence of life in Puerto Rico.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“McCoy’s lyrical writing is absorbing”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sarah McCoy tells a story of magic, myth, and mystery amid political and cultural unrest. You can't help loving Verdita, the world she comes from and the world she yearns for. A delightful debut by a promising and saucy new writer.”\u003cb\u003e—Sheri Reynolds, author of \u003ci\u003eA Gracious Plenty\u003c\/i\u003e and Oprah's Book Club Pick \u003ci\u003eRapture of Canaan\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Like snow in Puerto Rico, this novel is a rare pleasure. A sparkling debut by a writer who possesses a feel for place and time, a sense of the sacrifices love calls us to, and an uncommon talent for mapping the territory of the heart.”\u003cb\u003e—Janet Peery, author of \u003ci\u003eAlligator Dance\u003c\/i\u003e and National Book Award Finalist \u003ci\u003eThe River Beyond the World\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sarah McCoy has written a story so replete with sensuality, so infused with love and community, so exquisitely observant and poetic, the reader can only wish for a package tour to the dream that is Verdita’s life.”\u003cb\u003e—Sandra Scofield, author of \u003ci\u003eOccasions of Sin\u003c\/i\u003e and National Book Award Finalist \u003ci\u003eBeyond Deserving\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It is with the eye for color and detail of a master gardener that McCoy locates the fertile place space between the very precious and the wildly furious where the nature of the revelatory bildungsroman flourishes.”\u003cb\u003e—H. G. Carrillo, author of \u003ci\u003eLoosing My Espanish\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eSARAH MCCOY is the family columnist for \u003ci\u003eYour Health Monthly\u003c\/i\u003e magazine and has taught writing courses at Old Dominion University in Norfolk, Virginia, and at the University of Texas in El Paso. As a child, she spent much time in Puerto Rico visiting her mother’s family. She lives in El Paso with her husband.Chapter 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMay 1961\u003cbr\u003eFor my eleventh birthday, Papi made \u003ci\u003epiraguas. \u003c\/i\u003eHe left balloons of water in the freezer until they were solid, then peeled the plastic off like bright banana skins. On the veranda, he used his machete to shave the globes into ice chips. Hard bits of cold spit out where the ball and blade met, landing on my arms and legs, cheeks and nose. Papi said it was a Puerto Rican snowfall, and laughed long and deep. Mamá and I did, too. She sat beside me under Papi’s snow until we shivered and held each other close to warm back up. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter the balls were chiseled into a pile of white, we poured passionfruit syrup over it and ate right from the bowl. The sweet flakes made my mouth cold and itchy, and I had to suck my lips to warm my tongue. We couldn’t eat it all, though; it turned to a puddle under the sun. Papi said snow did that, changed into everyday water. I’d never been in a snowfall before. I didn’t know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat night, the first heat wave of the season swept over the island and nobody could sleep. I lay in bed, the outside\u003cbr\u003efever making my underwear dig into my skin and itch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Papi, tell me a story,” I said. Miserable, I wanted the everyday to shift to dreams.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re too old for stories now. Why don’t I read about Jacob and Isaac?” Mamá liked it best when he read from the Bible at bedtime. She believed it would help me dream good things. Papi took a seat in my bamboo chair. The ceiling fan clicked around- around. “Or maybe Daniel in the lion’s den?” He winked at me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I was little, I had a crush on the brave and mighty Daniel who played with lions. Mamá disapproved. She said that it wasn’t right for someone to have romantic feelings for a dead man, never mind a dead holy man. Papi said it was better Daniel of the Bible than Roberto Confresi, the pirate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Can’t I hear the story of my name?” I asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn Puerto Rico, everybody had two names. One was printed on a birth certificate. Another was the one you were\u003cbr\u003ecalled, the name you answered to, and that name always came with a story. Mamá’s birth certificate said “Monaique.”\u003cbr\u003ePapi’s said “Juan.” But nobody called them that because those names had no story.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey called Papi \u003ci\u003eFaro,\u003c\/i\u003e “Light house,” because as a child he loved to watch the flashing light on Aguadilla Beach. My\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eabuela\u003c\/i\u003e, Mamá Juanita, said they often went to Aguadilla to visit her brother’s family. On one par tic u lar visit, the family stayed up late listening to troubadour songs, and just before bed, Mamá Juanita noticed that Papi wasn’t with\u003cbr\u003ethe group. Everyone searched the house, but he was gone. Then, from the kitchen window, she saw a small, soft hump sitting outside on the beach rock. It was Papi. He stared out toward the sea, watching the light house beam slice the black again and again. When she asked what he was doing, he said, “Keeping watch.” Mamá Juanita called him Little Faro, and the nickname stuck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey called my mamá Venusa because as a girl she nearly drowned while surfing the northwest coast of Puerto\u003cbr\u003eRico. Papi told me how a wave rolled over and pulled her down to the coral bottom. The Ocean King saw her there,\u003cbr\u003eher black hair streaking the blue, and thought her so lovely that he decided to change her into a mermaid. The seaweed wrapped her legs and the coral caged her. Mamá prayed for a miracle—to return to our island. Then, just\u003cbr\u003ewhen she thought her skin would change to scales, a rush of water pushed her from the King’s prison, up through\u003cbr\u003ethe blue- green, until her eyes saw the sun and her skin sparkled pink. She’d been gone so long that everyone believed her dead, lost to the ocean world. But she was reborn, like the goddess Venus.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThose were the stories we lived by. Who my parents were, who I was. My birth certificate said “Maria Flores Ortiz- Santiago,” but they called me Verdita. Papi kept all our certificates on the shelf in his study beside three dead\u003cbr\u003eroosters with black marble eyes. The names were as lifeless as the cocks with their sawdust guts. Only our nicknames\u003cbr\u003ewere alive. Papi told my story best. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe leaned back in the chair. “Venusa, Verdita wants to hear her story again.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom the kitchen where Mamá scrubbed the scales off codfish, she laughed. “She’s like you. Head in the clouds.”\u003cbr\u003eBut I was glad to be like Papi. Mamá wasn’t a good storyteller. She forgot parts or added things from the priest’s\u003cbr\u003esermons. Papi always remembered it right and always began the same way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe closed the Bible. “Your story started long before you left your mamá’s body, before you took your first breath. Your soul spoke to me from heaven.” I curled up my toes and closed my eyes, concentrating on Papi’s words.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn a dream, Papi stood alone on a strange and colorful beach, unlike any in Puerto Rico. The ocean was unusually\u003cbr\u003ecalm, and the air was silent except for the lull of the breeze through the coconut palms. No lick of seaweed or burrow of crayfish—the sand sparkled in rainbow pebbles. In the distance was Mamá, her wavy hair caught in the breeze, black against the light. Papi went to her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI imagined the beach like the photograph I kept in the crack of my mirror. In it, Mamá stood between bright\u003cbr\u003eumbrellas and candy-colored towels, a beach carnival. Her head was thrown back, her mouth open, and I could hear\u003cbr\u003elaughter through the glossy paper. On the back was written \u003ci\u003eVisit to Orlando and Lita Virginia Beach, 1950.\u003c\/i\u003e It was taken just before she got pregnant with me, just before Papi had his dream.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe leaned forward in the chair. “And just as I reached her, I heard a burst of water. A sea spout lifted some fifty feet in the air. So high that I had to shield my eyes against the brightness of the sky and the white surf. I was afraid it was the Ocean King come for Venusa at last. But she turned and smiled. She knew what I didn’t. From the top of the spout, a parrot with emerald feathers and two gleaming green eyes flew from the watery perch and landed on my shoulder.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI took a deep breath and held it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That was your spirit,” Papi continued. “I have never seen such a beautiful bird on earth.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePapi leaned in and kissed my forehead. I could smell the soap and the little bit of Old Spice aftershave that he used so long ago, when the day was first born. I breathed him in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn my story, Mamá had a handful of sesame seeds, and she fed them to the parrot until it was full. Then it took\u003cbr\u003eflight, spreading its emerald wings in the coconut breeze, up, up into the cloudless blue. It left behind a single green\u003cbr\u003efeather. Papi tucked it in the front of his shirt for safekeeping, but when he woke from the dream, it was gone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And I was searching the bed looking everywhere for the feather when your mamá came into the room with a cup of \u003ci\u003ecafé con leche.\u003c\/i\u003e She asked me what I was doing, and I told her that I had lost something important. That’s when\u003cbr\u003eshe told me she was going to have a baby. You were inside her. And I knew the parrot in my dream was you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt this point in my story, I always got sleepy. My sheets hugged my body; my pillow cupped my head. I closed my\u003cbr\u003eeyes but listened still.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I told your mamá about the dream and she agreed. God must have put me on the shore of heaven so you could\u003cbr\u003ecome to us.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI buried my face deeper into the darkness. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The day you were born, I walked outside our house and noticed the whoosh of the breeze through the palms,\u003cbr\u003ejust like in my dream. Mamá’s water broke. She was in labor. We thought you were a boy at first—all the troubles\u003cbr\u003eshe had. I had to take her to the hospital in San Juan because the \u003ci\u003ebarrio\u003c\/i\u003e midwife was busy delivering two other\u003cbr\u003echildren, and I knew she could not deliver alone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I sat outside of the operating room, waiting and watching for the doctor. Those were dark hours. But then a nurse came and took me to you. When I held you that first time, you opened your eyes and looked into mine. Big green eyes. \u003ci\u003eVerde.\u003c\/i\u003e Just like the parrot. And I knew we had met before. My Verdita.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSleep washed over me like one of the waves on Papi’s dream beach, soft and soundless.","brand":"Crown","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300887646437,"sku":"NP9780307460172","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307460172.jpg?v=1767741858","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-time-it-snowed-in-puerto-rico-isbn-9780307460172","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}