Page 82 of Penalty Shots

"So why do Puerto Ricans call this potato cheese?" I ask.

Beto looks at me. "What?"

"The label. It saysqueso de papa," I point out. "Isn't that potato cheese?"

Elena laughs in the kitchen, and Rina smiles as she takes a sip of her coffee.

"Potato cheese!" Beto lets out a boisterous laugh. "No, it's queso de papa, as in the Pope."

I look at the cheese, even more confused.

Beto slides into the empty space between Rina and I. "Legend has it that in the eighties, Pope John Paul II visited the island and held mass at Plaza las Americas. He was served our local cheddar cheese and loved it so much that we called it 'the Pope cheese' from then on."

"Oh," my sister and I say.

"I was wondering how they made cheese from potatoes," Izzy admits.

Good, I'm not the only idiot. Apparently us Landrys are just uncultured swine.

"Speaking of swine," I say out loud.

"We weren't speaking of swine," Ryker says, handing my sister a plate of crackers. Stella is already out for the night after so much traveling.

"You want to see it?" Beto asks excitedly.

All the girls shake their heads, saying their own version of "I'll pass."

But Ryker, Fergie, and I are all in.

"Come on back," Beto says, getting up.

"Good luck," Rina calls out to us, then turns back to her friends. "I still can't believe you guys made it all the way out here just for Thanksgiving."

The screen door closes as Beto leads us out to the backyard.

"Those are coquis," he says into the night filled with distinct chirps.

"Tree frogs," Ryker says, sounding like he knows more than most of us after spending three days on the island.

Fergie approaches a tree and inspects it. "Where are they?"

Beto slaps a hand on his shoulder. "They're hiding in the leaves. Coquis, like most men from the island, are romantics. They sing from dusk till dawn to attract their woman."

"Every night?" Ryker asks.

"Every night. The coqui is the most romantic creature you'll ever meet. But you take it from the island, and it stops singing."

"Isla del encanto," Fergie says. "They love their paradise."

"We all do," Beto says proudly. "Now, come boys."

It's dark, but we make our way to the edge of the property, where a pig is hanging by its hind legs, blood dripping into a pan.

"Say hi to our Thanksgiving dinner," he says, motioning to it.

"Oh, thank God Izzy didn't see this," Ryker murmurs.

"How are we going to cook it?" I ask him.

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