I thought we’d visit Boa Viagem beach to drink coconut water and watch people shuffling up and down the palm tree–lined calçadão, like we used to when I was younger. I pictured us crossing the well-lit avenue and heading into their feirinha—that sea of turquoise-colored tarp one step away from the sandy beach—to gawk at the art, dresses, and jewelry sold at booths with big white buildings towering over us. I imagined us lining up to try delicious coconut and cheese tapiocas, bolinhos de charque, and washing everything down with the sweetest sugarcane juice. We’d come home re-energized, the smell of salt on our skin.

I was wrong.

Mom cranes her neck to peer out the window, driving slowly into the campus. Her eyes are wide and full of wonder, like a kid at an amusement park, still deciding which will be her first ride.

“Look. Look!” she says, pointing out the window.

I try to summon the same excitement, but Mom is too amazed to notice I’ve failed.

“So many students apply every year...” Mom marvels. “This place, Lari, I just know it will be freedom for you. It will be your independence.” She talks as if I am trapped in my current life. “You know, studying here will make you so happy. It will help you figure out what type of person you are. That’s so important, filha.”

But I already am happy. And I know the type of person I want to be.

I want to be a baker.

The revelation comes to me crystal clear.

My heart booms in my chest, and I get that feeling of standing high, high above a swimming pool, looking down at the water from a diving board. I want to be a baker. My inner voice is loud. The clearest it’s ever been. It hits me in a dizzying rush of feelings.

I want to be a baker.

I am a baker.

I’ve always known it, like finding out that the warmth under my skin was my own blood running in my veins all this time.

I picture myself applying for the Gastronomic Society, and just the thought puts a wide smile on my face. Mom notices it and nods in approval, thinking I’m finally getting excited about college.

“The vestibular sounds so scary,” Mom says. “I could never do it. But I have total confidence in you. You study every day. You even go to review sessions in the afternoon, don’t you?”

She pauses, waiting for my answer.

“I do,” I lie.

“See? You always do your best and I know you’ll earn a spot here.”

“But what if... I don’t fit in?” I ask.