I hurry out of the kitchen before she can yell at me again, my thoughts spinning like a hurricane. We got played by Deals Deals. I bet they thought they could use our feud to their advantage, pitting us against each other, ready to swoop in the moment one of us felt vulnerable. And I fell for it.

How can Mom not wonder if we’ve been misled in other ways? Maybe she just doesn’t want to give the Molinas the benefit of the doubt. She’s too proud. It would also mean admitting that we falsely accused them of slandering us.

All this time, I thought we were different. I thought we were just trying to defend ourselves against the Molinas. But I now understand my family can be just as responsible for keeping this vicious cycle spinning.

How many times in the past were we the ones inflicting pain? How many times did I perceive an attack, when the Molinas were actually reacting to something we did first?

Attack. Retaliation. Attack. Retaliation.

It no longer matters who or what even set the feud in motion. All that matters is the next step. Will the cycle ever end?

35

THURSDAY, JUNE 9

I wait for Pedro in the back of the corner store as the sun sets.

When he finally arrives, he stands on one side of a shelf, half-hidden behind bags of couscous flakes. I stay on the other side, pretending to browse, so none of our neighbors will think we’re together. And it kills me that we can’t even talk openly, that we have to hide in our own neighborhood. Like we’re doing something terrible.

“Dona Fernanda fired Mom,” I tell him.

“She just fired us, too,” he says.

“Pedro, there’s something you need to know.” My voice shakes with anger. “I just found out that Deals Deals came up with the rumor about rats in Salt. They were trying to make us fight with you.” I ball my hand into fists to hold back the sudden urge to scream. “I’m so sorry for accusing you and your family. I’m so, so sorry.”

He marches round the shelves to join me. Standing near a wall of herbs, we’re in a shadowy hidden nook in the dim store, alone in our aisle.

“I need your help,” he says, looking as confused and angry as I feel. “I was thinking, if you’re okay with it, the cake we brought to Vozes could be our entry dish.”

“Our entry dish...?”

“I think it’s a winner, don’t you?” he says. “Unless you don’t want me anymore. I mean—as your partner. At the Gastronomic Society.” I just stare at him because I don’t think I heard him right. “What should we write in the contest application? That we’re dating or...?” He coughs. “Because of the ‘family’ requirement, you know?”