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Back Salt and Sugar Save as PDF
Chapters (56)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. About the Author
  4. Dedication
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. EPILOGUE
  56. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

“And feel free to change your layer of our cake, too,” I tell him. Surprise lights up his eyes. “If you wish, of course. I’m sorry you feel stuck in your grandfather’s kitchen. But you don’t need to follow those traditions when we’re baking our cake. Reinterpret your layer, just like I did with mine. We’re already taking a huge leap with the cooking contest, and with being friends, so why not do that wholeheartedly in every possible way?”

He squints at me, like he’s considering my suggestion.

“What are you saying, Dona Larissa?”

“I’m saying, be free to be the baker you want to be.”

And don’t go away again, please.

He looks at Sugar again in the distance, nodding along, slowly assimilating my words. “Be the baker I want to be...” he repeats under his breath. “But what if I actually can’t make anything original and end up failing?”

“I never took Pedro Molina for a coward,” I say, winking at him.

“Who are you calling a coward?” he jokes. “Alright. I’ll give it some thought. But you have to promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“That you’ll come back to the club next semester,” he says, riding off.

My words sit in his pocket:

I read somewhere that St. Anthony is actually the patron saint of lost things. So, happy St. Anthony’s Day to you, who would have lost Pimentel’s equation challenge to me had you not erased my work. I’m sorry about the cake. For the record, it was an accident.

Thank you for everything. I mean it.

L.

38

SATURDAY, JUNE 18

By the time our tests are over, the neighborhood has put together its official St. John’s party.

Neighbors bring their favorite dishes for the potluck and gather around the big bonfire in front of the bright church, where couples dance to the sound of accordions, zabumbas, and rabecas. Older kids light firecrackers, and the little ones play tag and run around with sparklers.

I convinced Mom to come, too. But she takes one look at Dona Eulalia making a plate at the buffet table and turns to head back home without a word. The way Dona Eulalia glares at Mom tells me someone—Deals Deals, most likely—must have filled her head with more lies about my family. What now?

“Mom, stay for just one minute,” I insist, tugging at her sleeve. “Just one minute.”

Her eyes go from me to Dona Eulalia in the distance. Their angry tension could slice the air.

“It’s not the same without your grandmother,” Mom says, leaving me behind.