“I’m selling Salt, Lari,” she says more emphatically. “I’m not getting in the way of you going to culinary school, but there’s no hope for this bakery anymore. I’m not letting you sink your future with debt.”

“Please?” I insist. “Just teach me to cook.”

“Lari—alright,” Mom gives in.

With trembling hands, she guides me in the semidarkness, showing me how to prepare the flakes in the smaller steamer with the gas stove. When the aroma of corn rises in the kitchen, Mom pulls me into a side hug. And I realize I’m not alone. Not only because I’m with Mom, but Grandma and Great-grandma are here, too.

Salt has always been a dream dreamed together.

Our bond will see me through, no matter what happens by the end of the week.

42

MONDAY, JUNE 20

When I walk into the cooking club on Monday, music is blasting.

School is out for the winter break, but we were supposed to meet to wrap up activities and say goodbye. Cintia and Victor are at the counter, mixing cake batter. And I’m surprised to see PC standing by their side. It’s like how it all started, that first day when I walked in to fulfill Pimentel’s condition to earn extra credit.

I freeze at the doorway when I spot Pedro in the back, kneading—more like pounding—bread dough, his sleeves bunched at his shoulders, exposing his biceps.

A hot flush creeps under my skin.

“Smoothie Whisperer!” PC says meeting me at the door, his arms stretched out to pull me into a hug. All heads turn to me.

“PC! What are you doing here?” I ask.

“My family had to solve a few things in town and I came to get my transcripts. Did you miss me a lot?” he says, trying to sound cheerful, but judging by the nervous looks Cintia and Victor keep launching from behind him, I get the feeling that they all know what happened. Or at least that something happened. “Come. We need to catch up—” He’s already steering me out of the kitchen, but I dig my heels in.

“I need to apologize to Pedro,” I say.

“I don’t know what went off between you two, but he’s in an awful mood,” PC whispers to me. “When I asked about you, he nearly sent me back to Caruaru. Trust me. This isn’t the right time to approach him.”

“I have to do this,” I insist. I push past PC. “Pedro, can we talk?”

“Please, not now,” Pedro says, not even making eye contact.

A painful knot forms in my throat. “I came to apologize.”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Pedro unties his apron in a sudden movement, tossing it at the wall peg. “I’m out. Pack up and lock the door when you leave.”