I let out a heavy sigh, pick a blue marker, and begin writing beside my classmates. We all work at a steady pace, the astringent smell of the markers burning the inside of my nostrils, and as rusty as my mind feels today, my hand moves like muscle memory.

It doesn’t take too long until I start to feel numb.

Numb is good, right?

My hands stops.

Friday night in Salt’s kitchen, I had felt the opposite of numb. I felt closer to Grandma than I ever had before. Before I burned myself with oil, there was a connection. Something happened. Something I can’t explain, like cooking had linked me to her.

Giggling pulls me back to the present. I glance over my shoulder and see my classmates rush to the windows. Pimentel looks up from grading at her desk, her big glasses slipping to the tip of her nose.

“What’s going on?” she asks, alarmed.

“Pedro is outside running from the doorman!” Luana announces.

Pedro is...what?

I join everyone at the windows.

Our classroom is on the second floor, and at first, all I see is the narrow path between the back of the school building and the fence. Then I see the doorman, Seu Vicente, running with his attendance list in hand. He’s always stationed at the school gate, jotting down the names of the kids who are tardy or trying to play hooky. Many of us have perfected ways to avoid him over the years.

When Seu Vicente is out of sight, Pedro comes out of his hiding spot on the other end of the building, dragging a ladder along, and everyone cheers like he’s Indiana Jones escaping the huge boulder.

I roll my eyes.

“Pedro Molina, don’t you dare!” Pimentel shouts. “Get down this very moment! I mean it! Do not climb into my classroom!”

I return to the whiteboard, trying to focus, but with everyone cheering him on, and Pimentel on the verge of an anxiety attack, I can’t focus on solving the last part of the equation.

“Professora, the prodigal son returns!” I hear his voice in the back.

His fans—I mean his friends—run to pull him through the window. They act starstruck, welcoming him back to school. Some swoon, like Luana, all heart eyes. Pimentel looks frazzled, as if she’s about to collapse.

“You’re like Romeo,” Luana says, all smiles. They went steady in fifth grade. Everyone says they’ll get back together one day.

Who cares?

He dramatically takes her hand and kisses the back of it. Luana looks like she’s about to melt.

I’ve had enough of this. I turn around and bite down on my lower lip, trying to get back in the zone. But the mental image of Pedro perched on the window is still stuck in my mind like a bad rash.

“What. A. Genius,” I say.