“Misericórdia!” he shouts with a grimace, and the girl laughs at him—a belly laugh that tells me they’re close friends—playfully shoving him aside. “Why is this thing turning out so sweet every time? Blegh!”

“I told you so!” She launches him a smile that puts a dimple in her cheek. “It’s because you’re adding too much sugar every time. You never follow recipes.”

“Sure, I wasn’t supposed to add strawberries, but I followed the instructions Chef texted us exactly. It’s the right amount of sugar...” Poor Dancing Boy looks decidedly nauseated, one hand on his stomach. “The kids will probably like it...?” he wonders, sounding doubtful himself.

“They won’t,” the girl says, frowning at him. “And Chef will never let us serve them anything that’s not sweetened perfectly. You know him.”

The three of them exchange a glance that tells me they may bicker a lot, but they all agree on that. This Chef of theirs is a perfectionist and I know just who they’re talking about. Who else would make fellow students in a cooking club call him Chef?

“Is he even coming today?” Dancing Boy asks.

“I sure hope not,” I accidentally say out loud, and the three of them turn around, startled.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack!” Dancing Boy says, dramatically clutching his chest.

The other guy perks up, curious, and the girl looks surprised to see me.

I take a step back. The magic in the air that drew me into this kitchen starts to fade. I shouldn’t be here. All eyes on me, my skin begins to crawl. If they’re friends with Pedro, anytime now, they’ll turn hostile.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I stammer, and I’m seriously considering bolting, when the quieter boy gives me a disarming smile.

“Are you here to join us?” he asks. “I’m Victor.”

“I’m Cintia,” the girl says, a little shy.

Victor comes round the counter with a hand stretched out to shake mine, cutely formal. I hope I don’t start blushing.

Too late.

“I’m Paulo Cesar. But you can call me PC,” Dancing Boy says, running his fingers through his hair like he’s checking it’s still swoopy.

I realize with an increasingly giddy feeling that they don’t know me. Or they haven’t recognized me yet. Regardless, I’m not “Salty” to them. I’m just a potential new club member.

“Hi,” I say, still a bit worried to say my name.

“Do you know how much sugar we’re actually supposed to add to the smoothie?” PC asks me.

I nearly choke. “You’re asking me?”

He looks at the others, confused. “Why not?”

And then it hits me.