I gasp, turning a few heads nearby.

Ignoring my classmates’ looks, I frantically rummage through my planner and come across Mom’s round handwriting, reminding me to get my applications wrapped up. She even doodled the face of a bespectacled curly-haired girl with stars for eyes. That’s me, I guess. Well, the version of me she envisions, starry-eyed about college.

I get a horrible sinking feeling. I thought I had more time.

Diego raises an anxious hand.

“What if I don’t know what major I want to declare?” He asks the question I’ve been wondering myself.

Pimentel gives him a comforting smile.

“I know it’s difficult,” she says. “Figuring out your future careers is a daunting task, but I suggest you consider what you love. Maybe you’ll find the answer there.”

I catch Pedro rolling his eyes, before he hides them again behind his sunglasses.

I wish I could talk to Grandma about this. Only a few days before she had to be hospitalized, we took a walk together. We slowly made our way uphill toward the feirinha, a set of booths in front of the sixteenth-century white and yellow cathedral, the Atlantic ocean to the left, the water dark blue in the drizzly twilight.

“Have you told Alice that you don’t want to study economics?” Grandma asked me out of the blue.

“You should be tested for telepathy,” I joked, heading deeper into the market. “No, I haven’t told her yet.”

The familiar cooking warmth coming from the booths soothed my anxious thoughts, like entering a labyrinth of barbecued, breaded, deep-fried treats. Acarajé bursting with shrimp. Grilled fish covered in lime juice and raw onion rings. Coxinhas loaded with shredded chicken and potato. Pastéis heavy with extra minced meat and olives. Coconut and cheese tapioca. Crepe sticks, too, prepared on demand right before the customers’ eyes, the batter cooked like a waffle and filled with chocolate or doce de leite.

“Why not, love?” Grandma asked as we passed Dona Clara’s booth, where she was scolding Isabel for letting the cooking oil burn for the hundredth time.

“She took me to visit an accounting firm the other day.”

“And?”

I stopped in my tracks. “It was awful.”

Grandma smiled to comfort me, taking my arm to gently lead me through the booths. “You should tell her how you felt.”

“I can’t.”

“Tell her you don’t want to be an accountant,” she insisted.

I was grateful for the pause in conversation when we reached Dona Valeria’s misto quente booth, where we ordered her famous grilled sandwiches with pan-fried mortadela, minced garlic on gooey, melting cheese, the type that stretches on and on when you bite into it. They’re messy, but you gotta enjoy them. Forget your manners. Throw your head back, even if you’re precariously dangling off the stool to get all the stretched cheese into your mouth, Matrix style.