I sit by the side of the church, away from the bustle of people near the feirinha, where kids mill around the popcorn and churros cart. It would be the cherry on top of an already horrible night if anyone caught me crying...

The patio has a low wall, and, below, the houses’ lights twinkle like a constellation in this drizzly evening, sloping down, down, down the steep streets until they meet the beach. The view is breathtaking. It used to be Grandma’s favorite spot in the neighborhood.

I wish she could be here with me now. Grandma always knew the right thing to say. But now all I have are Mom’s angry words that keep replaying in my head. I don’t know who she takes after.

Well, Mom, neither do I!

Because I’m a Ramires who can’t cook. And I wonder what that says about me. There are days, like today, when I feel like that’s actually the reason why Mom and I have such a hard time understanding each other. I don’t have those experiences in Salt’s kitchen with her like she had with Grandma. Experiences that I’m sure Grandma had with Great-grandma, before. All the things that make the bond between us Ramires women stronger.

Now more than ever, I need Mom. And I like to think that she needs me, too, even if she’s too proud to admit it.

Another wave of tears runs down my cheeks.

The wind is picking up, sending my hair flying in all directions. It stirs the St. John’s strings decorating the side of the church and a few flags get yanked off, spinning up and down, surfing the air current.

I track one with my eyes as it mischievously wraps around a tourist’s ankle. He gives his leg a little shake, and the flag gets blown off again. When he looks at me, I realize with a gasp that he’s no tourist. It’s Pedro.

I quickly wipe my face with my hands and get up to leave, my blood boiling.

“What do you want?” I say, not bothering to hide my anger. “Why are you following me?!”

He looks a little uncertain, and I know he can tell I was crying. I see the way he frowns, at a loss for words, studying the situation to figure out the best way to destroy my spirits even more.

“I heard you have some sort of deal with Pimentel,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “To help out our classmates if you join my club. Is it true?”

I match his stance.

“What if it is?”

We’ve been in this staring contest for longer than I’d have liked.