I gingerly walk into the narrow room in the back of the kitchen filled with canned food, produce, and bags of flour and grains. Pedro is at the very end, a tall silhouette in the semidarkness, illuminated only by the light spilling from the kitchen. He’s busy, squinting at the shelves and writing things down on a notebook, so maybe he won’t even pay attention to me.

My stomach does a little flip with nerves.

When I reach for the light switch, the hanging fixture doesn’t turn on.

“The bulb is dead,” he says in a monotone, but the moment he looks up from his notebook and realizes it’s me, he quickly turns around, crouching down to start inventory of the bottom shelf.

I try to find the bottle of oil in the shadows, but I don’t know where things are. I’m taking too long, accidentally knocking things off the shelf as I search.

“What do you need?” he asks, a little annoyed.

“Vegetable oil.”

He begrudgingly points with his pen at a spot over his shoulder.

Great.

I head deeper into the pantry to go fetch the bottle of oil. I’m carefully navigating around him, when Pedro says:

“Your mother is willing to do just about anything to destroy my family’s livelihood, isn’t she?”

I grit my teeth. “What did you just say about my mother?”

He stands up, leaning back against the shelf to put more distance between us.

“Your mother can’t wait to see Sugar go under. And that’s after bragging to everyone in the neighborhood that Salt is leading the boycott against Deals Deals to protect family-owned businesses. Can you be more hypocritical?”

I’m shaking. “How dare you?”

Pedro’s expression, his features shadowed, is stony cold. “I almost didn’t believe when I heard a rumor that Dona Alice is baking birthday cakes to show the client, but I remembered you said Salt should consider baking pastries. I thought you were poking at me, but it was a real threat, wasn’t it? How foolish am I? After you lectured me about those empadinhas we baked at Sugar?”

But it wasn’t a threat. All my family has always done is defend ourselves from their greed and treachery. Sure, I don’t agree with Mom’s methods this time. But I can’t tell him that.

“Your family stole the client from us first,” I snap back at him.

I hate that my voice trembles.

I hate that I feel like I’m about to cry and that he probably can see it.

I turn around to leave, but I get a second wind, whirling back around.

“For the record, my family does support small family-owned businesses! We’re brave to face the wolves! Can you say that about your family? You guys didn’t even sign the boycott!”