It’s none of my business. But, if I’m honest, I’ve been curious about everything that went down between him and his grandfather. “I’m not telling anyone,” I say.

“She’s not telling anyone,” PC backs me up. He doesn’t wait for Cintia’s approval to spill the tea. “Look, I don’t know if he’ll still apply. Pedro had a huge argument at home in April, when he told his family he wanted to join the Gastronomic Society.”

“I don’t get it. What’s so bad about culinary school?”

“Well, he also wanted to change things at the bakery, and his family didn’t like the idea. I mean, his wish to join the GS says a lot about his baking philosophy. The GS is the place to experiment and learn about different cuisines. They’re big on reinterpreting old dishes. But his family’s business wants to stick with tradition, the sort of recipes that get passed down through generations. It would be unheard of for anyone to even think about changing the menu, and that’s what Pedro proposed to his family, so...they clashed.”

I guess Seu Romário is even more unreasonable than I thought.

Pedro’s voice drifts into the kitchen again.

“Don’t bring it up with him, please,” Cintia begs in a whisper, glancing nervously at the door. “He’s a very private person. He only told us because Victor overheard part of an argument between him and his grandfather.” She launches Victor a chastising look.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Victor says, raising his hands. “Pedro himself told me to go pick up extra bolo de rolo and other stuff for the centro cultural that day.”

“He was gone for two weeks after that,” Cintia adds, breathing out a heavy sigh.

PC looks worried, tapping a finger on the counter. “We had no idea if he’d ever come back.”

“Do you know where he went?” I ask.

PC shakes his head. “No. No one knows.”

I’m beginning to understand why the Molinas all seem so raw lately. How Dona Eulalia’s public displays of anger are even more over-the-top than usual. The way Seu Romário almost sounded regretful when he gave us his condolences. And Pedro’s sudden antics at school.

When I’m done kneading, PC grabs a baking pan and greases it. Everyone coats their hands with oil again and starts making small balls with the dough. I copy them. It’s a lot of work—no wonder Mom is always so stressed-out.

When I place one ball next to one Cintia’s finished, Victor taps mine lightly with his finger to separate them. “You gotta give them some space to grow,” he says.