Something about the way he talks puts butterflies in my chest. I look at him, a little surprised, and he smiles. If only he could be in my class, then school wouldn’t have been so difficult all these years...

“Just like with today’s youth,” PC says, making Cintia groan at the joke. “What? You don’t agree?”

When we’re done making the pão de queijo balls, PC hands me the tray and I take it to the oven. Mission accomplished!

A hitch sits in my throat. Nothing went flying. Nothing spilled this time. Except for the incident in the pantry, everything went okay. I can’t believe I just baked!

“Oh my God, are you about to cry?” PC says, although not in a teasing way. He walks right up to me and passes an arm over my shoulders for a hug. “I always cry when I bake good food, too!”

Just then Pedro steps in. He halts for one second, looking a bit confused at all the hugging.

“Everything good?” he asks, putting a clipboard down on the counter.

“Yes, Chef,” they reply in unison.

He glares at me.

“Yes, Chef,” I join in, half-hearted.

“Then let’s clean the kitchen while the pão de queijo bakes.”

We spend the next forty minutes wiping counters and sweeping the floor, until the timer on the stove beeps.

“It’s ready,” PC announces. “You go, newbie. Get the tray out of the oven.”

I stumble a little as I walk to the oven. “Don’t forget the mittens!” Cintia warns.

“Right,” I say under my breath.

I put the mittens on and open the oven door. Warmth escapes out like a hot breath, and I lean back a little, reaching into the oven to get the tray with freshly baked pão de queijo. The buns have risen nicely, golden brown and fragrant like Parmesan cheese.

I walk slowly, one foot after the other, to place the tray down on the counter. I know I must look ridiculous, but I’m not risking dropping it. This is the very first batch of bread I’ve ever helped bake.

When I place them on the counter, more stubborn tears fill my eyes as I gaze at the pão de queijo rolls. I try to blink them away before Pedro notices them.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” Cintia says, beaming at the tray. When she looks at me to offer a smile, dazzling dimples appear in her cheeks.

“Who made these?” Pedro asks, pointing at the line of bread that’s the least consistent in size.

“I did,” I say.

He looks up at me, finally making eye contact since the pantry.

And I feel my stomach drop like he’s just found out my secret.