“I like Lari’s style,” Victor says, and I notice how he casually slips between us, like he’s trying to defuse the tension in the air. “They don’t need to all be the same size. People have different appetites. Sometimes you want just a little pão de queijo. Sometimes you’re so hungry you want to go straight for a humongous one.”

Relief washes over me.

“That’s what I was going for, yes,” I lie. “And that’s something CIA students do sometimes. You know, Culinary Institute of America.” Pedro’s still giving me an incredulous look. I don’t know if Cintia or PC buy into it, but Victor looks a little amused, watching me with curiosity. Maybe I’ve stretched the lie too much. But in my panic, I double down. “You didn’t know? Aren’t you a baker?” I challenge Pedro.

Pedro shakes his head. “Whatever.”

Victor reaches for one of the pão de queijo rolls I made. Instead of taking a bite out of the poor, crooked thing, he hands it to me. “You should try your creation first,” he says.

My hands are trembling a little when I take the roll. It feels hot against my fingers, steam swirling up.

My heart beating faster and faster, I bite into the pão de queijo.

The crust is crunchy and deliciously savory, and the crumb is surprisingly stretchy and cheesy. It tastes like afternoons at Salt. Like Grandma’s comforting words. Old flavors I know too well. But, when I take another bite, I taste something new.

This misshapen pão de queijo that I rolled myself, it shows exactly who I am. What I am. A novice baker. The cooking club’s newbie with an impish thumb for disaster. But, most importantly, it tastes like kitchen camaraderie.

When I look up, I realize Pedro’s picked up one of the pão de queijo I rolled. He takes one bite, and for the briefest second, I see the tiniest of smiles.

He realizes I’m looking at him and puts the roll down on the counter.

“I’ll deliver them on my way home,” he says, already packaging the rolls into boxes.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” Cintia asks.

“Yeah. I didn’t help you guys with the baking today, so I’ll be in charge of delivering these.”

“Really?” PC insists.

“No problem. Go home.”

The others say their goodbyes and stream out of the kitchen. I go grab my backpack, and I’m on my way out when Pedro stops me.

“I need to talk with you,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

And just like that, the magic of eating the first pão de queijo I helped bake dissipates like vapor.

20

THURSDAY, MAY 5

We take the bus home together.