“Chef, don’t be so stingy and pour it to the brim,” PC insists, snapping his fingers at Pedro. Does he have a death wish or something?

And, much to my surprise, Pedro sighs impatiently and obliges.

I’m certain I’ve stepped into the Twilight Zone, where PC gets to boss Pedro around and lives to tell the tale, but then I notice the banner Victor and Cintia unfurl to hang on the wall. Cintia holds it up, while Victor grips the chair she’s perched on, and PC yells at them to straighten it and that they could have spent a little more to buy better paper.

The banner reads “Don’t go, PC!” and my heart does a little somersault.

I was so distracted all week making sure Mom and Dona Eulalia’s meetings went smoothly, I totally forgot today is PC’s last day at the club. And that means I didn’t bring the farewell gift he requested: a box of Salt’s famous pão de queijo.

PC looks over his shoulder, lazily sipping orange juice, and notices me standing petrified at the door.

“Where’s my gift?” he asks, a bright smile spreading over his lips.

Pedro looks up, too, seemingly grateful to get PC’s attention away from him.

“I suck,” I admit.

PC’s expression falls. “You forgot?!”

I just nod, hanging my head.

“Wow. My last day, and that’s how I’m treated?” PC says, more to himself than to me, but I still feel awful.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you!” I say, but PC is still pouting.

“Just be grateful we’re already treating you like a king today,” Pedro mumbles to PC, and I think that’s the first time ever he’s come to my rescue on anything at school. I smile, which makes things even more...awkward. Pedro looks away, his ears getting a little red.

“I know how you’re going to make up to me,” PC says, once again in a good mood.

“Yeah?”

“I was supposed to dice onions, but I hate how the smell of raw onions stays under my fingernails, so you’ll do that for me,” he says, more like an order than a question.

“So you’re just going to pester me and do zero cooking this afternoon?” Pedro asks him.

PC passes an arm over Pedro’s shoulder. “Exactly!”

Pedro’s shoulders slump and PC tugs and tugs at his sleeve, asking one million times whether Pedro will miss him a lot when he’s gone, even if every time Pedro answers the same way. “Not one bit.”

Cintia and Victor finish fastening the banner and join me at the counter.

“What are we making today?” I ask them.