“We’re preparing a few different dishes,” Cintia says, already sounding tired. She’s in PC’s class and he must have been bossing her around since early this morning. “Would you like to help with the black beans?”

“Sure...” I say.

“It’s not like a full feijoada,” she adds in quickly, perhaps picking up on my anxiety, and I try my best to keep a straight face like I’ve totally cooked black beans before and would have had no problem cooking a full feijoada dish...

“Sounds good,” I say.

I spot Pedro’s chef hat on the counter—a joke gift from PC the other day, which Pedro refused to wear—and I plop it on my head to at least look a bit more like a cook. I don’t know if they suspect anything, although Cintia at least talks with me like I’m experienced. Still, I need to be careful. Truce or no truce, I can’t let Pedro catch a whiff of my lack of cooking skills. It would be too humiliating.

“It’s just a little something we want to serve with rice, in case some of the kids don’t like spaghetti. Victor already cut linguiça toscana and I’m going to fry them now. PC was going to dice onions, but I guess you’ve become his next victim, so maybe you could start dicing them now?”

I frown. “Who’s this for?”

Pedro turns to look at me, noticing his hat on my head. A tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He must think I look ridiculous, but I don’t care. “We’re cooking for Vozes today,” he says. “If you’re okay with that, of course.”

My heart shoots to my throat.

“Is there a problem?”

“Ah, nope. No problem,” I lie.

Although this is exactly what I’d discussed with Pedro when I brought Vozes up earlier this month, it feels too soon. Too...official. I’ve never helped at Vozes as a cook, and all I can think about are ways my cooking curse can ruin everything. I’ll need to be extra careful this afternoon. I can’t let Dona Selma down.

I stare at the cardboard box filled with onions.

When I look up, I catch Victor watching me. He scoots closer.

“I like the hat,” he says.

I strike a pose to divert some of my anxiety. “Does it look cute on me?” I joke.

“Yes, it does,” he says, dead serious.

And I just—

The way he looks at me—it’s like he can see right through my act. How come he doesn’t call me out in front of everyone? I don’t get it. But instead of becoming more defensive, I realize I actually feel safe around him, like he’s my lifeline.

Maybe I’ll regret trusting someone I barely know. But I sure need a friend now.