Pedro’s looking pleased with himself. Sure, he’s good with kids now, but I can’t shake off the bad memories from when we were that age.

“Do you remember when we were kids and you bullied me about my flower soup?” I ask him.

“Flower—what?”

“I’d made a flower soup and you challenged me to drink it. And everyone at school started questioning my cooking and Salt’s products,” I angrily whisper at him.

He frowns, making a face like the memory is vague to him. “That was so long ago.”

“It doesn’t matter how long ago it was. It hurt my feelings,” I snap.

I whirl around.

“Larissa—”

I don’t wait to hear what he has to say. I gather the empty quentinhas from around the room, my heart pounding at the bottom of my throat.

PC and Cintia head back into the dining room. The rims of his eyes are a little red, but he’s smiling again.

“Everything okay?” I ask him.

“All good,” he says. “It’s just... That kid made me think of myself when I was her age. I used to miss my grandmother so much. I still do.”

I know exactly how he’s feeling.

PC looks like he’s about to cry, but then shakes his shoulders like he’s trying to make sad memories roll off his back like a blanket. He puts on his brightest smile and heads back to work, Cintia by his side. One second later, and he’s already making a kid laugh with his jokes.

For the rest of the afternoon, we hand out more quentinhas, assist the other volunteers, and continue chatting with the kids, going from table to table.

I can’t help but watch Pedro interacting with them, encouraging Amandinha to make friends, and acting like he wasn’t a bully when he was their age. Like he still isn’t a bully.

At the end of the day, when I finally come by to grab Amandinha’s empty quentinha box, she waves me over.

“Lari,” she says with her mouth full, “is Pedro your boyfriend?”

I nearly die.

Behind me, Pedro drops an armful of empty quentinha boxes, turning the brightest shade of red I’ve ever seen. We look at each other, and just the thought of us being together is too—

Heck, no!

I shake my head to rid myself of the mental image.

“Amanda,” Dona Selma gives her a stern look.

“W-why do you ask?” I ask her.

“Because in the telenovelas, when people look at each other a lot, that means they’re in love,” she says matter-of-factly, a rice kernel sticking to her cheek. “You look at Pedro a lot. And he looks at you, too!”

Pedro starts coughing uncontrollably.

“I—I was just—” I try to explain myself, but I can’t summon an excuse. “Ah, do you want ice cream? Be right back!”