She’s still not totally satisfied yet with the full result, though.

After wrangling my tennis shoes away from me, she makes me wear her golden brown strappy sandals. She also offers to do my hair, and normally I wouldn’t bother with anything too complicated, but we spend so little time together, I gladly accept. She hasn’t done this since I was little.

Mom braids my hair down my back, the plait wide in the middle, thinning as it goes down, interspersed with yellow flower clips.

When she’s done dressing me, a measuring tape dangling around her neck like a scarf and her hands on my shoulders, we both stand in front of her wardrobe mirror to inspect my appearance. Suddenly, it doesn’t matter how irritated I was when she first purchased it without asking for my opinion. Or that Mom’s fancy sandals are chafing against my ankles. Or that my collarbone feels too exposed.

Because Mom looks proud. One hand on her heart, she sighs. “You look beautiful, filha.”

I take one good look at myself in the mirror. There are stray curls escaping from my braid, catching the light of the lampshade next to me, looking almost auburn. This dress hugs and accentuates curves I didn’t think worked for me. Even my glasses match my sandals. Mom sure has an eye for fashion, noticing the tiniest details.

For the first time, I feel beautiful.

Warmth creeps up my neck, and I see myself blush, but the red flush in my face seems less embarrassed...and more playful. Happy. I smile, and Mom does, too. It catches me off guard, seeing the higher tilt in the right corner of her mouth when she lets herself grin. The way mine occurs at the same time, like our smiles mimic each other.

People say I look like my father.

But, standing side by side with Mom, the mirror doesn’t lie. I look like her, too.

The moment I arrive at school, my heart starts racing.

Standing by the front gate, I recognize other students and some of my classmates headed up the street, arms linked, already swaying to forró pé de serra songs traveling from the gym, the sound of accordions, zabumba, and triangle filling the air with excitement. The school’s been transformed for the party. There’s even a tall bonfire, the flames dancing in the breeze, creating a light haze of smoke all around. Delicious smells travel to me, like a symphony of barbecued flavors.

I hear someone talking behind me, and for a second, I think it’s Pedro. But it’s just some guy waving at a friend. I take a deep breath, still feeling a little uneasy.

Why am I doing this again?