Héctor did not see the janitor’s closet again for the rest of that week. He looked for it between classes, after lunch, even when he headed to the front of the school to get picked up. It wasn’t anywhere to be found. But he also didn’t need it; he never ran into Mike and his Minions.

As the weekend approached, Héctor was excited (okay, and a little bit nervous) about getting to spend Saturday with Abuela and learn more about an important family tradition. Maybe this was how he’d feel more at home here in Orangevale. What if he got so good at making tamales that he could start selling them at a local farmers market or swap meet? Surely Orangevale had those. He let the fantasy run wild: he imagined how they would package them; they’d have to come up with a cool logo. Maybe he could ask his parents to help him film a lo-fi commercial for it.

He was picturing his tamale takeover as his papi picked him up from school on Friday. “What you thinking about?” Papi finally said as they pulled into the driveway at home.

“Just planning my extremely popular culinary dynasty,” he said.

“A dynasty?” Papi chuckled. “So you think you’re gonna nail Abuela’s tamales the first time?”

Héctor scoffed and got out of the car. “I am going to sit atop a tamale empire by the end of the month,” he said. “Just you wait and see.”

“We’ll see,” Papi said.

Héctor was sure of it. This would be his best plan yet.

Abuela rolled up bright and early at seven thirty a.m. on Saturday, and Héctor hopped into her car, his excitement spilling over as he immediately began to tell her all about his brand-new business model.

“Whoa, whoa, one thing at a time, nieto,” she said, then laughed. “Are you sure you haven’t been sneaking sips of your mami’s cafecito?”

He frowned. “She won’t let me. Says I’m still too young for it.”

“Well, you certainly don’t need the energy boost.” She backed out of the driveway, then turned them onto the road. “So what’s this plan you have?”

He told her as much as he could, but she put up a hand to interrupt him when he started talking about writing a theme song for their commercials.

“Héctor, let’s just get you making them first. Okay?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll be perfect at it.”

“Hmm. We’ll see.”

He gasped dramatically, then clutched his chest. “Abuela, do you not have faith in me? Do you believe that your skills have not been passed down through your bloodline?”