The butcher came back and plopped down a huge pork shoulder. “Yes, really,” Abuela said, then thanked the man before putting the meat in her cart. “I’ve lived here ever since I came to this country. And it was hard being here after growing up in México.”

He started to say something, but she ruffled his hair. “I know, I know. San Francisco is not the same as México. But what I mean is that this was a very different place for me. The language. The clothing. The food. Ay, nieto, sometimes I went a whole day without eating because I couldn’t stand the tortillas they use up here.”

Héctor laughed at that but fell back into silence as they got in line at the checkout. There was more he wanted to ask about. He kept thinking of how Carmen darted off. Why would she avoid him outside of school? He had just wanted to say hello. What if Héctor went to school on Monday, and all of the Misfits refused to be near him?

Shame rippled through him. This was supposed to be a magical weekend, the start of his tamale enterprise, and here he was, worrying about Mike and the magical closet and the Misfits.

He glanced up at Abuela just before it was their turn to put their items on the moving belt.

Eyebrows creased. Lips pursed.

What wasn’t Abuela saying?

He helped her take the items out of the cart, and she suddenly put her hand on top of his when he grabbed a bag of masa.

“Tiempo, Héctor,” she said. “It will just take time. I think you will find what you need.”

In the car ride home, only one thought ran through his mind:

Exactly how much time would this take?

Héctor put all his thoughts aside once he was sitting at Abuela’s dining room table. It was time to focus.

There was a giant bowl of masa in front of her, and a smaller one sat in front of Héctor. Empty corn husks—las hojas de elote—were stacked next to that, and then the filling. The savory pork wasn’t hot anymore, and he watched his abuela scoop out some of the shredded, seasoned meat with one hand.

It was time for him to finally learn how to make Abuela’s tamales.

“I’m ready, Abuela,” he told her. “Time to fulfill my destiny.”

“You want to make sure that there aren’t any spaces in the masa,” she explained, “so that when the tamale is rolled up tightly, it covers the whole thing.”

She used a wooden spoon to flatten masa across the husk, and the movement was so smooth. A few flicks of her wrist and it perfectly covered la hoja.