I don’t like Sandro. I don’t like how he frowns at me whenever I walk through the bakery. Or how he sits on a high stool watching Papa knead the bread dough, and helping him sprinkle more flour on the wooden counter.
“Is that enough?” he asked Papa.
“What do you think?” Papa replied, waving at the lump of dough. Sandro stood up and touched the dough with his good hand. He poked and pushed it.
“I think it is just the right amount. Not too dry and not too wet.”
“¡Tiene razón!” said Papa. “You’re right! We’ll make a bread baker out of you yet.”
Then Sandro smiled, but when he looked at me, his smile looked different—as if it said, “See? Your Papa thinks I’m smart. He likes me, a lot. Maybe even more than you.”
I tried to tell Gabriella, but she just sighed. “Don’t be jealous, Consuelo. He has so little, some pride in himself is a good thing. Papa will always love you.”
But even Carlos slaps Sandro on the back when he does something good, and Mama gives him almond pastries fresh out of the oven to taste. Yesterday, Lucero asked him if her cookies looked alright. How would he know?! He is not a baker yet! But he told her they looked good and her face went all happy.
Niño horrible! He’s a horrible boy and I wish he would go away.