It was a Monday like any other until lunchtime, when Aiko and Mateo picked up each other's lunchboxes by mistake; the two boxes were so alike that neither of them thought to check. Aiko sat down on her usual bench, lifted the lid and found three golden empanadas, still faintly warm, with a note in Spanish tucked underneath, as though someone far away had sent her a letter in pastry. Across the playground Mateo found two rice balls wrapped in seaweed, each hiding a pickled plum in its center like a small sour secret. For a moment both children were shocked. Then they were curious. Then they took a bite.
It was the best lunch either of them had eaten in weeks. When the bell rang, they met at the bench to swap back, but neither looked especially eager. "What if we did this on purpose?" said Aiko. "Every Friday," said Mateo, who was already eyeing the last empanada.
Other children noticed and asked to join. Before long the whole class had a "Friday Feast," and every child brought a dish from home, some wrapped in foil, some in cloth, all carried with the fierce pride of a family recipe. One Friday the teacher tasted a classmate's grandmother's dumplings and had to look out of the window for a while, which a teacher may do, on a Friday, without explanation.