Fruit Salad Sabotage

Jordan felt like a total spy, infiltrating enemy territory. Which, technically, she was. Kind of. If you counted senior Chloe Martinez's back-to-school rager as enemy territory and Jordan's worn-out Vans as reconnaissance gear.

The music thumped against her chest. People dotted the backyard, faces illuminated by phone screens like digital zombies. Jordan clutched her red Solo cup like it contained national secrets instead of lukewarm punch.

"You look like you're decoding nuclear launch codes," someone said.

Jordan jumped. A guy in a flannel shirt leaned against the patio railing, smirking. Evan. From AP Calc. The one who fell asleep during the derivative lecture and drooled on his desk.

"I'm conducting surveillance," Jordan shot back, then immediately wanted to die. Who said that?

Evan's grin widened. "Observation: everyone's either vaping or pretending to understand sports. Conclusion: we should bail."

Jordan hesitated. She'd spent two hours psyching herself up for this party. Two hours practicing casual poses in her mirror. Two hours convincing herself that this was what normal teenagers did.

"My mom made papaya salad," she blurted. "For the party. It's in my car."

Why. WHY did her brain betray her like this?

Evan stared. Then he burst out laughing—not mean laughing, but genuine, bent-over laughter. "Papaya? At a house party? That's chaotic energy. I respect it."

"It's actually really good," Jordan defended, then stopped caring why she was defending it. "My grandma's recipe. Lime, chili powder, a little fish sauce."

"Fish sauce?" Evan raised an eyebrow. "You're trying to poison us. That's a straight-up spy tactic."

Jordan smiled despite herself. "Only if you're on my watch list."

"Am I?"

"Maybe."

They ended up sitting on the hood of Jordan's car in the driveway, eating papaya salad with plastic forks while the zombie playlist continued inside. Jordan talked about her grandma's garden in Vietnam. Evan admitted he only came because his mom said he needed "social exposure." They agreed that high school was basically a long-term mission requiring patience, strategy, and occasional emotional warfare.

"Next party," Evan said, licking chili powder off his thumb, "we're bringing mango. Strategic escalation."

"You're on," Jordan said.

Inside, the zombies continued their aimless shuffling. But out here? Jordan had finally found her co-agent.