Papara bats and Papaya Promises

The **papaya** sat on the kitchen counter like a neon-orange accusation. Mom's new phase. Last month it was keto, now we're apparently tropical.

"It's packed with enzymes, Mateo!" she called from somewhere in the house. "Great for digestion!"

Great. My digestion was fine. What wasn't fine was that Clara, the actual human equivalent of sunshine, had invited me to the **baseball** game tonight.varsity playoffs. Everyone going. And here I was, psyching myself up for fruit that smelled like gym socks.

"You going?" Rico leaned against my doorframe, already dressed like he was about to walk a runway instead of the bleachers. "Clara asked about you in bio."

I shrugged, shoving the papaya aside. "Maybe."

"Dude. She's literally perfect for you. You like bands, she likes bands. You're both weird about—"

"I'm not going."

Rico sighed dramatically. "You're always **running** from stuff, man. Last month you dodged that party because you 'had to study.' Which was BS because I saw you at home watching—"

"Okay, valid."

My phone buzzed. Clara: *Hey! We're grabbing dinner before the game. Stella's smoothie shop? Please comennn*

Three 'n's. That was three units of desperation.

Stella's. They served **spinach** kale smoothies that tasted like lawn clippings but were somehow the social hub of sophomore year. I could do this. I could go to Stella's, drink a green slurry, pretend to care about baseball, and maybe—just maybe—sit next to Clara without my heart staging a full revolt.

"Alright," I told Rico. "But if I have to drink a spinach smoothie, you're paying."

"Deal. Now put on something that doesn't look like you gave up on life."

The papaya sat on the counter, uneaten. Some battles you lose. Some you just... postpone. Tonight was about bigger things. Tonight was about Clara and baseball and possibly the worst smoothie of my life.

And honestly? That felt like winning.