Papara's Secret Life

I'd been spying on Maya for three days straight. Okay, that sounds creepy when I say it out loud, but hear me out — my best friend since kindergarten had been acting sus as hell.

Monday she wore a floral sundress to school (Maya. In band tees and Vans Maya). Tuesday she started drinking kombucha at lunch. Wednesday she brought a papaya.

A papaya. Who even eats papaya in the middle of sophomore year?

"It's good for my skin," she'd said, slicing into the weirdly alien fruit with frightening precision. "My pores are going through it."

"Your pores are fine," I'd shot back, because they were. Maya's skin had always been flawless, unlike mine which was currently waging war against my chin. "Also since when do you care about pores?"

She'd just shrugged and taken a bite, looking weirdly thoughtful.

So yeah, I'd been spying. Not like, full-on detective mode with binoculars. But I'd been paying attention. Following her Instagram more closely. Noticing she'd been replying to comments from this senior named Lucas — the one who ran that weird wellness account with the tea recipes.

The truth came out behind the bleachers during PE on Thursday. I'd finally cornered her, prepared for the worst. Was she joining a cult? Was she secretly vegan? Did she have a terminal illness?

"Are you mad at me?" I blurted out, which was not at all what I'd planned to say.

Maya stared at me. "What? No! Why would you think that?"

"Because you're acting like a completely different person! Kombucha? Papaya? Lucas's comment section?"

She froze. Then her face crumpled into that expression she got when she was trying not to laugh at my expense. "Wait. Have you been stalking my Instagram?"

"I've been monitoring your situation!" I protested. "You're my friend and you're being weird!"

Maya sighed, then pulled out her phone. Showed me a screenshot. Lucas had posted a photo of himself holding a papaya, captioned: "if you can appreciate this fruit without making fun of me, you're my kind of people."

"I'm trying to impress him," she admitted. "He's cute and he has good skin and I'm suffering."

I stared at her. Then at the papaya she'd been hiding in her bag. Then back at her.

"So you've been eating this nasty fruit for a boy?"

"It's actually not that bad once you get past the texture—"

"Maya."

"Okay it's gross," she groaned. "I hate it. I hate it so much. But he's having a party Saturday and he said he'd be there."

I started laughing. I couldn't help it. The relief was overwhelming. My best friend hadn't been replaced by a pod person. She was just being a dummy about a boy like a normal teenager.

"You're an idiot," I said, grabbing a slice of papaya and taking a bite. It tasted like old socks and desperation. "Wow. This is terrible."

"RIGHT?" she practically shouted. "I've been eating this for days and he hasn't even liked a single post back."

"So stop eating the papaya," I said. "Be yourself. Wear your band tees. Drink Mountain Dew like a civilized person. If he doesn't like that version of you, he's not worth it."

Maya looked at the papaya, then at me. A slow grin spread across her face. "You know what? You're right." She chucked the rest of the fruit into the trash can with terrifying accuracy. "Wanna go to Taco Bell after school? I need to cleanse my palate."

"Always," I said, because that's what best friends do. They rescue you from bad decisions involving tropical fruit and boys who don't deserve you, and they never let you live it down.

The papaya phase lasted four days. The friendship had lasted fourteen years. Easy choice.