Papaya Palm Reader

My palms were sweating so much I could practically water plants with them. Which was unfortunate, because Jordan was finally coming over, and I'd spent three hours curating the perfect vibe.

"You're literally spiraling," said Maya, my best friend since sixth grade, currently sprawled on my bed eating chips. "Jordan likes you. This isn't a mission."

"It feels like a mission," I said. "I've been insta-stalking them for months. I'm basically a spy at this point. Does that make me creepy?"

"You're not a spy, you're just thorough," Maya said. "Also, your mom bought papayas. Weird flex, but okay."

The papayas sat on the counter like exotic orange aliens. My mom got into this 'tropical fruit phase' and now our kitchen looked like a jungle explosion. I begged her not to mention them when Jordan came over. Nothing kills teenage romance like tropical produce.

Then my dog Barnaby started barking like he'd seen a ghost, and I knew: Jordan was here.

Jordan brought a guitar. We sat on the porch while my mom—bless her well-meaning heart—offered papaya slices like they were hors d'oeuvres at a fancy party. Jordan actually tried one and said it was "fire," which was either the politeness talking or genuine papaya appreciation.

Then my mom decided to read Jordan's palm.

"Your life line is very strong," she said, tracing Jordan's hand. "But you're at a crossroads. Big decisions coming."

"Mrs. Rivera," Jordan laughed, "are you predicting my future?"

"I see music," she said dramatically. "And someone very nervous standing right over there."

She pointed at me. I wanted to die.

But Jordan just smiled at me, all warm eyes and genuine interest. "Yeah," they said. "I can see that too."

Later, when we were sitting on the roof eating way too many papaya slices, Jordan admitted they'd been nervous too. That they'd noticed me in the halls but didn't think I noticed them.

"I thought you were out of my league," Jordan said.

"I thought you were the cool one who'd never look twice," I admitted.

Maya was right. Some things aren't missions. Sometimes you're not spying from the sidelines—you're just two people with sweaty palms and exotic fruit, waiting to be seen.