Papaya Panic

Maya's palms were sweating. Like, actually dripping onto her joggers. She checked her iphone for the fifteenth time in three minutes.

still coming? the text read.

Maya typed 'yeah!' then deleted it. Too eager. She typed 'on my way' but that felt like lying since she was currently hyperventilating in her kitchen. The cat, Barnaby, wound around her ankles like he sensed her impending doom.

''You're literally going to hang out with him,'' she whispered to herself. ''Not get married. Chill.''

But Jordan was different. He'd sat next to her in bio since September and somehow made Punnett squares seem almost interesting. Last week he'd asked if she wanted to study together. By study, he obviously meant sit at Starbucks and awkwardly avoid eye contact for an hour.

Her phone buzzed.乔丹 sent: everything ok? lol

Panic. Full-blown panic.

Maya's grabby hands latched onto the first thing on the counter — her mom's papaya, cut into perfect orange cubes like something from a food blog. She shoved several pieces into her mouth without thinking.

Big mistake. Huge.

Her tongue started tingling. Then burning. Like, actually on fire.

''Oh my god,'' Maya gasped. ''I think I'm allergic to papaya.''

Barnaby meowed judgmentally.

Her throat felt tight. Not cute-date tight, but actual anaphylactic tight. She grabbed her phone and typed: allergic to papaya can't make it

Jordan responded instantly: ???

She was already running out the door, down the street toward urgent care, while simultaneously trying to explain to Jordan that she wasn't standing him up, she was just dying.

The papaya betrayal continued for three days. She missed the study sesh. She missed two days of school. Jordan never texted again.

But a week later, there was a container on her desk. Chocolate chip cookies. No papaya in sight.

nice recovery time it read.

Maya smiled. Maybe teenage romance wasn't so different from papaya — weird, unexpected, and sometimes it tried to kill you. But sometimes, just sometimes, it was actually kind of sweet.