Papaya Pool Party Protocol

I've been strategically positioned behind the **running** fountain for exactly twenty-three minutes. That's not creepy — it's reconnaissance. My best friend Maya calls it being a total **spy**, but I prefer "tactical observation." The target: Tyler from my AP Bio class, currently shirtless by the **water** volleyball net like he owns the entire pool party.

"You're literally lurking," Maya whisper-yells, adjusting her bikini top. "Either go talk to him or come eat.__water__"

I ignore her, because Tyler is holding a **baseball** cap — my Tyler radar detects this as significant. He never wears hats. But today, with wet hair dripping down his neck, he's twisting this maroon cap around his fingers like it's a nervous habit. Which is impossible, because Tyler Rodriguez doesn't get nervous. He's the guy who aced our presentation while I forgot my own name.

Then his grandma appears with a fruit bowl. Not normal fruit — this is next-level cultural confusion. She's offering him sliced **papaya** like it's completely normal for a pool party in suburban Ohio.

"Mijo, eat something," she says in that grandma voice that carries across six time zones. "You're too skinny."

Tyler freezes. His friends are watching. This is it — I recognize this moment. This is that specific kind of teenage mortification where your heritage suddenly feels like a spotlight you didn't ask for. I should know — my mom once brought homemade empanadas to a soccer game and asked everyone if they wanted "little Latin happiness pastries."

But then Tyler does something unexpected. He takes a piece. He eats it. He grins at his grandma like she didn't just socially engineer him into a corner.

"Who wants **papaya**?" he calls out. "Abuela says it's basically Gatorade but natural."

His friends hesitate. I don't.

I abandon my fountain position and walk over like I meant to do this the whole time. Maya's face is doing this shocked thing, but whatever.

"I'll try some," I say.

Tyler hands me a piece. Our fingers brush.

"I didn't know you liked **baseball**," he says, nodding at the vintage Dodgers shirt I wore ironically but now feel weirdly self-conscious about.

"I don't," I say, then immediately wish I'd said something cooler. "I mean, my dad does. He got me into — never mind.__water__"

He laughs. It's this genuine sound that makes the **water** behind us seem less loud.

"You're in my Bio class, right?"

"Yeah. I sit behind you."

"I know," he says.

Oh.

OH.

Later, Maya and I are sitting on the pool edge, feet dangling in the **water**, watching Tyler finish his grandma's **papaya** while explaining the rules of **baseball** to someone who definitely doesn't care.

"You realize you basically just announced yourself to the entire party," Maya says.

"I was conducting surveillance," I say, but I'm smiling. "Tactical observation."

"Sure, **spy** girl," she says. "Whatever you need to tell yourself.__water__"

The **running** fountain is still going in the background. Tyler looks over and waves.

I wave back like a normal person for once.

Progress.