Papaya Protocol

I felt like a total spy in the cafeteria, watching the social pyramid unfold like some messed-up ancient civilization. At the top? The cheerleaders with their perfect hair and expensive lunches. At the bottom? Everyone else, trying not to fall off the edges.

"You're doing it again," Maya said, sliding into the seat across from me. "The creepy observation thing."

"It's not creepy, it's research," I protested, gesturing vaguely at the popular table. "Someday I'll write a thesis on high school social dynamics."

Maya rolled her eyes so hard I thought they'd get stuck. "You're such a weirdo. Anyway, what's with the exotic fruit?"

I looked down at my lunch—a sliced papaya I'd convinced my mom to buy. "Trying new things. Expanding my horizons beyond cafeteria pizza."

"Or trying to catch someone's attention?" Maya raised an eyebrow. "I saw Jordan watching you yesterday."

My face did this thing where it forgot how to human. Jordan Williams, the fox who'd sat behind me in chemistry since September. The one with messy dark hair and that smile that made my brain short-circuit. We'd talked exactly twice, both times about homework.

"He's not interested," I said, stabbing my papaya with unnecessary force. "He's probably just wondering why I smell like tropical fruit."

"You should talk to him," Maya insisted. "Life isn't supposed to be spent spying from the sidelines."

Before I could reply with my usual speech about how Maya had no concept of self-preservation, Jordan actually appeared at our table. My papaya suddenly became the most interesting object in existence.

"Hey," he said, and I realized he was talking to me. "I noticed you're reading Astro City. That series is incredible."

I looked up, surprised. "You know comics?"

"Yeah, I've been collecting since middle school." He shifted his weight, almost nervous. "Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to check out this new shop that opened downtown. They have a huge graphic novel section."

Maya made a sound like a dying cat, trying to contain her excitement.

"I'd love that," I heard myself say. And somewhere in the back of my mind, the spy retired. The papaya could wait. Sometimes you have to step out from observation and into the actual game.