Papaya Protocol

The papaya sat on the cafeteria table like a radioactive neon orb.

"Dude, are you actually gonna eat that?" Marcus asked, making a face like I'd just announced I was switching to wearing crocs full-time.

"It's exotic," I said, trying to sound sophisticated instead of just desperately trying to impress Chloe from across the room. She was laughing at something Jordan said—Jordan, whose baseball swing was apparently legendary and whose hair looked perfect even in humidity that could kill a houseplant.

This was my papaya protocol: every day at lunch, I'd bring something weird to eat, hoping she'd notice. So far, she hadn't. But Jordan had definitely noticed I was the guy who once tried to eat a pomegranate like an apple and ended up looking like I'd committed a murder.

Baseball practice started in twenty minutes. I wasn't on the team—I'd tried out freshman year and the coach said I had 'enthusiastic energy' which I'm pretty sure is coach-speak for 'please never return.' But I still went to watch, mostly because Chloe's best friend was the team manager and sometimes Chloe came to hang out.

I was basically a professional spy at this point. I knew Jordan's batting average (.333, which meant something important), I knew Chloe's favorite order at Taco Tuesday (mild salsa, extra cheese), and I knew exactly which bench provided optimal viewing distance without looking creepy.

Or so I thought.

"You know, papaya's actually supposed to be good for digestion," a voice said behind me. I jumped and practically sent my neon orb rolling across the table.

Chloe.

Up close, she had these little freckles and her nail polish was chipped in a way that seemed intentional. Cool-people chipped.

"Yeah," I managed, sounding like someone who'd forgotten how words worked. "Exotic."

"You say that a lot," she said, and then—miracle of miracles—she sat down. "I saw you at baseball yesterday. You're always there. Do you like...统计分析 stuff?"

"Statistics," I repeated. "Yes. Definitely. I love statistics."

I didn't know anything about statistics.

"That's actually really cool," she said, and my heart did that thing where it forgets its job. "Jordan's always going on about his RBIs and whatever. Maybe you could explain it to me sometime?"

The papaya sat there, glowing like a radioactive beacon of hope.

"Totally," I said. "I could explain everything."

I'd need to Wikipedia some stuff first. But that was future-me's problem. Present-me was busy having a moment that would definitely go down in history.

Papaya protocol: success.