Papaya Sabotage

I felt like a total spy lurking behind the locker bank, phone clutched in my sweating palm. Maya was there, of course — laughing at something Jake said with that head-tilt thing that made my stomach do backflips. I'd been "running reconnaissance" for two weeks now, which was just a fancy way of saying I was cyberstalking their snap streaks and memorizing Jake's lacrosse schedule. Pathetic? Maybe. Necessary for survival? Definitely.

Then I saw it: Jake's locker. Number 237. Maya had accidentally let it slip during third period, and now here was my chance. I could finally piece together their whole deal — maybe even find something that would help me actually talk to him without my voice cracking like a broken speaker.

The locker was already slightly open. I glanced around like I was casing a joint, then reached inside and grabbed the first thing I saw: a crumpled note. My heart hammered as I unfolded it.

"PAPAYA SOAP — DO NOT TOUCH" was scrawled across a pyramid-shaped flyer. What?

"Need something?"

I jumped like I'd been electrocuted. Jake stood there, arms crossed, wearing that I'm-so-done-with-your-crap expression. Behind him, Maya was trying not to laugh. I'd been caught in my own spy operation. The humiliation burned through my face.

"I... you left this..." I stammered, waving the pathetic flyer like it was evidence.

"That's promotional material for my dad's skincare startup," Jake said, not even trying to hide his amusement. "Which you would've known if you'd just ASKED me instead of playing Nancy Drew all month."

Maya lost it. "We literally waited for you to say something to him for weeks, Jules. What were you waiting for?"

"I don't know!" I practically shouted. "Maybe for him to not be built like a Greek god and actually notice I exist?"

Jake's eyebrows shot up. "Wait — you've been waiting for ME to notice YOU?" He looked at Maya. "Did you know about this?"

"Everyone knows about this," she said. "We were taking bets on when you'd finally crack."

"Oh my god," I buried my face in my hands. "This is a nightmare."

"Actually," Jake said, stepping closer, "it's kind of perfect."

He handed me his phone, open to a new contact. "Next time you want intel, just text me. I'll give you the full report on myself. No spy gear required."

I stared at his number like it was alien technology. Then I did something actually brave: I typed my name into his contacts and hit save.

"Deal," I said. "But I'm still using your papaya soap if it's that legendary."