Papaya Secrets

I'm basically a professional **spy** at this point. Not the cool kind with gadgets and night-vision goggles — more like the kind who lurks behind lockers during third period, watching Zara laugh with her friends like she owns the hallway.

Zara doesn't know I exist. I'm the guy who sits behind her in AP Bio, the one who accidentally knocked over her backpack freshman year and said "sorry" like twelve times. Now I just observe. Pathetic? Maybe. But everyone's got their thing.

This week, everyone's thing is being a **zombie**. Finals week hit Northwood High like a freight train, and the hallways are full of undead students shuffling toward the cafeteria, eyes glazed, muttering about calculus and the college application portal that crashed yesterday. Even Zara looks wrecked — I saw her head nearly hit the table during lunch.

Which is exactly why I did it.

My grandma sent me to school with a container of fresh papaya she'd prepared "because growing boys need vitamins." I'd planned to eat it during my free period, but instead I found myself sliding it onto Zara's table while she was in the bathroom. No note. No grand gesture. Just bright orange cubes in a blue Tupperware.

I watched from my usual spot by the lockers as she returned, confused, then tried one. Her eyes widened. She took another bite, then turned to her friends, actually smiling for the first time all week.

The next day, there was a yellow sticky note on my locker: "Thanks for the papaya. You're a lifesaver. — Zara"

Okay, so I didn't exactly become best friends with the popular crowd overnight. But sometimes the smallest things pull you out of zombie mode. And sometimes being a spy means you know exactly what someone needs before they do.

Baby steps, right?