Riddle in the Cafeteria

The papaya sat on Maya's tray like a radioactive orange orb, mocking her existence. She'd accidentally grabbed it instead of the mango slices, and now everyone at table seven would definitely think she was trying too hard to be exotic again.

"Nice hat," called Jason from the popular table, pointing at her beat-up denim bucket hat. "Did you lose a bet?"

Maya's face burned. This hat was her comfort object, her security blanket against the crushing social hierarchy of sophomore year, but apparently it was just another thing for Jason to roast.

Then she saw it.

The Sphinx wasn't an actual mythological creature, obviously—that would be psychotic—but someone had drawn an incredibly detailed sphinx on the bathroom stall door last week. Complete with riddle. MAYA WHO SOLVES THIS SHALL KNOW THemsELF, it declared in dramatic sharpie. And underneath: I HAVE PAPAYA SKIN BUT HOLD NO FRUIT. I SPEAK WITHOUT MOUTH. I AM WORN BUT NEVER EATEN. WHAT AM I?

Three days later, Maya still couldn't crack it. The riddle haunted her during AP Bio, during cheer practice tryouts (she'd lasted exactly twelve minutes before bailing), during her mom's third lecture this week about "putting yourself out there."

Now Jason was making fun of her hat. Again. Maya shoved her tray back and practically sprinted to the bathroom.

The sphinx stared back at her, winged lion face forever frozen in that mysterious smile. MAYA WHO SOLVES THIS SHALL KNOW THemSEL—but someone had scratched out the last part. Real helpful.

Papaya skin. No fruit. Speaks without mouth. Worn but never eaten.

Maya looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her hat. Her weird papaya mistake. The way she was always hiding, always overthinking everything, always waiting for permission to just exist.

She sank to the tile floor and pulled out her phone, googling sphinx riddles from mythology, from pop culture, from everything.

Oedipus had solved the original sphinx's riddle: What walks on four legs, then two, then three? A human. The answer was literally himself. His own identity.

The bathroom stall riddle wasn't about papayas. It was never about papayas.

Maya stood up, grabbed a sharpie from her backpack, and wrote under the sphinx: A HAT.

Papaya-colored hats spoke without mouths. They were worn but never eaten. And somewhere along the line, Maya had become the person who wore ridiculous denim bucket hats and grabbed wrong fruits and tried anyway, even when Jason made fun of her.

She walked back into the cafeteria, sat back down at table seven, and actually took a bite of the papaya. "Actually pretty decent," she announced to no one in particular.

Jason raised an eyebrow. "You're weird, Maya."

She adjusted her hat and smiled. "Yeah, I know."