Spying on Myself

Running through the humid Miami streets, papaya juice dripping down my chin, I felt like a total spy in my own neighborhood. The regular kids at school would never guess that straight-A Marcus, the guy who blended into every background, spent his Friday mornings helping his abuela at the market.

My dog Chorizo, a rescue mutt with one ear up and one down, trotted beside me like he knew exactly how much I was running from myself. He didn't care that I'd spent three years perfecting my American accent, or that I pretended to hate the foods that reminded everyone I wasn't "from here."

"You're running late again, mijo," Abuela called out as I reached her stand. Her papayas sat arranged in perfect pyramids, each one more orange than the last. "The tourists like them when they're still firm. They don't know nothing about waiting."

She didn't say it like an accusation, but I still felt it. My abuela didn't understand that at Northwood High, being known as the Papaya Kid was social suicide. She'd never watched someone get roasted in the group chat just for bringing culturally specific food to lunch.

Then Maya walked by.

Maya Chen, who sat behind me in AP Bio and drew tiny geometric patterns on her notebooks when she thought no one was watching. She was never in this part of town on weekends. My stomach dropped. I was crouching behind the papaya pyramid, literally spying on my crush from my own grandmother's fruit stand.

"You're Marcus, right?" she said, stopping. "From biology?"

Chorizo chose that exact moment to knock into a papaya display. The whole pyramid collapsed, fruit rolling everywhere like orange boulders. I died three different deaths.

But Maya was laughing, not in a mean way. She crouched down to help me gather them. "My grandma makes the best papaya salad. Do you like the way your abuela prepares it?"

She knew. And she wasn't running away.

"I mean, yeah," I said, feeling stupid. "It's actually pretty good."

"I've been wanting to try hers," Maya said. "Think she'd teach me?"

When I looked up, she wasn't looking at the papayas anymore. She was looking at me.

The running stopped right there.