The Papaya Incident at Home Plate

I felt like a walking zombie. Three hours of sleep will do that to you — especially when you spent the whole night doomscrolling on your iPhone, watching Every. Single. Story. Emma posted. The blue light burned into my retinas at 2 AM, her face smiling back at me from some party I wasn't invited to.

Now here I was, standing at the concessions stand, wearing my dad's old orange polo that made me look like a traffic cone. A literal traffic cone with sweaty palms and zero game.

"That'll be six dollars," the cashier said.

I handed over the crumpled bills. She slid a hot dog across the counter. Then, my brain decided to commit treason.

"And, uh, can I get a papaya?" The words fell out of my mouth before I could stop them. Who asks for papaya at a baseball game? What even IS papaya?

The cashier stared at me. The seventh-grader behind me snorted. My face burned hotter than the stupid sun that refused to hide behind the clouds.

"We don't... we don't have papaya."

"Right. Cool. Totally knew that."

I grabbed the hot dog and speed-walked toward the bleachers like my life depended on it. Of course Emma was sitting right there. Of course she'd witnessed everything.

"Did you just ask for papaya?" Her eyes crinkled with that smile that made my stomach do backflips. "At a baseball game?"

"I was confused," I muttered. "Haven't slept much. Zombie mode."

"That's actually kind of awesome though." She patted the spot beside her. "Nobody normal asks for papaya here. That's a power move."

I sat down, my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to break out. Maybe the orange polo wasn't so bad. Maybe asking for papaya wasn't a disaster. Maybe — just maybe — Emma had noticed me long before today.

"Hey," she said, pulling out her phone. "Want me to teach you how to actually sleep instead of stalking my Insta at 2 AM?"

I almost dropped my hot dog.

Wait. She KNEW?