The Papaya Pitch

Marcus felt like a **zombie** as he dragged himself to the community park, still running on three hours of sleep from the Overwatch tournament that had bled into dawn. His mom had volunteered him for the annual Summer Riddle Festival—because nothing says "cool sixteen-year-old" like spending Saturday helping little kids solve puzzles at the local park.

"You gonna survive, dude?" Tyler asked, tossing him a Gatorade. "You look dead."

"Barely," Marcus muttered, cracking the seal. "But at least there's free food."

The setup was ridiculous: a mini carnival with stations themed around different "mysteries." Marcus got assigned to the **sphinx** booth, where he had to wear a cheap Egyptian headdress and pose riddles to elementary schoolers. He spent an hour asking "What walks on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three in the evening?" until a fifth grader rolled her eyes and said, "A human. Everyone knows that one."

He was dying. Literally dying.

Then he saw her—Chloe from AP English, leaning against the **baseball** backstop and laughing with her friends. His stomach did that embarrassing flip thing it always did when she was around. She wore this oversized vintage jersey and looked effortlessly perfect while Marcus was sweating through a pharaoh costume.

"Nice headpiece," she called, walking over. "Very avant-garde."

"I'm embracing my inner mystery," Marcus said, immediately wanting to die. That was the **bull**-iest thing he'd ever said.

But Chloe smiled. "Well, Sphinx, want to help me with something? My cousin dared me to try every exotic fruit at the tasting station, and I cannot figure out how to eat this **papaya** without looking like a mess."

They sat together on the grass while she taught him the proper way to eat papaya—scooping the seeds with a spoon, adding lime. She talked about her art portfolio, he complained about his mom's volunteer addiction, and somehow his zombie state faded into something warmer.

"You know," Chloe said, wiping pink juice from her chin, "you're actually pretty fun when you're not sleeping through English class."

"I wasn't sleeping," Marcus protested. "I was... meditating on the deeper meaning of The Great Gatsby."

"That's bull." She grinned, and it wasn't mean. It was perfect.

Maybe the festival wasn't so terrible. Maybe wearing a sphinx headdress and eating strange fruit with the girl he'd been crushing on for months was exactly where he was supposed to be.

"Same time next week?" Chloe asked, standing up.

Marcus's heart hammered. "Only if you bring the papaya."