The Papaya Protocol

My cross-country team gathered around the fountain where the stone **sphinx** watched us with that same inscrutable smile it'd been wearing since like, the 1800s. Coach was already yelling something about "digging deep" and "leaving it all on the track," but my mind was elsewhere.

Specifically, on my **iPhone**, currently burning a hole through my backpack. Jordan had texted. *Jordan*. The junior who somehow made varsity without trying and had hair that fell across his forehead in a way that should be illegal.

"Maya, you're spacing again," said Sofia, my co-captain and basically the only person keeping me from completely losing it this season. "You okay?"

"Fine," I lied. "Just thinking about the meet Saturday."

We started our warm-up jog, and I focused on the rhythm of my **running** shoes hitting the pavement. One-two-breath, one-two-breath. This was supposed to be my thing. The one thing I was good at. But lately everything felt like I was doing it wrong.

When I got home, the kitchen smelled like my mom's latest health kick. **Papaya** sat in a bowl on the counter, looking judgmental. Next to it: a giant bag of **spinach**.

"Honey, try this smoothie!" Mom called from the living room. "It's got papaya, spinach, coconut water..."

I took a sip and nearly gagged. "It tastes like a lawn."

"It's full of antioxidants!" She appeared in the doorway, looking so hopeful that I forced myself to drink the rest. "How was practice?"

"Fine." The word was becoming my personality.

That night, I finally opened Jordan's text. *Hey, saw you running past the sphinx today. You looked focused. Good luck Saturday.*

I stared at my screen, heart doing this stupid fluttery thing. Then I noticed another text underneath it, sent five minutes later: *Wait, was that weird? Sorry if that was weird.*

And suddenly I was laughing. The sphinx. The papaya smoothie. The spinach that still tasted like regret. All of it.

I typed back: *Not weird. Thanks. And btw, if anyone offers you a papaya-spinach smoothie, run.*

*Noted,* he replied.

Maybe growing up wasn't about having everything figured out. Maybe it was about messy texts and questionable smoothies and stone statues that kept their secrets. Maybe that was okay.

I set my phone on my nightstand and fell asleep thinking about Saturday's meet, somehow lighter than I'd felt in weeks.