The Papaya Protocol

The orange tabby cat on Mrs. Gable's porch had been judging me for three weeks straight. I'd named him Clementine because I'm basic like that, and honestly, he was the closest thing I had to a friend since moving to this town.

"You gonna eat that?" Chloe asked, gesturing at my lunch.

I looked down at my tray. My mom, in her endless quest to expand my palate, had packed me papaya. Again. In a high school cafeteria where everyone else had pizza or decent sandwiches, I looked like I was about to go on a tropical vacation instead of to AP Calc.

"Not voluntarily," I said, poking the exotic fruit with suspicion.

Chloe slid onto the bench across from me, dropping her tray with a clatter. She'd been sitting near me for a week now, gradually inching closer like she was conducting some kind of scientific experiment on social interaction. Her black hair had this perfect messy wave thing that I'd been trying to achieve since seventh grade, with zero success.

"Your mom's still in her nutrition phase?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"She says I need more variety. I say I need to not eat tropical fruit that looks like alien insides in front of half the junior class."

Chloe laughed, and something in my chest loosened. I'd been waiting for this—the moment when the new girl inevitably showed her weirdness too much and everything would get awkward. But instead, she reached over and took a piece of my papaya.

"My dad made this whole thing about eating clean last year," she said, popping it in her mouth. "Two weeks of nothing but spinach smoothies and grilled chicken. I thought I was going to actually die."

"Spinach smoothies?"

"He called them 'power greens.' I called them literal punishment." She swallowed, making a face. "This papaya isn't terrible, though. Kind of like melon but more expensive."

I smiled, actually smiled, for the first time all day.

"So," she said, leaning in like she was about to tell me a secret, "there's this party Friday. Maya's house. You should come."

My stomach did this nervous flip thing. Parties weren't exactly my scene—not that I had much of a scene to begin with. But Chloe was looking at me like she actually wanted me there.

"I don't really... I mean, I'm not great at—"

"Parties are awkward for everyone," she said, cutting off my spiral. "That's kind of the point. We all just stand around pretending we know what we're doing while someone's little brother tries to steal the snacks."

The bell rang, and she stood up, gathering her tray.

"Think about it," she called over her shoulder. "And hey, if your mom packs you papaya again tomorrow, trade me. I've got baby carrots."

I watched her walk away, and when I looked out the window, Clementine was watching too. The cat dipped his head—acknowledgment, maybe. Approval.

The orange cat had known. Sometimes the good things show up when you stop trying so hard to fit in.