The Papaya Protocol

Maya's natural **hair** was one giant question mark she couldn't figure out how to answer. At seventeen, everyone else seemed to have solved themselves already. Jordan had the effortless cool thing down. Sam had the art vibe. Maya? She had the **papaya** incident.

At lunch, Jordan's friends had laughed when she'd mistakenly called it "the exotic one with orange flesh." Apparently, everyone knew what papaya was. Everyone except Maya, who'd spent her entire life in the same suburban town, eating the same safe foods, living the same safe life.

But tonight was different. Chloe's house party. The social event of the semester. Maya had spent two hours straightening her hair until it fell like a silky curtain over her shoulders. Not her. Not the real her, but the version that might fit in.

She pressed herself against the bathroom wall, playing **spy** as she listened to girls on the other side of the door talk about boys, gossip, and who was hooking up with who. This was what normal teenagers did. This was what she was supposed to care about.

The door swung open. Maya froze.

A girl she'd never seen before stood there — dark curls haloing her face, eyeliner sharp enough to cut, an air of mystery that made Maya think of the **sphinx**. Those ancient statues with the riddles. This girl had riddles written all over her.

"You gonna stand there all night or actually come out?" the girl asked. "I'm Luna, by the way. And you've been spying for like, ten minutes."

Maya's face burned. "I wasn't—"

"You totally were. It's cool." Luna grinned. "I do it too. People watching is underrated. You're Maya, right? From English?"

"Yeah."

"Cool. Come on. I was about to raid the kitchen. Chloe's parents have this insane fruit bowl thing with actual papaya." Luna's eyes twinkled. "Ever tried it?"

"No," Maya admitted.

"Me neither. Let's be weird together."

And just like that, the question mark of her hair didn't seem so unanswerable anymore. Maybe being a mystery wasn't so bad after all.