The Papaya Scheme

The social pyramid at Northwood High had seven distinct tiers, and I was definitely rock bottom. That's why when Maya—the actual Maya, who sat at Tier Three and wore vintage band tees—asked if I wanted to try something "exotic," I said yes before she could finish her sentence.

"Papaya," she said, sliding aTupperware across the cafeteria table. "My dad's obsessed with antioxidants. Try it."

I'd never had papaya. I didn't even know what it looked like. But Maya was watching with those eyes that seemed to see everything, so I grabbed a fork and took a massive bite.

The texture was like waternmelon's weird cousin. The taste was—unexpected. Like cantaloupe that had been left in the sun too long, with something almost spicy underneath.

"Well?" Maya grinned.

"It's... interesting?" I managed, trying not to gag. "Very sophisticated."

"You hate it," she said, not a question.

"I'm trying to be the kind of person who likes papaya!"

"Why?" She tilted her head. "You're plenty cool without pretending to like tropical fruit."

Something in my chest loosened. Because the truth was, I'd been performing since the moment I'd transferred here three weeks ago. Curating reactions, measuring responses, climbing invisible pyramids that nobody actually cared about except me.

"My friend," she said, suddenly serious, "you know nobody actually has this figured out, right? We're all just making it up."

I looked at Maya—Tier Three Maya, who I'd assumed had her whole aesthetic mapped out since kindergarten—and noticed the chipped nail polish. The way she kept glancing at the cafeteria doors like she was waiting for something.

"Who are you waiting for?" I asked.

"My ex," she admitted. "He's supposed to be here. We're supposed to act like mature friends who can peacefully coexist, but I'm pretty sure I'm going to throw up."

"You? Nervous?"

"Terrified," she said. "Hey, want to help me avoid him? We can go to the library and I'll tell you about the time I tried to impress someone by pretending I spoke French."

"Only if you never make me eat papaya again."

"Deal," Maya said. "Also, for the record? You're not at the bottom of any pyramid. You're just you, and that's enough."

We left the half-eaten papaya on the table. Some things are worth trying once. Some things—like real friendship—you just know.