The Riddle at Rosa's

Maya's iphone buzzed in her pocket like an angry hornet as she leaned against the counter at Rosa's Market. Three unread texts from the group chat. Her thumbs hovered over the screen, ready to type some lie about being "super busy with family stuff." In reality, she was hiding out with her abuela, helping stock the papaya display because facing everyone after what happened at lunch felt impossible.

The papayas sat like golden grenades, each one perfectly ripe and ready to explode. Abuela always said fruit chose you, not the other way around. Maya reached for one with skin the color of a summer sunset, its freckles reminding her of the constellation she'd learned about in science class — the one that looked like a question mark.

"You're hiding," Abuela said, not looking up from arranging mangos. "Like a sphinx with all its secrets."

Maya almost smiled. Abuela and her dramatic metaphors. But she wasn't wrong. At lunch, everyone had been discussing who liked who, and when the conversation turned to Tyler — Tyler with his dimpled smile and lacrosse jersey — Maya had panicked and said something completely idiotic about him being "not really her type." Which was objectively false. Tyler was exactly her type, and now the whole friend group thought she was weird for turning down the guy they'd all been pushing her toward.

Her iphone lit up again. A photo from the group chat: everyone at the boba place without her. FOMO hit like a physical weight, heavy and suffocating. Her fingers moved automatically, opening instagram and scrolling through photos of people having better lives than hers. People who belonged somewhere. People who knew who they were.

"The sphinx," Abuela said, wiping her hands on her apron, "had one really good quality. She didn't care what anyone thought. She sat there with her riddles and her lion body and she was just... herself. Unapologetic."

Maya looked down at the papaya in her hands. It was imperfect. Slightly misshapen. The kind most people would pass by for the prettier ones. But Abuela had taught her that those were often the sweetest.

"I told everyone Tyler wasn't my type," Maya said quietly. "But he is. I just froze."

"So?" Abuela shrugged. "Maybe he's not your type anymore. Maybe your type changed five minutes ago. Maybe your type is papaya." She gestured to the fruit display. "Or maybe your type is whoever makes you feel like yourself, whoever that is today."

Her iphone buzzed again. This time Maya didn't even look. Instead, she sliced the papaya in half, revealing the vibrant orange inside. Black seeds like tiny pearls tucked into sweet perfection.

"Want some?" she asked Abuela.

"Always, mija."

They ate standing there behind the counter, juice dripping down their chins, while Maya's phone continued its anxious dance in her pocket. For the first time all day, she didn't feel like running away from herself. Maybe tomorrow she'd text Tyler. Maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she'd just keep eating imperfect fruit with her grandmother and figure out the rest later.

The sphinx would've kept her secrets. But Maya? Maya was finally ready to make up her own riddles.