Chasing Papaya Sunrises

The cross country team gathered at the track, 5:45 AM, while the sky was still that bruised purple color that makes you question every life choice that led here. Coach Martinez had us doing these preseason vitamin regimens, because apparently fifteen-year-olds need to optimize their bone density or something.

"You good, Maya?" Elena asked, gulping from her massive water bottle like she'd just crossed a desert.

I nodded, lying. My stomach was doing that thing where it felt like I'd swallowed a handful of anxious moths. Today was time trials — the thing that determined whether you made varsity or got stuck with JV running the same boring loop around the school park.

The real problem wasn't the running. I could run. I'd been running since seventh grade, when my dad got remarried and I started spending hours at the track because it was better than sitting in my room listening to them argue about through walls. No, the problem was Tyler Chen, who smiled at me yesterday in homeroom like I was someone worth smiling at.

My mom had started this new phase where she bought exotic fruits because the internet said they were "superfoods." Hence the papaya sitting in my backpack, getting progressively mushier in the August heat. She'd packed it with a note that said "Fuel your dreams!

" with an actual exclamation point drawn as a smiley face.

"Alright, bring it in!" Coach yelled. "Three miles. Clock starts when I blow this whistle. Don't make me regret waking up this early."

We lined up. Tyler was there, stretching his calves like he didn't have a care in the world. He caught my eye and grinned. "Good luck, Papaya."

"What?" I said, confused.

"Your backpack. I saw it in first period. You're the girl with the papaya." He shrugged, still grinning. "It's cute."

I didn't know whether to be mortified or weirdly pleased that he'd noticed anything about me at all.

The whistle blew. We took off.

My body knew what to do even if my brain didn't. Footfall, breath, footfall, breath. Around the first bend, past the tennis courts where someone had spray-painted SENIOR YEAR onto the fence. Tyler pulled ahead, easy and loping. Elena stayed beside me, steady as always.

By mile two, my lungs were burning and I could feel the papaya bumping against my back with every step, this ridiculous reminder of everything that felt messy and uncool about my life. But then I thought about Tyler calling me "Papaya" like it was something good, something worth noticing. And I thought about my mom, trying her best even when everything felt hard.

I pushed forward. Not for varsity. Not for Coach Martinez. For whatever version of myself was brave enough to let people see her — weird fruit habits and all.

I finished third. Not varsity fast. Not failure slow. Just somewhere in the middle, which was exactly where I lived most days anyway.

Afterward, sitting on the grass while my heart slowed down, I pulled out the papaya. It was bruised and ugly and perfect. Tyler walked over, sweat making his hair curl at the edges.

"So," he said. "You gonna share that, Papaya?"

I laughed. "Maybe. If you're lucky."