Chlorine Dreams & Papaya Secrets

I died inside when I saw him walk through the pool gate. Kai. The boy I've been low-key stalking on Instagram since seventh grade. Suddenly I was hyper-aware of everything — my one-piece swimsuit that screamed 'lifeguard in training,' the chlorine smell permanently baked into my skin, the fact that I was literally holding a pool skimmer like it was a royal scepter.

"You work here?" he asked, flashing that smile that made my brain do that thing where it forgot how to words.

"Yeah, uh, guarding lives and stuff," I said coolly, except not coolly at all. "Nbd."

He laughed and I died a second time.

I needed to play it cool. I needed to find out everything about him without asking. I needed to be a spy. Not like, actual spy spy — that would involve effort and skills I definitely didn't possess. But social media spy? That was my natural habitat.

That night, I spent three hours falling down the rabbit hole. His posts revealed: he played guitar, had a dog named Nacho, and was apparently obsessed with papaya. Like, weirdly obsessed. Multiple posts about papaya smoothies, papaya salsa, something called 'papaya toast' which sounded like a crime against breakfast.

The next day, I showed up to work prepared. I'd spent my morning trying to become someone who casually enjoyed tropical fruit. I even brought papaya chunks in Tupperware like a normal human person and not a literal psychopath.

"What's that?" he asked, nodding at my container.

"Papaya," I said, trying to sound like someone who didn't Google 'papaya health benefits' at 2 AM. "It's my... favorite."

He looked at me like I'd just said air was my favorite.

"You like papaya?"

"Love it. The taste of... tropical... vibes."

"That's hilarious," he said. "I literally hate papaya. I only post about it because my mom makes me eat it. She says it's a superfood or some weird vitamin thing."

We stood there for three seconds while my soul left my body.

"Oh," I said.

"But I like that you're weird about it," he said, smiling. "Wanna get actual food after your shift? Something that doesn't taste like sunscreen and disappointment?"

I pretended to think about it. I absolutely did not think about it.

"Sure."

Later, sitting across from him at a diner, eating fries that actually tasted like something good, I realized something: maybe I didn't need to be a spy. Maybe I didn't need to curate a version of myself that matched what I thought he wanted. Maybe being the girl who brought papaya to pool duty because she thought a boy liked tropical fruit was exactly the kind of awkward that made me, like, actually interesting.

"You know," I said, stealing a fry from his plate, "this is way better than papaya."

"No doubt," he said. "But keep bringing it. I need someone to appreciate my suffering."

I smiled. And for the first time all summer, I didn't think about what I should say next. I just said it.