Electric Summer

The papaya sat in my backpack like a radioactive secret. My mom had packed it, claiming it was 'exotic' and 'sophisticated,' but I knew the truth: it was social suicide. Who brought papaya to a pool party? Nobody. That's who.

'Izzy! Over here!' Maya waved from the edge of the pool, surrounded by the kind of people who actually knew how to exist in public without wanting to die. I adjusted my bikini top for the seventeenth time and plastered on what I hoped passed for a chill smile.

Then I saw him. Carter Reynolds, baseball cap backward, laughing at something that wasn't even funny. Of course he was here. Of course he looked like he'd just stepped out of a coming-of-age movie where the protagonist definitely doesn't carry tropical fruit in their bag. His orange swim trunks were blindingly bright against the blue water.

'So,' Carter said, suddenly beside me. 'You gonna swim or what?'

My brain short-circuited. 'Yeah. Totally. Just, you know, warming up.' Warming up for what? Swimming? I sounded ridiculous.

The afternoon passed in a blur of cannonballs and trying not to stare at Carter's arms (baseball season had been good to him, apparently). I managed to avoid the papaya situation entirely—until the sky turned purple-gray and the first fat drops of rain hit the pool deck.

'Everyone out!' Someone yelled. 'Lightning!'

We scrambled for the covered patio. My backpack got knocked over, and the papaya rolled across the concrete like a homeless fruit, stopping directly at Carter's feet.

He picked it up. 'Is this... a papaya?'

'My mom,' I said, wanting to evaporate. 'She thinks I need more culture.'

Carter laughed—not the fake laugh from earlier, but a real one. 'Dude, my dad makes me drink kale smoothies every morning. I'd kill for a papaya.' He tossed it back to me. 'Save me a slice?'

The storm lasted twenty minutes. We spent them on the patio, him talking about baseball, me actually talking—like, with words and everything. When the rain stopped and people started heading to their cars, he walked me to my bike.

'Hey,' he said, 'there's this diner on Main. They have milkshakes. Want to go sometime?'

'Sure,' I managed, though my heart was doing backflips. 'Like, a date-date?'

'Yeah, Izzy. A date-date.' He grinned. 'Bring the papaya.'