Fox at the Feast

Maya's mom had decided papaya was the new superfood their family needed, which meant Maya was currently holding a literal bowl of orange mush at Jackson's party. The fruit sat there, tropical and accusing, while everyone else had actual normal snacks like chips.

"You brought fruit?" Chelsea said it like Maya had confessed to a crime. "To a rager?"

"It's fermented papaya," Maya lied smoothly, because her best friend Libby was already three feet away, pretending not to know her. "It's basically a health thing."

Libby had spent forty-five minutes on her hair tonight—those perfect beach waves that somehow looked effortless but absolutely weren't. She'd made Maya promise they'd stay together, but the moment they'd walked through the door, Libby had spotted Tyler from AP English and suddenly Maya was solo.

The cable TV situation at Jackson's house was messed up, so a bunch of people were crowded around the laptop in the corner, watching someone's Instagram Live. That's where Maya found herself ten minutes later, nursing her papaya like it was alcohol she couldn't drink anyway, watching Libby laugh at Tyler's jokes like he was actually funny.

Maya was about to bail when she spotted Jackson's little sister, Mia, sitting alone on the back porch. Mia was twelve and had a fox sweatshirt on—the really vintage kind from before fox emojis were everywhere.

"Cool shirt," Maya said, sitting down beside her. "I literally have that same one buried in my closet from eighth grade."

Mia looked at Maya like she was speaking a foreign language, then at the papaya bowl. "Is that actually fermented papaya?"

Maya laughed. "No. It's just fruit my mom made me bring. I'msorry that's lame."

"Whatever," Mia said, but she was grinning now. "Wanna watch the people being awkward inside? We can rate them."

They spent the next hour doing exactly that, pointing out fake laughs and forced conversations through the sliding glass door. When Libby finally noticed Maya was missing and came looking for her, she found Maya and Mia comparing hair horror stories—Libby's disastrous DIY highlights from seventh grade versus Mia's unfortunate pixie cut phase.

"Oh my god, remember when you did that?" Maya said, and for the first time all night, Libby's laugh sounded real.

Maybe high school was just a series of holding bowls of papaya you didn't ask for, hoping someone would sit with you on the porch and make it feel less weird. Maya caught Mia's eye across the room later and smiled. Some things actually did get easier.