Fox's Last Summer

They called me Fox because of my hair—the color of rust, always sticking up like I'd just rolled out of bed. Mom said it was my "signature look," which was exactly the kind of thing moms said when they'd given up trying to fix it.

That summer before sophomore year, I was "helping" my weird uncle Marcus move into his new apartment. Which really meant sitting on his floor while he unpacked boxes and lectured me about how his generation had actually lived through things. He had this ancient TV with a coaxial cable dangling from it like a dead snake.

"You know," he said, wrestling a box marked STUFF I DON'T NEED, "we used to have to wait for shows to come on. At specific times. Like cavemen."

"Uncle Marcus, you're literally forty-two."

"Forty-two YEARS of suffering," he countered, pulling something wrapped in newspaper from the box. "Look at this beauty."

It was a fish bowl. Inside floated a single, suspiciously orange goldfish named Steve.

"Steve's been with me through college, three bad breakups, and that time I thought I'd become a DJ." Marcus stared at Steve with profound intensity. "He's the most consistent relationship I've ever had."

"That's... honestly kind of sad, Uncle Marcus."

"You're one to talk, Fox." He gestured at my phone, which I'd been checking every twelve seconds. "Waiting for what? Your crush to finally notice you exist? Spoiler: they won't, until you stop hiding behind that screen."

I felt my face heat up. He wasn't wrong. Maya had been in my advisory freshman year, and I'd spent exactly zero hours talking to her and approximately seven hundred hours thinking about talking to her.

Marcus dug into his grocery bag and produced a papaya, which he'd apparently bought just to confuse me.

"You know what's great about being almost-adult?" He sliced the papaya with theatrical flair. "You can eat whatever exotic fruit you want, whenever you want. No one can stop you. This is freedom, Fox. This is what they don't tell you in high school."

He shoved a slice at me. It tasted weirdly sweet, like nothing I'd ever had before.

"See? New experiences. Scary but worth it." Marcus paused dramatically. "Kinda like talking to actual humans instead of just lurking their Instagram stories."

"Are you saying a fruit taught me social skills?"

"I'm saying," Marcus said, "that Steve here has more game than you. And he's a fish."

I texted Maya that night. Hey, saw this weird fruit today and thought you'd appreciate how unnecessarily extra it was.

She wrote back three minutes later: OMG papaya?? That fruit looks like it's trying too hard

We've been dating for six months now. Uncle Marcus still claims the papaya was his master plan all along. I think he just bought it on sale, but whatever works.