Goldfish in the Papaya Bowl

The summer before freshman year, my friendship with Maya felt like that goldfish I won at the carnival — swimming in circles, trapped in a tiny bag, wondering if we'd make it to the other side alive.

We were at Jordan's pool party, the social event of the season, and I was sweating through my cheap tank top while Maya disappeared into the chlorine-soaked chaos. I stood by the snack table, feeling like the biggest loser on earth.

"Try this," Jordan's older sister Skylar said, shoving a slice of papaya at me. "It's basically tropical vibes in fruit form."

I took a bite. It tasted like melon crossed with a gym sock.

"It's... interesting," I lied, because that's what you do when you're fourteen and trying to survive your first real party without looking like a total dweeb.

Maya surfaced from the water, her hair slicked back like a different person. "Y'all are missing it! Kyle just did a cannonball off the roof!"

But I was still stuck on the papaya situation. And the way Maya had been ditching me all summer for Kyle's crowd. The way everything was changing before I was ready.

"Can I have another piece?" I asked Skylar. Because sometimes you just need to taste something terrible to remember you're alive.

She grinned. "Bold. I like it."

Maya came over, dripping pool water everywhere. "What are we doing?"

"Experiencing culinary excellence," I said, handing her a slice. "Try it. If you hate it, we can wash it down with gross party punch."

She took a bite, made a face, and then we both started laughing. Not polite laughter, but the ugly kind where you snort and can't stop.

"That's the most disgusting thing I've ever eaten," Maya said. "But thanks."

"For what?"

"For not disappearing while I was being idiotic with Kyle and them. For still being my person even when I'm being dumb."

Later, we sat by the pool with our feet in the water, watching the goldfish in Jordan's backyard pond swim around like they had nowhere better to be.

"You know what's weird?" Maya said. "Goldfish only have a three-second memory. But somehow they still know who feeds them."

"Or maybe," I said, "they just know where they belong."

The papaya aftertaste lingered, but somehow that was okay. Some things are weird and new and uncomfortable, but the real friends stick around through all of it.