Goldfish Memory & Papaya Shampoo

Maya's hair had been through seven transformations since freshman year, and she was currently rocking what she called "sunset damaged" but what her mom called "please stop buying box dye." It was junior year now, and Maya was still trying to figure out exactly who she was supposed to be at Northwood High—the quiet kid in AP Bio who sat behind Liam Nguyen, or the version of herself that existed in her head where she was confident and said cool things instead of just thinking them three hours later.

"You're doing it again," said Jaz, her best friend since kindergarten, as they walked toward the cafeteria. "That thing where you look at Liam like he's a rare tropical fruit you're not allowed to touch."

"I'm not," Maya lied. "Anyway, his hair looks stupid today."

"His hair looks exactly the same as it always does, which is gorgeous and you know it." Jaz shook her head. "You know what your problem is? You've got the memory span of a goldfish when it comes to how many times he's literally looked at you and smiled."

Maya snorted. "He smiled at me because I handed him a pen he dropped. That's basic human decency, Jaz, not a marriage proposal."

Her phone buzzed. Mom: Don't forget papaya for the party tonight. Also, please consider wearing something nice.

The annual neighborhood block party was tonight, which meant Maya would spend three hours hiding in her room while her mom introduced her to everyone as "my little artist" despite Maya having last drawn something in seventh grade. The only upside was that Liam's family lived three doors down.

That afternoon, Maya went for a run—her new thing since January, supposedly for track but mostly because it gave her an excuse to be alone with her thoughts and her devastatingly mediocre Spotify playlist. She was two blocks from home when she saw him: Liam, running toward her, actual shirtless Liam with his actual chest and actual arms and oh god she was going to die.

She considered veering into someone's perfectly manicured lawn. She considered pretending to get a phone call. She considered just running backwards.

"Hey!" Liam called, all casual, like Maya's heart wasn't literally trying to bear its way out of her chest cavity. "You're on the track team too now?"

"Yeah," Maya said, because lying was easier than explaining that she ran exclusively to avoid social interaction. "Since January."

"That's awesome." He grinned, and Maya's brain short-circuited. "Hey, my parents are doing that block party thing tonight. You going?"

"Probably," she managed, because her body was still in shock but her mouth apparently still worked.

"Cool. I'll see you there, then."

He kept running, leaving Maya standing on the sidewalk wondering if that had actually happened or if she'd hallucinated the entire encounter.

Jaz made her redo her hair three times that evening. "Not sunset damaged," Jaz decided finally. "More like... intentional artistic expression."

Maya spent the first hour of the party successfully avoiding everyone by eating papaya slices in the corner of her kitchen. Then Liam walked in, wearing actual nice clothes and looking like he'd never had an awkward moment in his entire life.

He found her immediately. "Hey, papaya girl."

"That's not my name."

"It is now." He leaned against the counter. "So, track team, huh?"

"Yeah, track team. You?"

"Basketball. But I've been running more lately. For... reasons."

He looked at her in a way that made Maya think maybe her goldfish memory theory was backwards—maybe she was the one who forgot all the moments that actually mattered.

"Good reasons?" she asked.

"Yeah," Liam said, smiling. "I think so."

Outside, Jaz caught Maya's eye from across the yard and gave her an exaggerated thumbs-up. Maya's hair was a mess, she had papaya breath, and she was pretty sure she was blushing so hard she looked like a tomato.

But for the first time in three years, Maya thought maybe she didn't need to transform into someone else to be worth noticing. Maybe she just needed to stop running away from the moments she'd been waiting for all along.