Paparaña Summer

The summer before junior year, Maya landed what she thought would be the chillest job ever—working the counter at Tropical Fusion, that bougie smoothie place in the mall where all the popular kids hung out. The uniform was atrocious (bright pink polo that somehow made everyone look like a walking highlighter), but at least she got employee discounts and free Wi-Fi.

Her phone had been blowing up all morning. Group chat going absolute feral because someone leaked that Tyler, the incredibly cute track star who'd barely acknowledged Maya's existence since sixth grade, had broken up with his girlfriend. Maya's iPhone buzzed incessantly in her pocket—a symphony of notifications she couldn't check because she was stuck blending mango-pineapple combos for customers who acted like ordering a smoothie was a life-or-death decision.

"Maya! Your break, finally!" her manager called. She practically sprinted to the back, pulling out her phone to join the drama. But before she could even unlock it, the bell above the door chimed.

Tyler walked in. Still wearing his running gear from morning practice. Sweat-dampened hair. Those ridiculous calf muscles that everyone low-key obsessed over. Maya's stomach did that embarrassing flutter thing it always did when he was around, which was ridiculous because they'd had exactly two conversations since kindergarten, both about school projects.

He ordered something complicated with papaya, and Maya's brain short-circuited. She'd been working there three weeks and nobody had ever ordered papaya. Half the customers didn't even know papaya existed.

"Papaya? Really?" she asked, trying to sound casual instead of like her heart was attempting to escape her chest cavity.

Tyler laughed, and it was better than any sound her phone had ever made. "Coach says I need to try new foods. Something about antioxidants? Honestly, I'll eat anything if it means I don't have to hear another lecture about proper nutrition." He paused. "You're Maya, right? From Mr. Harrison's English class last year?"

She nodded, suddenly aware that she was wearing pink highlighter clothing and had smoothie ingredients in her hair. "Yeah. That's me."

"You wrote that paper about how *The Great Gatsby* is basically just sad boy drama with expensive stuff. It was hilarious. Mr. Harrison read parts of it out loud."

Maya froze. He remembered her paper? From last year?

"So," Tyler said, leaning against the counter like he had nowhere better to be. "About this papaya situation. What are we thinking? Mix it with something? Or go full chaos mode and just do it straight?"

"Full chaos mode," she said without thinking. "Let's see if Coach knows what he's talking about."

He grinned. "I like your style, Maya."

As she blended the papaya alone—a bold choice that would definitely get complaints if it was terrible—she thought about how her phone had more notifications than she could count, but somehow this random moment at work felt like the most interesting thing that had happened all summer.

Tyler took his first sip, made a face, and then laughed. "Okay, that's objectively gross, but I respect the commitment to the bit."

"I can add honey," Maya offered. "Or I can just add a ton of mango and we can pretend we never tried the papaya experiment."

"Mango rescue mission," he agreed. "Also, my track team's doing a fundraiser next weekend. We're running laps for donations. You should come. I'll text you the details if you want?"

Her phone was still sitting on the counter, ignored. "Yeah. I'd like that."

"Cool." He smiled again. "See you around, Maya."

She watched him leave, papaya-mango smoothie in hand, and finally picked up her phone. Seventeen unread messages in the group chat. Two Instagram notifications. ASnap from someone she barely talked to. And suddenly none of it seemed that important.

Maya put her phone back in her pocket without checking any of it. Her manager hollered that break was over. She smoothed her pink polo and headed back to the counter, already counting down the days until next weekend.