Papaya and Lightning Strikes

I sat behind the dugout feeling like a total loser, pretending to check my phone while actually spying on Connor's baseball practice. Again. My sophomore year was turning out to be a whole lot of crushing from the sidelines and not much else.

"You gonna finish that papaya?" Connor asked, sliding onto the bench next to me. My heart literally stopped. I'd brought the fruit from home—my Lola swore it helped with muscle recovery—and now the hottest guy in tenth grade was eyeing it.

"It's actually really good," I lied, sliding it over. My face burned as he took a bite. This was it. Social suicide. Nothing says uncool like Filipino fruit remedies at baseball practice.

Connor chewed. For like, three years. "Dude. This is actually fire."

I blinked. "Wait, really?"

"Yeah! My mom's always trying to get me to eat those gross protein bars." He took another bite. "Where'd you get it?"

"My grandma sends them," I said, feeling suddenly weird about how much I'd tried to hide my family's traditions since starting at this school.

Thunder cracked overhead and suddenly the sky opened up—sheets of rain blurring everything. We grabbed our gear and sprinted toward the concession stand, and I was laughing so hard I couldn't breathe, rain plastering my hair to my face,Connor grinning like he'd just hit a home run.

"We should hang out sometime," he yelled over the thunder. "Maybe you can show me how to properly eat a papaya."

The lightning flashed so bright it left spots in my vision. But all I could think was that sometimes the most embarrassing parts of yourself are exactly what makes you interesting to the right people. And that maybe, just maybe, I didn't have to spy on life from the sidelines anymore.