Papaya at the Bottom of the Pyramid

The social hierarchy at Northwood High operated like a pyramid scheme you couldn't opt out of. At the apex sat the swimming team elite—goddesses in chlorine-scented skin. I'd spent three years running from my inevitable placement at the base, right next to the kid who ate papaya with a spoon in the cafeteria.

"You're trying out, right?" Maya asked, her wet hair leaving dark spots on her letterman jacket.

I shrugged, attempting casual. "Maybe."

Inside, my stomach was doing laps. Tryouts were Friday. My grandfather had been training me in his backyard pool since summer began, but he also collected ceramic fox figurines and wore socks with sandals, so his judgment wasn't exactly currency.

Wednesday, I found myself running past the pretentious grocery store downtown when something caught my eye—a papaya, perfectly ripe, sitting like a golden sun in a bin of bruised apples. I bought it with my babysitting money, feeling absurdly sophisticated.

Thursday night, I swam until my arms felt like detached noodles, then sat on the pool edge eating my papaya with the same dignity the cafeteria kid had owned all along. Sweet, messy, unapologetic.

"What's that smell?" someone called.

"Papaya," I said, suddenly tired of the pyramid. "Want some?"

By Friday, three of us sat poolside sharing tropical fruit like it was contraband. Maya showed up. She didn't make the team. None of us did. But we formed our own hierarchy—horizontal instead of vertical, papaya-stained and chlorine-perfumed, running nowhere at all but heading somewhere together.