Papaya at the Party

Maya felt like a **zombie** as she dragged herself into Jessica's house party. Third consecutive night of cramming for APs would do that to you. Her hair was a disaster, so she'd thrown on her dad's old fedora **hat**—classic overcompensation.

"Hey! Maya made it!" Jake shouted. He was in full performance mode, holding court like he was some kind of – no joke – rodeo **bull**, chest puffed, telling everyone about his "sick" basketball skills. Maya's eye roll was involuntary.

"You want something?" Jessica asked, appearing beside her with a plastic cup.

"Just water, please. I'm basically running on **vitamin** supplements and spite at this point."

"Nerd," Jessica laughed, but her eyes darted toward the kitchen. "My dad bought this – hold on –" She returned with a bowl of cubed fruit. "**papaya**. He's on this whole 'exotic superfoods' kick now. It's actually kinda fire?"

Maya stared at it. Papaya. At a high school party. This was either the most cringe thing ever or –

"Try it," Jessica challenged. "I dare you."

Something about Jessica's expectant face, the way everyone else was pretending to be cool with cheap soda and poser conversation. Maya speared a piece and popped it in her mouth.

"Well?" Jessica grinned.

Maya let the taste settle – sweet, musky, completely unlike the processed everything they'd all been conditioned to like. "Actually ... slaps."

"RIGHT?!"

For the next hour, they sat on the back porch, eating papaya and talking about everything that actually mattered – the pressure to perform, the way everyone was fronting, how Maya hadn't felt like herself in months. The bull in the living room had moved on to other victims.

"You know," Jessica said, "that hat's actually giving."

Maya touched the brim. She didn't feel like a zombie anymore. She felt like someone who ate papaya at parties and didn't care who thought it was weird.

"Thanks," she said. "I think I'll keep it."