Papaya Kings and Chlorine Dreams

The orange slice floated in my chlorinated punch, looking depressing and out of place—kind of like me at Jessica Miller's end-of-summer pool party.

"Dude, you're literally just standing there," Marcus said, appearing beside me with two red cups. "You've been in the corner for forty minutes. It's weird."

"I'm observing," I lied. "Reading the room. Strategic social analysis."

"You're hiding." He shoved a cup at me. "Drink this. Your cousin made it, so it's probably terrible, but alcohol helps."

I took a sip. It was like someone had mixed sadness with fancy juice. The orange slice bobbed against my nose.

The papaya incident had started three weeks ago at my cousin's quinceañera, where I'd confidently identified the tropical fruit as "some kind of alien melon" in front of half my sophomore class. The video had made it to TikTok. #PapayaKing was still somehow trending.

"Oh my GOD," someone squealed behind me.

I turned. Jessica Miller—actual Jessica Miller, whose hair I'd mentally styled during every third-period bio since August—was standing there in this orange bikini that should've been illegal. She was looking at me like I'd personally invented sunshine.

"You're the Papaya King!"

I choked on my punch. "Excuse me?"

"The video! My friends and I literally watch it every time we're having a bad day." She gestured dramatically. "'What IS that alien fruit?'—iconic. You're so confidently clueless, it's actually kind of ... I don't know, charming?"

Marcus mouthed "WHAT" from behind her shoulder.

"So," Jessica said, flipping her hair, totally casual, like she didn't know she was the reason I understood what poetry was about, "I bet you don't know what this is either." She held out this weird, lumpy, greenish-yellow thing.

I looked at it. I looked at her perfect, expecting face. I looked at Marcus, who was now frantically nodding.

"Cherimoya," I said, without thinking. "It's like, custard apple? My abuela makes licor de chirimoya for Christmas."

Jessica's mouth actually fell open. The pool noise seemed to pause. Somewhere, someone cannonballed into the water, but it felt like it happened in slow motion.

"Wait," she said. "You actually KNOW fruits?"

"My family's Nicaraguan," I heard myself saying. "I was ... at the quinceañera because it was my cousin. I just—I'd never seen papaya before because it's not really our thing. I was trying to be funny about it."

The silence stretched. I prepared myself for the social death that would surely follow.

"That," Jessica said, "might be the most unhinged explanation I've ever heard." She grinned. "You want to get out of here? There's this taco truck, and I bet you don't know what real horchata is supposed to taste like."

The orange slice was still floating in my abandoned cup as I walked away with her, Marcus giving me a thumbs-up that was somehow both supportive and absolutely done with my entire existence.

Sometimes, I thought later, the universe works in mysterious, tropical ways.