Papaya Kings & Poolside Lies

The papaya sat on the concession stand like a neon grenade, its orange flesh practically radioactive under the pool lights. I'd been staring at it for ten minutes, mostly because looking at fruit was less embarrassing than staring at Chloe, who was currently doing that thing where she laughed with her whole body, hair everywhere, completely oblivious to my existence.

"You gonna eat that or just sexually identify as a tropical fruit from now on?" Jordan appeared beside me, holding two sodas like they were peace offerings. "Bro, you've been simp-stalking that papaya since we got here."

"I'm thinking," I said, which was a lie. I wasn't thinking. I was vibrating. This was the first real party of sophomore year and I was fully prepared to ruin it by saying something unhinged to Chloe or accidentally revealing I still watched Phineas and Ferb.

Jordan shoved a soda at me. "She's swimming over. Right now. This is your shot. Do not—repeat, DO NOT—do that thing where you freeze up and make that face like you just remembered you left the oven on."

Chloe emerged from the pool like some Tolkien elf of suburbia, water streaming down her arms. She grabbed her towel and somehow made drying off look coordinated. I looked down at my own hands. My palms were sweating, which was insane because I wasn't even doing anything.

"Hey!" she said, like she was actually happy to see me. "You trying that papaya? I heard it's supposed to be, like, a superfood or something."

"Yeah," I said smoothly. "I'm basically superfood-maxxing. Gains."

Jordan made a sound like a dying seal.

But Chloe laughed, and it was this real, unguarded laugh that made something behind my ribs do a little flip. "You're so weird," she said, but weird like affectionate, not weird like she was planning to move to another table.

"So I've been told," I said, surprising myself with something that sounded almost like confidence. "Want some? I can't finish this whole tropical monstrosity alone."

She grinned. "Only if you promise not to tell anyone I ate fruit at a party. I have a reputation to maintain."

"Your secret's safe with me," I said, and for the first time all night, I actually believed it.

Later, Jordan would call me a fox for landing that conversation so smoothly, and Chloe would actually give me her number, and the papaya would sit there half-eaten like some radioactive trophy of my first successful social interaction of the year. But in that moment, I was just some sophomore boy with sweaty palms, watching a girl eat exotic fruit by the pool lights, feeling like I'd finally figured out one tiny piece of the infinite, terrifying puzzle of being fifteen.