Papaya Line Drives

Maya Rodriguez, 15, has been trying to make the varsity baseball team for three years. Every morning before school, her abuela presses a slice of papaya into her hand. "Para energía, mija." Maya usually stuffs it in her backpack, mortified. Who brings papaya to school? Who wants to smell like tropical fruit during third period?

She practices at the park under the palm trees, her palms sweating around the bat despite the cooling breeze. She stays up late watching classic games on cable TV, pausing and rewinding, studying the pros' mechanics until her eyes burn. But at tryouts, she always chokes.

There's this orange tabby cat, Mango, who belongs to the old guy next door. Every afternoon at practice, Mango sits on the bench, watching with what looks suspiciously like judgment. Sometimes Maya talks to the cat. It's less embarrassing than talking to herself, and the cat never tells her she's overthinking it.

The day of final tryouts, Maya strikes out her first two at-bats. She's sitting on the bench during the seventh inning, head in her hands, when something nudges her sneaker. Mango pads over and drops a papaya by her foot—a perfectly round one, like the ones from her abuela's tree that Maya tosses in the trash every morning.

The cat had been collecting them. Saving Maya's discarded papayas, like little orange prayers.

Maya laughs, really laughs, snot and tears and everything ridiculous. She picks up the papaya, takes a bite. Sweet and weird and perfect. "Thanks, Mango," she says, wiping juice from her chin. "You're a better coach than cable TV."

Her final at-bat, Maya doesn't think about mechanics or replays or fitting in. She just swings. The ball sails over the palm trees in center field. Home run.

Afterward, her teammates ask about her secret. Maya shrugs, papaya-stained grin on her face. "Just good luck," she says.

She starts bringing papaya to practice. Mango comes to every game, sitting on the bench like a furry assistant coach. And maybe that's the thing about growing up—you stop trying to hide the parts that don't fit, and start realizing they all fit together. The papaya and the baseball and the cat and the palm trees and the cable TV marathons, all weird and wonderful and hers.