Papaya Lips and Baseball Caps

The papaya sat on the paper plate like some alien fruit explosion, bright orange and speckled with black seeds that looked like ticks. I stared at it, willing myself to be the kind of person who ate exotic fruit at pool parties instead of hiding in the bathroom scrolling through Instagram.

"You gonna try that or just gaze into its soul?" Jake said, dropping onto the lawn chair beside me. His backwards baseball hat cast a shadow over eyes that were annoyingly perfect, even in the harsh July sun.

"I'm building up the courage," I lied. Actually, I was building up the courage to talk to him without saying something weird, but the papaya was a convenient distraction.

Jake laughed, and I felt that familiar pinch in my chest — the one that had been showing up since seventh period English when he'd caught me doodling his name in the margin and I'd pretended it was actually "JAKE" as in "Just Another Kinetic Energy" problem. He'd definitely bought that. Not.

"Here." He picked up a piece of papaya with his fingers and held it out. "It's actually fire. My mom gets it from this specialty—"

"EMMA!" My brother's voice cut through the backyard chaos. "You got something in your teeth!"

The entire party went quiet. Because that's what happens when you're fourteen and your life is actually a prank show produced by the universe.

I slapped my hand over my mouth and bolted toward the house, my flip-flops slapping against the pavement like they were applauding my humiliation. Through the sliding glass door, past the kitchen island loaded with chips and salsa, up the stairs, into the bathroom.

Spinach. Of course. A perfectly wedged piece of spinach between my front teeth, probably there since lunch at Olive Garden with my grandma. I'd been walking around with spinach in my teeth for FOUR HOURS. Talking to Jake. Smiling at Jake. Existing near Jake.

I brushed my teeth until my gums felt raw. stared at my reflection and practiced my "I'm totally chill and not at all dying inside" face. Then I went back outside, grabbed Jake's abandoned baseball hat from the lawn chair, and pulled it on over my messy bun.

"Nice hat," Jake said when I returned, like nothing had happened. Like my brother hadn't just ensured I'd be known as Spinach Girl until college.

"Yeah, well." I picked up a piece of papaya and popped it into my mouth. Sweet, slightly musky, with a weird texture I couldn't place. "Figured I'd try something new."

Jake grinned. "Bold move, Spinach Girl."

I froze. But then I saw it — the tiny piece of spinach stuck in HIS teeth.

"You too, Baseball Boy," I said. And when he laughed, real laughter that crinkled his nose, I thought maybe papaya wasn't so bad after all.