Papaya Orange at Home Plate

The first time I saw Tyrek with the bright papaya-colored hair, he was standing at home plate, adjusting his helmet like it was a crown. This was the same guy who, two weeks ago, had cried in my bathroom because his mom said his natural hair was 'too much' for the baseball team showcase.

'You look like a traffic cone,' I yelled from the bleachers, but I was grinning so hard my face hurt. The sun caught the orange dye, making it practically glow against his brown skin. Everyone was staring. Coach Miller's face looked like he'd swallowed a lemon whole.

Tyrek just winked at me, stepped up to the plate, and sent the ball flying into orbit.

The dugout went dead silent. This was the showcase, the one that supposedly determined who made varsity, who got the college scouts to even glance their way. And here was Tyrek, looking like a walking fruit stand, absolutely crushing it.

'That's my boy!' I screamed, not caring that I sounded extra loud.

After the game—which we won, obviously—we sat on the hood of his brother's car behind the field. The summer air was thick with cut grass and teenage sweat. Tyrek pulled a container from his backpack. Papaya chunks, sprinkled with lime and chili.

'My abuela made it,' he said, handing me a fork. 'Said if I'm gonna be the bright spot at school, I might as well own it.'

I took a bite. Sweet, spicy, weirdly perfect. Kind of like us.

'You know what everyone's gonna say,' I said around a mouthful.

Tyrek shrugged, already used to it. 'Let 'em talk. At least they're looking.'

He wasn't wrong. The next week, three other players showed up with colored streaks in their hair. The week after that, Coach Miller reluctantly announced that hair color didn't affect performance on the field.

Sometimes being yourself means being the papaya orange in a room full of beige. And sometimes, just sometimes, the world catches up.