Papaya Season

The bull statue in the school courtyard had become our meeting spot by accident. Now it was where everything happened—first kisses, breakup announcements, and apparently, my humiliation.

"You're running varsity," Marcus said, leaning against the bronze bull like he owned it. "Coach posted the sheet."

My stomach did that thing where it felt like a goldfish was swimming laps inside it. "No way. I'm JV material. Maybe JV backup."

"Bro, you smoked everyone at practice yesterday." Marcus grinned. "Even Johnson."

Johnson. The actual human Ferrari who'd been running varsity since sophomore year. The guy my older sister had been not-so-subtly stalking on Instagram since before it was cringe.

"That was a fluke," I protested. "I was fueled by pure panic and the fact that I'd promised myself a boba if I finished under five minutes."

"This Saturday's meet is against North Valley. You know what that means."

I did. North Valley meant papayas. Their stupid mascot was the Papaya Panther, and their student section always threw actual papayas at our runners. It was weirdly specific and genuinely terrifying.

"I can't do it," I said. "What if I choke? What if everyone's watching and I just—"

"Freeze up like a cat in a bathtub?" Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Not gonna happen. You've got this."

That's when I saw her: Luna, from my English class. She was walking past the bull, carrying a container that smelled like tropical heaven. Our eyes met for approximately 0.3 seconds before I looked away, smooth as always.

"Was that Luna?" Marcus's voice dropped to that annoying tone guys use when they think they're being subtle. "The Luna?"

"Shut up."

"She likes track runners, you know."

"You're literally making that up."

"Am I?" He checked his phone. "Because her Instagram story from yesterday was literally just her at a track meet. Looking very single."

I groaned. "I hate you."

"So you'll run?"

The goldfish in my stomach was now doing full-on backflips. Saturday. North Valley. Papaya projectiles. Luna watching. Johnson's dignity on the line.

"Fine," I said. "But if I get hit by a papaya, you're paying my medical bills."

"Deal." Marcus fist-bumped the bull's hoof. "Welcome to varsity, champ."

As we walked away, I caught Luna's reflection in the school windows. She was still there, eating what looked like actual papaya slices like a normal human being who didn't associate the fruit with psychological trauma.

Maybe Saturday wouldn't be so bad. Maybe the bull statue wasn't just where things ended—where breakups happened and confidence died. Maybe it was where things started too.

"Hey Marcus?"

"Yeah?"

"You think papayas actually hurt when they hit you?"

He laughed. "Only your pride, bro. Only your pride."