Papaya Season at Diego's

The papaya sat on my desk like a neon alien artifact, its orange flesh glowing under the fluorescent classroom lights. I'd spent twenty minutes convincing my abuela that YES, I really did want to bring papaya slices for lunch instead of the usual sandwich, and now I was regretting everything.

"What IS that?" Chloe's voice carried across the room. I froze. Chloe Martinez, whose family had actually moved here from Mexico City last year, was staring at my Tupperware like it contained radioactive waste.

"It's... papaya?" I heard my voice crack. Smooth, Diego. Real smooth.

The worst part: I wasn't even Mexican. My last name was Rodríguez because my stepdad was, and I'd never even met my biological dad's side of the family. I was just some white kid from the suburbs trying too hard, eating papayas in Spanish class like that would somehow make me belong.

Behind me, I heard JT snickering. "Bro's going full cultural appropriation today."

I shoved the papaya into my backpack, my face burning. That's when I noticed Ms. Rivera's classroom cat, a fluffy orange tabby named Mango (ironic, I know), had somehow escaped her cage and was now sprawled across my open backpack, eyeing my lunch with judgment.

"Mango!" Ms. Rivera rushed over. "I am SO sorry, Diego."

As she scooped up the cat, my papaya tumbled out and rolled across the floor, stopping perfectly at Chloe's feet.

Silence.

Then Chloe picked it up, sniffed it, and took a bite. "Wait, is this from that market on 5th Street? My mom keeps trying to get me to eat this. She says it's in season right now."

"Uh, yeah?" I managed.

"It's actually not bad," she said, swallowing. "We should go there sometime. Show me where you get the good ones."

JT rolled his eyes. "She's just being nice, bro."

"Actually," Chloe said, "my cousins are coming over this weekend for my quinceañera planning. We're making papaya agua fresca. You should come. Bring more of these." She gestured at my now-cat-haired lunch.

"Wait, seriously?"

"Unless you're too busy being a papaya expert," she grinned.

Later, as I walked home with JT, he clapped my shoulder. "Okay, that was actually sick. You're literally the papaya whisperer now."

"Shut up."

"No, for real though. You finally stopped being such a bull about everything and just went for it. Respect."

I didn't even care that he called me bull-headed. I was too busy thinking about Saturday, and how sometimes the weirdest parts of you are exactly what connect you to the right people. Also: needed to buy more papayas.