Papaya Summer

The summer before sophomore year, I worked at Pet Paradise, which was basically my parents' basement but with actual goldfish instead of the metaphorical ones that represented my social life. The dog — this ancient, grumpy bulldog named Sir Barksalot — belonged to Mrs. Chen next door. She'd drop him off every morning like he was a toddler at daycare.

That's when I met Mateo, the new guy who'd moved in down the street. He walked in holding a papaya like it was a basketball, like papayas were something normal people just carried around.

"My mom's obsessed with them," he said, catching my totally obvious staring. "Wants me to try it. You wanna split it?"

I should've said no. I should've continued organizing the fish food by expiration date like a weirdo. But Mateo had this smile that made my brain go completely off-grid, so suddenly we're sitting on the curb eating this alien fruit that tastes like someone melted a candle into a melon.

"So," he says, papaya juice dripping down his chin. "You like swimming?"

"What?"

"There's a party at Jenna's pool tonight. Everyone's going."

My stomach did this full gymnastics routine. Jenna's party was The Event of summer. I'd been obsessively checking the invite on Snapchat like it contained the meaning of life.

"I'm not really," I started, but Mateo cut in.

"Come with me. I don't know anyone yet and you seem chill. Plus, I saw you talking to Sir Barksalot earlier. That dog hates everyone."

That's how I ended up at the most important social event of the summer, wearing a swimsuit I'd bought three years ago, standing beside a guy who ate tropical fruit with random strangers and somehow made it look cool.

Jenna's older brother was there, being a total bull — just charging through conversations, interrupting, dominating every circle like he was getting paid per person he made uncomfortable. When he splashed Mateo's phone into the deep end, something in me snapped.

"Hey!" I shouted. Everyone stared. "That's messed up."

The silence stretched. Sir Barksalot would've been proud of my awkward confrontation.

But then Mateo just laughed, fished his phone out of the water, and said, "Whatever. I was gonna upgrade anyway."

We spent the rest of the night in the shallow end, me accidentally swallowing half the pool while Mateo told stories about growing up in seven different cities. The goldfish in the pet store had nothing on the feeling blooming in my chest — something new, something scary, something that felt exactly like the beginning of everything.