Papaya Summer

The papaya sat on my plate like a radioactive alien egg, glowing orange and judging my entire existence.

"Try it, Maya," Chloe said, already three deep into whatever punch someone's older brother had smuggled in. "It's literally life-changing."

This was it. My first high school party. My chance to finally shed my middle school identity as That Quiet Girl and become someone interesting. Someone who ate exotic fruit and didn't overthink everything.

I took a bite. It tasted like soap mixed with disappointment.

"So good," I lied, because that's who I was now. Someone who lied about papaya to impress people I'd met three hours ago.

Across the room, Jake—the human equivalent of a golden retriever in sunglasses—was leaning against the fish tank, talking to some seniors. His hair was perfect. Everything about him was perfect. Meanwhile, I was chewing tropical fruit that tasted like betrayal.

"Dude, your fish looks dead," someone shouted.

I turned to see the largest goldfish I'd ever seen floating sideways at the top of the tank. Its googly eyes stared at me like I was the one who'd failed it.

"He's not dead, he's meditating," Jake said, and everyone laughed. Because everything Jake said was hilarious. That was the law of the universe.

My phone buzzed. MOM: How's the party?

I typed: AMAZING. So fun.

Then I deleted it and typed: It's okay. Ate papaya.

Then I deleted that too because it sounded pathetic. My thumb hovered over the screen, processing how LAME it was that I was texting my mother during the coolest night of my life.

"Truth or dare?" someone yelled from the living room.

Nope. Absolutely not. I grabbed my backpack and headed for the kitchen, needing air that wasn't thick with awkwardness and fruit that wasn't lying to my face.

But there was Jake, standing in the doorway, blocking my escape like a puppy who'd grown six feet overnight.

"Hey," he said. "You're Maya, right? From AP Bio?"

"Yeah," I squeaked. Smooth.

"That goldfish is actually my pet from sixth grade. His name's Captain Fin. He does this when he's bored." He leaned closer. "Can I tell you a secret?"

My heart did something acrobatic. "Sure?"

"I hate papaya too. Chloe made me try it last week and I almost cried."

The relief was so intense I could've hugged him. Instead, I said, "It tastes like soap, right?"

"Exactly like soap."

We stood there for a minute, united by our mutual hatred of tropical fruit and the social pressure to pretend otherwise. Outside, someone started a terrible song but it didn't matter. The unbearable awkwardness of the party had suddenly turned into something else.

"Want to go check on Captain Fin?" Jake asked. "I think he might need resuscitating."

"Only if we can stealthily flush the papaya down the toilet."

"Deal." He grinned. "Maya, you're actually pretty cool."

I smiled, finally. Maybe this was who I was now—someone who lied about fruit, bonded over depressed fish, and somehow, against all odds, was exactly where she was supposed to be.