Papaya Summer

The thing about working at Tropical Zen Smoothie Shack? It wasn't the minimum wage. It wasn't even Earl, the manager who called everyone "fam" unironically. It was the papaya.

"You ever feel like we're building a pyramid scheme out of fruit?" Maya asked, sliding another blender across the counter. She'd been my best friend since seventh grade, back when I still thought Aeropostale shirts were personality traits.

I stared at the fruit mountain. "Less pyramid, more burial mound for my social life."

My dog, Buster, had thrown up on my math homework that morning. My cat, Luna, had knocked over my grandmother's antique vase trying to catch a fly. Both animals were currently my only friends who didn't require me to blend tropical fruit for six hours straight.

"Speaking of social lives," Maya lowered her voice, "Tyler's coming in later."

Tyler. With the hair that defied gravity and the smile that made my stomach do things I didn't want to analyze in a food service establishment. I'd been僵尸-level crushing on him since freshman year. That's right—I'd been teaching myself Chinese just to have words for feelings I couldn't explain in English.

"Cool. Whatever. I'm totally chill." I may have said this while aggressively chopping a mango.

The door chimed. Tyler walked in, looking like he'd just rolled out of bed and still made better life choices than me.

"Hey," he said. "Can I get... whatever's good?"

"Papaya blend," I blurted. "It's literally the only thing we make that doesn't taste like regret."

Maya choked back a laugh.

Tyler's eyebrows went up. "Bold recommendation. I'll take it."

As I blended his drink—watching through the clear pitcher as papaya and coconut milk swirled together like some beautiful, alcoholic-free cosmos—I realized something. I wasn't a zombie. I wasn't at the bottom of any social pyramid. I was just a girl in a smoothie shop, making fruit drinks for a boy who might actually think my weird papaya obsession was endearing.

"Here," I said, sliding the cup across the counter. Our fingers brushed. "First one's on the house."

"Only if you let me pay for yours later," he said. "Like, maybe this weekend?"

Maya's mouth actually dropped open.

I smiled—like, a genuine smile, not the customer service one I'd been practicing all summer. "Yeah. I'd like that."

And suddenly, the papaya didn't seem so terrible anymore.