Papaya Summer

The papaya sat on the counter like an alien artifact, its mottled yellow skin mocking my entire existence.

"You gonna bag that or just stare at it?" Chloe said from behind me, voice dripping with that special brand of teenage sarcasm that could strip paint.

I grabbed the papaya. "Just admiring its... aesthetic."

Chloe rolled her eyes so hard I worried they'd get stuck. "It's fruit, Marcus. Not an art exhibit."

This was my summer: working at my dad's bodega while my friends posted beach pics that made me want to scream into a void. The papaya situation was just the cherry on top of my humiliation sundae. Dad kept ordering these massive papayas that nobody bought, and I had to rotate them to the front like they were prized exhibits instead of rapidly decaying tropical failures.

Outside, a stray dog—a golden retriever mix that looked like it had seen better decades—paced in front of the store. It had been showing up for weeks, and I'd secretly named it Buster. Buster had better social skills than me.

"Hey." The door chimed. Maya walked in, and my stomach did that stupid fluttery thing it always did when she was around. Maya, with her vintage band tees and effortless cool, the kind of girl who knew who she was while I was still trying to figure out if I was smart-kid-smart or just regular-smart with good grades.

"Hey," I managed, not making eye contact with the papaya I was currently bagging.

"That dog's been out there forever," she said, nodding toward Buster. "Someone should feed him."

"I mean, technically someone—"

"Got it." She disappeared before I could finish being awkward.

That night, I sat on the front steps with Buster, sharing a turkey sandwich while my cat, Beans, watched from the window like she was judging my life choices. Beans was a rescue cat who hated everyone except me, which basically made her my emotional support animal.

"You know what, Buster?" I said between bites. "Papayas are just misunderstood. Like... us."

Buster wagged his tail because dogs are incapable of skepticism.

The next day, I cut up a papaya. Nobody was buying them anyway. I put samples on a paper plate by the register with a sign that said FREE SAMPLES—ACTUALLY GOOD, PROMISE.

Chloe walked by. "Since when do you have marketing skills?"

"Since I realized nobody knows what these taste like because nobody buys them."

Maya came in after school, saw the samples, tried one. Her eyes widened. "Okay, that's actually fire."

"Right?" I said, feeling weirdly proud. "They're like... if mangoes and melons had a baby."

She laughed, and it wasn't fake laugh. It was real. "You're weird, Marcus."

"Weird good or weird bad?"

"Just weird." She popped another piece. "But I like it."

Buster barked outside, and I let him in. Dad didn't even yell when he saw the dog. Just sighed and handed me a water bowl from the back.

"Papayas," Dad said later. "Good idea. Almost sold out."

"Yeah," I said. "Sometimes stuff just needs someone to... explain it right."

That night, I Facetimed my friends at the beach. They complained about sand in everything and sunburns and how the waves were weak.

"I'm actually kinda jealous," one said. "Your summer seems chill."

I looked at Buster sleeping on the rug, at Beans curled up on my bed, at the empty papaya bowl on my desk.

"Yeah," I said. "I guess it is."