Papaya Summer, Broken Cable

The fruit stand smelled like oranges and awkwardness, which pretty much summed up my entire summer. I was sixteen, sporting a faded uniform that was definitely two sizes too big, while Marcus—the absolute baseball god of our high school—stood three feet away looking unfairly perfect in his practice uniform.

"You want the papaya?" I asked, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. My voice cracked. Because of course it did.

Marcus grinned, all teeth and confidence. "Nah, never tried it. You think it's any good?"

I'd never had papaya either, but suddenly I was an expert. "It's legendary. Super exotic."

He laughed, and I felt something in my chest do this weird little flutter thing that was definitely not related to the papaya. The summer heat was already making everything feel hazy and golden-orange around the edges, like someone had put a warm filter over the world.

"My cable's been out all week," he said randomly, grabbing an orange instead. "Been stuck watching old baseball games on my phone. You ever play?"

"Me?" I snorted. "I once got hit in the face with a fastball during gym class freshman year. That's my baseball story. It's iconic, really."

Marcus's eyes widened, genuinely impressed. "Dude, that's hardcore. Did you lose consciousness?"

"Just my dignity."

He started laughing—this real, unselficient sound that made me forget about being the fruit stand loser. We talked for twenty minutes about nothing and everything, while the summer sun painted everything in shades of orange and gold. When he finally walked away with his orange, he called back, "Same time tomorrow? Maybe you can finally sell me that papaya."

I watched him go, feeling something shift inside me. Maybe the summer wouldn't be completely terrible after all. Maybe, just maybe, I was finally ready to step up to the plate.