Papaya Summer Rules

The papaya sat on the kitchen counter like an alien artifact. My mom's new phase—tropical everything.

"It's good for you, Marco," she called from the living room. "Vitamins."

I eyed the fruit suspiciously. It looked like something that would judge me for still being in my pajamas at noon. Which I was, because summer after freshman year was supposed to mean sleeping until two and playing baseball at the park until the streetlights came on.

Instead, my best friend Jesse had ghosted me. Three weeks of radio silence since the school year ended. My texts sat on delivered like they'd fallen into a black hole. The social hierarchy of high school had claimed him—Jesse was now hanging with the juniors, the guys who drove cars and had girlfriends who wore perfume that smelled like hope and expensive things.

I grabbed the papaya and a spoon. Whatever. If I was going to feel like a zombie walking through my own life, at least I'd do it with mysterious fruit energy.

The baseball field was empty when I got there. Hot asphalt baking in the sun, the backstop shimmering with heat waves. I'd spent every summer here since fourth grade, when Coach Miller had taught me how to stop being afraid of the ball. Now Jesse and I were supposed to be trying out for varsity together, except apparently now we weren't.

I threw the papaya into the air and swung at it with an imaginary bat. Foul ball.

"You look like you're fighting invisible demons," a voice said behind me.

I jumped. It was Luna, this girl from my English class who sat in the back and drew monsters in her notebook during tests. She was holding a can of spray paint.

"Just practicing," I said, feeling my face heat up. "For... baseball."

"Baseball," she repeated. "In July. Alone."

"It's called dedication."

"It's called everyone else is at the lake party." She shook the can. "I'm painting the bear."

"The what?"

She pointed to the woods beyond the outfield. There, partially visible through the trees, was the old mascot statue from when the town had tried to rebrand itself as "The Bears" for tourism. It was concrete and weathered, one ear chipped off, reaching for something that wasn't there anymore.

"Community service," Luna said. "Vandalism plus restitution. The American dream."

"You're painting it?"

"Making it less depressing. Come help?"

I shouldn't. I needed to practice. I needed to prove myself to varsity. I needed to not be the guy who got left behind while his best friend discovered that having a car made you infinitely more interesting.

"Sure," I heard myself say.

We worked until the sun began to set, Luna painting the bear in iridescent colors that caught the dying light, me holding the paint cans and eventually picking up a brush myself. She didn't ask about Jesse. She didn't make me explain why I was alone at the baseball field on a Saturday afternoon. She just talked about art and monsters and how she thought bears were actually pretty chill, contrary to popular belief.

"They're like introverted party animals," she said, adding purple to the bear's remaining ear. "Everyone thinks they're aggressive, but they mostly just want snacks and personal space."

"Same," I said.

She laughed. It was a real laugh, not the polite kind you used when teachers made bad jokes.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Jesse. Finally.

Marco, dude, where r u? Everyone's asking bout u

I stared at the screen. The party. The people who mattered. The life I was supposed to be living.

I looked at the bear, now gleaming in impossible colors that made it look like it belonged in a dream. I looked at Luna, wiping paint from her cheek and leaving a streak of purple behind.

"I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be," I typed back, and hit send without rereading.

The papaya waited at home, probably judging my life choices. But some things were worth being wrong about.