Papaya Wednesdays

The first time I saw the Bull, I was holding a papaya.

'He's vicious,' Mrs. Henderson warned, clutching her chiffon robe. 'That dog is a straight-up menace.'

I looked down at the creature in question. The Bull—a Chihuahua mix with one ear that stood up and one that flopped down like a failed mohawk—wagged his tail so hard his whole body shook. He looked like he'd apologize if you stepped on him.

'That's the menace?' I asked. 'He's literally shaking, Mrs. H.'

'That's what he WANTS you to think,' she whispered dramatically, then disappeared behind her door.

The Bull sat at my feet and let out a small, hopeful yap.

I was supposed to be at Maya's pool party. Everyone was going to be there—Maya, whose parents installed an actual waterfall in their backyard last summer, and Carlos, who I'd been lowkey crushing on since seventh grade Spanish, and Brianna, who definitely thought I was weird for eating papayas for breakfast.

Instead, I was here, walking Mrs. Henderson's 'vicious' dog because I'd agreed to house-sit for minimum wage plus leftover takeout.

'Mom, you're not gonna get invited to parties if you keep canceling,' my sister had said that morning, leaning against my doorframe, fresh from her own social life. 'You're making yourself unavail, and people notice.'

So now here I was, availability compromised by a twelve-pound alleged menace and a backpack full of fruit.

The Bull tugged at his leash toward the community pool.

'No way,' I told him. 'I am NOT going there.' But he pulled harder, and I found myself following because apparently my life choices were now being made by a Chihuahua.

The pool gate was open. Music thumped from someone's portable speaker—Bailey's playlist, definitely, she only played indie stuff that sounded like it was recorded inside a tin can. I could hear laughter, the splash of someone cannonballing into the deep end, the familiar rhythm of people my age being young and unburdened.

I stood at the fence, hidden by a hedge, holding a papaya like an idiot while the Bull sniffed at a discarded juice box.

Then I heard it—Maya's voice, crystal clear even over the music: 'Hey, does anyone know where Marina went? I thought she was coming.'

A pause. Then Carlos: 'She said she had to watch her neighbor's dog or something. It's this tiny thing they call the Bull. It's kind of funny, actually.'

Someone giggled.

'We should go find her,' Maya said. 'The party's boring without Marina. She's the only one who actually dances.'

The Bull looked up at me, his one good ear perked forward.

'You heard them,' I whispered, crouching down. 'We're not unwanted. We're just... delayed.'

He licked my chin.

I stood up, adjusted my backpack, and walked through the gate holding a papaya and a twelve-pound dog who was allegedly a bull.

'Hey!' I called, and when they all turned, I didn't even feel weird about the fruit. 'Anyone want to try something different?'

The Bull wagged his tail so hard his whole body shook, and for the first time all day, I didn't feel like hiding at all.