Poolside Papaya

The pool party was already in full swing when I arrived, fashionably late and completely regretting it. Jessica's backyard looked like something from a teen movie — string lights, too-cool juniors cannonballing into the water, and a playlist that screamed I know what the vibe is.

I hovered near the snack table, clutching my soda like a lifeline. That's when I saw her: Riley, the pitcher I'd been crushing on since baseball season started, standing by the papaya my abuela had insisted I bring. "Yo, is that what I think it is?" she asked, grinning.

"Uh, yeah. My grandma grows them. Want to try some?" My voice cracked. Smooth, Mateo. Real smooth.

Riley took a slice, hesitated, then popped it in her mouth. Her eyes widened. "Okay, that's actually fire. Like, way better than the orange slices we get after games."

"Baseball snacks are basic," I said, finding my groove. "This is elite-level fruit."

She laughed, and suddenly we were talking about everything — her curveball, my terrible batting average, how neither of us felt like we fit in with the cool kids by the pool. The sun dipped below the fence, painting everything in this insane orange glow that made the moment feel like a scene from a movie I'd actually want to star in.

"You know," Riley said, "I was gonna skip this. Thought I'd feel out of place. But I'm glad I came."

"Me too," I said, meaning it.

When Jessica's mom called for pizza, Riley grabbed my arm. "Hey, maybe after food we can hit the pool? I'll teach you how to actually dive, and you can tell me more about your abuela's garden."

I looked at the water, at Riley, at the papaya slices on my plate. Some days, you step up to the plate and strike out. Other days, you hit a home run when you least expect it.

"Yeah," I said. "I'd like that."