Poolside Papaya Summer

Maya pulled her oversized bucket **hat** lower, checking her reflection in the sliding glass door. It was her armor—a vintage navy blue monstrosity from the thrift store that said 'don't look at me, I'm mysterious and cool and definitely not freaking out internally.' She wasn't mysterious or cool. She was Maya, who'd somehow scored an invite to THE pool party of the summer, hosted by Chloe, whose Instagram stories were basically the social currency of tenth grade.

The backyard buzzed with energy—floaties shaped like flamingos and pizza slices, speakers blasting something bass-heavy that made Maya's chest vibrate. Everyone seemed so effortless in their swimsuits, laughing and splashing like they'd been born chlorine-scented. Maya stood near the fruit table, nursing a paper plate, terrified someone would notice she wasn't in the **pool** yet. An hour at a pool party without actually entering the pool? Suspicious behavior.

'You gonna eat that **papaya** or just stare at it romantically?'

Maya jumped, nearly upending her plate. Jake—THE Jake, swim team captain, wearer of ridiculously excellent muscle tanks—stood there grinning, holding a cup of something red and slushy. Up close, his eyelashes were unfairly long.

'I've never had it,' Maya admitted, which was apparently the wrong thing to say because Jake looked personally offended.

'Bro.' He actually said bro. 'You're missing OUT.' He speared a chunk with a fork. 'It's like mango and melon had a beautiful baby. Try it.'

Maya leaned forward, heat climbing her neck, and—

SPLASH.

A cannonball of ice-cold water launched from nowhere, drenching her from shoulder to thigh. Someone screamed 'WATER FIGHT!' and chaos erupted. Her precious hat tumbled off, bouncing across the patio.

Jake was already soaked, his white shirt see-through and ridiculous. He grinned, water dripping from his nose. 'Well,' he said, 'looks like you're officially part of the party now.'

Maya looked at her hat, ruined and crooked. Looked at Jake, eyes sparkling. Looked at the papaya on her fork, forgotten but waiting.

She took a bite. Sweet, weird, nothing like she expected. Not scary, just new.

'Thanks,' she said. And she meant it—for the papaya, for the splash, for the ridiculous wonderful chaos of being seen. She kicked off her flip-flops and ran toward the pool, hat abandoned, sixteen and finally, actually, cool with it.