Summer Skin

The papaya sat on my desk like an accusation. Mom had bought it, all exotic and hopeful, because she read somewhere it was good for skin. Good for the skin that was breaking out anyway, the skin that made me delete every selfie before I could post them.

My iPhone buzzed. Again. The group chat was blowing up about Jordan's pool party—everyone going, the endless stream of "yasss queen" and "literally can't wait." I hadn't responded in three hours. Couldn't they sense the hesitation radiating through the screen?

Milo, my cat, jumped onto the bed and headbutted my arm. He didn't care about pool parties or the fact that my hair had decided to rebel against every product I'd thrown at it this week. He just wanted tuna.

"You're not helpful," I told him, but petted him anyway because he was the only living thing that didn't make me feel like I was failing at being fifteen.

The papaya stared at me.

"Fine," I said. I picked up the knife, cut it open. The inside was shocking—bright orange, slick and alien. I took a bite because anything was better than staring at my phone and watching everyone live their best summer without me.

It wasn't bad. Not great, but... interesting. Like maybe interesting was okay.

My phone buzzed again. Jordan: "you coming??"

I looked at my hair in the mirror. Wild. Unruly. Maybe kind of amazing.

I typed: "yeah. bringing snacks."

The papaya went into a container. Milo got his tuna. I put on the one-piece instead of worrying about bikini body nonsense, grabbed my phone, and headed out. Sometimes you just have to bite into the weird fruit and see what happens.