Summer Storm Season

The papaya sat on the counter like an alien artifact. My mom had bought it from some fancy grocery store, convinced it would make us 'cultured.' I poked it. It squished.

"You gonna eat that weird egg-fruit or what?" Maya leaned against my doorframe, already in her swimsuit. Tropical print screamed 'I belong at pool parties.' I definitely didn't.

"It's papaya, actually. And no."

"Suit yourself. But Jake's baseball game starts in twenty, and if we're late, we're walking."

Jake. The name hit different now. Since last summer when he'd shot up six inches and his voice dropped into actual territory. Since he'd started looking at me like, well, like he was actually seeing me.

We biked to the field, the air thick with that specific July heaviness that promises rain but delivers nothing but frizz and sweat. Jake was at bat, baseball cap backwards, swing smooth as melted butter. He caught me watching and grinned. I pretended to be intensely interested in a chain-link fence.

Then the sky broke open.

Lightning cracked the sky in half, and everyone scattered. Parents herded kids into cars, equipment was abandoned, the game officially Called.

"My place!" Jake shouted over the thunder. "My parents aren't home!"

The invitation hung there, loaded with possibility. Maya caught my eye. She knew.

We took cover on his porch, soaked and shivering but weirdly alive. Someone's dog—a chaotic golden retriever that belonged to the neighbors—bounded through the rain like it was personally offended by weather.

"This is Buster," Jake said, like we were meeting at a formal event. "He hates thunder." Buster confirmed this by shaking water all over Maya's new sandals.

We ended up inside, towels draped over shoulders, eating chips and watching the storm through sliding doors. Jake sat next to me on the couch, our knees barely touching. Every accidental contact sent lightning through my veins that had nothing to do with the weather outside.

"So," he said, voice low. "You doing anything tomorrow?"

The papaya in my kitchen suddenly felt very far away. Very unimportant.

"Maybe," I said, feeling bold. "Why? You got more lightning to show me?"

Jake laughed. The sound was better than baseball games, better than papaya, better than any summer I'd ever had.

"I've got ideas," he said.

The storm raged outside, but the real electricity was right here on this couch, and I had a feeling summer was just getting started.