Sweating It Out

The papaya sat in my backpack like a tropical grenade. My abuela had sliced it that morning, sprinkling limón and chile on top like she'd done since I was little. 'Para compartir,' she'd said, but all I could think was how much I stood out at Lincoln High anyway. Why bring MORE attention to myself?

'I'm literally gonna die,' I whispered to Maya as we approached Jordan's house party. Music thumped against the garage door. Girls I'd only seen on Instagram stood in a circle, their phones glowing like fireflies.

My palms were sweating. Gross, actual pooling sweat. I wiped them on my jeans—again, again—as Maya dragged me toward the food table. Everything was store-bought chips and soda. No homemade nothing.

Until I set down the papaya container.

'What IS that?' Brianna wrinkled her nose, and my stomach dropped. Behind her, I caught sight of it: Mr. Higgins, the freshman science teacher, wearing a literal bear costume. Apparently the upperclassmen had pranked him, and like a CHAMP he was committing to the bit, growling playfully at people who walked past.

The absurdity of it broke something loose in me.

'It's papaya,' I said, voice stronger than I felt. 'My abuela makes it with lime and chili. Want to try?'

Jordan—the Jordan, who I'd been lowkey obsessing over since orientation—stepped up. He held out his palm flat, like he was presenting himself for inspection. 'Hit me with it.'

My hands weren't shaking anymore. I handed him a piece. He ate it. His eyes went wide.

'This slaps,' Jordan said genuinely. Then he pointed toward Mr. Bear, who was currently doing the Macarena. 'We need to get him some of this.'

By 10 PM, I was feeding papaya to a bear-costumed science teacher while a circle of kids watched like it was the coolest thing they'd ever seen. My palms were dry. My abuela would've lost her mind.

Sometimes the thing that makes you different? It's exactly what makes you fit.