Swiping Through Summer

Mia's goldfish, Finsta, had more followers than she did. Okay, technically Finsta was dead—a tiny fishy corpse floating in a bowl on her nightstand—but her finsta (fake Instagram) had 847 followers, all watching Mia pretend to have a summer worth documenting.

"You good?" Jordan asked from where they sat on the baseball dugout, Mia's iPhone clutched in his hand like it was radioactive.

"Just checking engagement," Mia lied, though Jordan was the only friend who knew the truth: Mia's summer was about as authentic as Finsta's alleged tropical vacation in Bali. In reality, Mia spent most days curating content, rearranging fruit into aesthetic patterns, and trying 47 angles of the same iced latte.

Jordan tossed her a papaya he'd swiped from his mom's "experimental fruit phase."

"What is this?" Mia wrinkled her nose.

"Exactly." Jordan's dimples popped. "Try it. Bet you won't."

Mia took a bite, expecting sweetness. Instead—bright, musky, weirdly perfect. "Whoa."

"Right?" Jordan laughed, and Mia felt something shift. They'd been friends since seventh grade, but sitting here behind the baseball field where the popular kids hung out, eating weird fruit Jordan had stolen... it felt different.

"Post it," Jordan said.

"What?"

"The papaya. Messy and honest. Bet you'll get, like, twelve likes."

Mia stared at the mutilated fruit in her hand. Then at Jordan, whose mom didn't know he stole fruit, whose dad didn't know Jordan was bisexual, whose only follower was Mia.

She posted it. Caption: "papaya slaps, fight me."

Her phone dinged. One like. From Jordan.

Mia screenshot it, saved it to her real camera roll, and finally flushed Finsta down the toilet.

"Want the rest?" Jordan offered, grinning.

"Pass," Mia said, but she was smiling. "Let's get ice cream. I'll pay. Real money."

"Not Venmo?"

"Not Venmo."

And that was how Mia's summer actually began—not with a curated aesthetic, but with papaya stains on her favorite hoodie and a friend who knew she didn't need to be anyone but herself.