The Bull, The Papaya, and The Vitamin C Packet

The mechanical bucking machine stood in the middle of the gym like a warning from the universe itself: avoid at all costs. I stood near the bleachers, nursing a Capri Sun like my life depended on it, watching Jake Miller get launched off "The Bull" in three seconds flat.

"You're going, right?" My best friend Danny clapped me on the shoulder. "Everyone's doing it."

"Everyone's also wearing those dad hats, and you don't see me caving to peer pressure on that one," I shot back, though my palms were already sweating.

The school's spring fundraiser had turned into a social minefield. Inflatable rentals everywhere. A refreshment table that looked like it had been attacked by a health-conscious tornado. And The Bull, reigning supreme in the center of it all like it was waiting specifically for me to embarrass myself.

That's when I saw Maya across the gym. Laughing with her friends, looking effortlessly perfect in that way that made my stomach do actual gymnastics. She'd ridden it earlier. She'd lasted twelve whole seconds. A new school record for freshmen.

I'd been crushing on Maya since September, when she'd complimented my sketch of this old pitbull mix that lived down the street from me. I'd spent seven months trying to work up the courage to actually talk to her, and somehow riding a mechanical animal seemed like the most logical next step.

"You're thinking about it," Danny said, reading me like an open book. "You're totally going to do it for Maya."

"I'm not—I'm just—" I gestured vaguely at the refreshment table. "I'm actually really hungry. I think I saw papaya over there."

"Since when do you eat papaya?"

"Since I developed a sophisticated palate," I lied. "It's full of vitamins. Very mature."

But then I caught Maya's eye across the gym, and she smiled. Actually smiled. At me. And suddenly I was walking toward The Bull like it was my destiny.

I climbed on, gripping the handle like my life depended on it. The operator – some senior who looked like he was enjoying this way too much – started with these slow, almost gentle movements. I could do this. I was totally doing this.

Then it BUCKED.

I stayed on through three violent rotations. The crowd was cheering. Maya was cheering. I felt like I could fly, like I was in some movie where the awkward kid finally gets his moment—

And then I wasn't.

I flew off sideways, landed on the inflatable mat, and immediately scrambled up like nothing had happened. My face was burning. Everyone had seen. Everyone had absolutely seen.

But Maya was walking over.

"That was pretty impressive," she said, and something about her tone made me think she actually meant it. "Almost thirteen seconds."

"Almost," I echoed, feeling lightheaded in a way that had nothing to do with the violent spinning.

"I love your dog drawings, by the way," she added casually. "The pitbull one? It's really good."

Wait. She remembered that?

"Thanks," I managed, my voice cracking. "His name's Buster. He's technically my neighbor's dog, but we've adopted each other."

She smiled. "I'd love to meet him sometime."

We ended up sitting by the refreshment table for the next hour, talking about everything and nothing. I learned she hated papaya (she'd tried it once and called it "sad fruit"), that she secretly loved terrible reality TV, and that she thought The Bull was "basically a lawsuit waiting to happen."

I told her about my mom's obsession with vitamin supplements, how she packed these emergency vitamin C packets in my lunch like they were going to save me from scurvy. She laughed – actually laughed, head tilted back, not polite laughter – and I felt like I'd won something way better than any ride.

The next day, I found a papaya in my locker with a note: "For your sophisticated palate – Maya :)"

I ate the whole thing. It tasted like victory.