The Papaya Bet

Mia's summer took a hard left when her cousin dared her to eat the papaya.

"It's basically a vitamin on steroids," Carlos claimed, holding the alien-orange fruit like it was a newborn. "Five bucks says you won't."

Mia was chilling on the couch, doomscrolling, still recovering from the Great Goldfish Massacre of 2024 — her two fish, Lemon and Mercury, had somehow both managed to go belly-up within forty-eight hours of each other. She was not in the mood for Carlos and his weird fruit obsession.

"Pass," she said, not looking up from her phone.

"Chicken."

"I'm not chicken, I'm emotionally damaged. My fish just died."

"That's why you need this." Carlos hacked at the papaya with a butter knife. "It's got enzymes. It heals grief."

"That's not how grief works, Carlos."

"Suit yourself. But if you don't eat it, you have to come play padel with me and Liza tomorrow."

Mia sat up. Liza was Liza Torres, who wore crop tops even when it was sixty degrees and had somehow already hooked up with three different people at summer camp. Liza was everything Mia wasn't: confident, loud, seemingly allergic to overthinking.

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Because you've been rotting in your room since school ended." Carlos finally speared a chunk of papaya. "Also, Liza thinks you're cute."

Mia felt her face do that thing it did when she was fourteen and awkward — which was always. "She said that?"

"Maybe. But you have to show up to find out."

Mia looked at the papaya. She looked at Carlos, who was grinning like he knew exactly which buttons to push. She thought about Lemon floating at the top of the tank, the way her mom had said "it's just a fish" and how wrong that had felt.

She thought about being the person who stayed home while everyone else was out living their #bestlife.

"Fine," Mia said. "But if Liza Torres doesn't think I'm cute, you owe me twenty bucks."

"Deal."

The next day, standing on the padel court with a racquet that felt weirdly small and Liza Torres in sunglasses so big they took up half her face, Mia realized something: she was absolutely going to embarrass herself.

"You ever played?" Liza asked, bouncing a ball between her knees.

"Nope."

"It's fine, it's like tennis but easier. Less." Liza gestured vaguely. "Emotionally."

Mia served. The ball hit the net.

"Oops."

"No worries, you got this." Liza sent it back, and somehow they fell into this rhythm, Mia missing half the shots but laughing anyway, sweat dripping down her back, the sun baking her shoulders. It wasn't about being good. It was about showing up.

After, Liza handed her a vitamin water from her bag. "You're actually not terrible."

"High praise."

"No, for real." Liza nudged her with her shoulder, casual, like it wasn't making Mia's heart do gymnastics. "Carlos said you were having a rough summer. The fish thing?"

Mia nodded, surprised Carlos had actually told someone. It felt weirdly good to be known.

"Well," Liza said, "bulls don't cry over fish, but I think it's kinda cool that you do."

Mia laughed. "That's not the saying."

"Whatever. You coming back tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Mia said. "Yeah, I think I am."

Walking home, she texted Carlos: You still have that papaya?

He replied: Told you. Vitamin for the soul.

Mia rolled her eyes. But she was already planning her outfit.