The Papaya Incident

The summer before sophomore year, Tyler threw the pool party that would define my entire existence—or at least it felt that way. I'd been crushing on Jade since seventh period English, and tonight was the night I'd finally talk to her without my voice cracking.

I was hovering near the snack table, clutching my iPhone like a lifeline, refreshing Instagram even though nothing new had posted in three minutes. The baseball game blasted from Tyler's dad's outdoor TV—some interleague matchup nobody cared about except Tyler's dad, who kept yelling at the screen like the players could hear him.

And then Jade walked over.

She reached for the fruit platter, and my brain short-circuited. I needed to say something cool. Something smooth. Something that wasn't "uhhh" or "nice weather."

"That papaya's actually fire," I said, nodding at the orange fruit wedge like I knew literally anything about papayas.

Jade paused, paper plate halfway to her mouth. "You like papaya?"

"Oh yeah," I said, committing to the bit. "My uncle grows them. In Hawaii. Where we visit every summer."

Every summer. The words hung in the humid July air like a judgment.

"That's so cool," Jade said, and I thought I was in the clear until she added, "my family's thinking of moving to the Big Island. What part does your uncle live in?"

My soul left my body. I had never been to Hawaii. I had never eaten a papaya. I had once seen a pineapple at Whole Foods.

"The..." My brain scrambled through geographical terms I'd heard in movies. "...the part with the... volcanoes?"

Behind us, Tyler's dad shouted at the baseball game. "COME ON, that's a bull! call!"

"The volcanic part," Jade repeated, her eyebrows doing this devastating thing where they shot up but her mouth stayed sort of smiling, like she knew exactly what was happening and found it adorable instead of pathetic. "Is your uncle near Kona?"

"Kona," I agreed. "Definitely Kona. The coffee place."

"Marcus."

"Yeah?"

"You're holding your iPhone upside down."

I looked down. She was right. The camera lens stared up at me like judgment.

Then Jade did the unthinkable. She picked up the papaya wedge, took a bite, and made a face. "Ew. This tastes like feet." She laughed, and it was this real, unselfish sound that made something loosen in my chest. "I've never met anyone who would lie about liking papaya just to impress me."

"I didn't—" I started, then stopped. "Okay, I totally did."

"It's working," she said, and her face did this little half-smile thing that made me forget my own name. "But for the record? Next time, just say hi."

The baseball game announced a home run. Tyler's dad cheered. My iPhone buzzed with a text from my mom asking if I wanted pizza rolls when I got home.

"Hi," I said.

Jade's smile widened. "Hi, Marcus."

Later that night, she taught me how to skip stones across Tyler's pool. I got one to skip five times before sinking. We never did eat that papaya.