The Papaya Incident

Maya's cheeks burned hotter than the July sun beating down on the community pool. Why had she agreed to come to Jessica's party again? Oh right — because Tyler was going to be there, and Maya had been lowkey crushing on him since seventh period English.

Now she stood at the edge of the pool in her new bikini (bought on sale, tags still hidden in the waistband) while everyone else splashed like they'd been born in chlorinated water. The problem: Maya couldn't swim. Not even a little. She'd managed to hide this fact through fourteen years of strategic "I just ate," "I have a headache," and my personal favorite, "I'm allergic to wet hair."

"Maya! Get in here!" Jessica called from the deep end, doing an annoyingly graceful backstroke.

"Coming!" Maya lied, edging toward the snack table instead. Because at the snack table sat the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen — a pyramid of tropical fruits, including the most papaya she'd ever seen in one place.

Her grandma, who'd raised her on stories about the Philippines, always talked about papaya like it was mana from heaven. Maya had never actually tried it. They lived in Ohio, for crying out loud. The closest she'd gotten was that questionable tropical fruit cup from the cafeteria.

She reached for a slice, fingers trembling, when suddenly someone cannonballed into the pool right next to her, splashing water everywhere.

"Sorry!"

Tyler.

His hair was plastered to his forehead. Water droplets clung to his eyelashes. He was somehow even cuter soaking wet.

"No worries," Maya managed, her voice cracking.

"What's that?" He pointed at the papaya slice in her hand.

"Papaya. My grandma talks about it all the time but I've never actually —"

"Wait, seriously?" Tyler's eyes went wide. "You've never had papaya?"

Maya shook her self-consciously. "Is that weird?"

"Dude." He splashed over to the pool's edge and pulled himself up, water streaming down his arms. "You haven't lived. Here —" He reached over and took a bite from her slice.

His lips brushed her fingers. Maya's stomach did something vaguely acrobatic.

"Okay, that's actually kinda gross," Tyler said, wrinkling his nose. "Sorry, lola. Your papaya dreams are shattered."

Maya laughed, surprised. "That bad?"

"Try it yourself. If you can handle it, you're officially braver than me."

She took a bite. It tasted like... melon? But weirder. Like if a cantaloupe and a gym sock had a baby.

"Okay, you're right. This is terrible."

Tyler grinned. "See? Now we've both survived something traumatic today. We're basically war buddies now."

"What about actual swimming?" Maya blurted before she could stop herself. "I can't do that either."

Tyler paused. Then: "You're scared of the water?"

"I'm not scared, I just —"

"Maya." His voice was gentle. "I spent three years in lessons before I could swim a single lap without panic-attacking. It's not a big deal."

The tension in her chest loosened. "Really?"

"I'll teach you. If you teach me how to talk to girls without making everything awkward."

Maya looked at him — at his honest, crooked smile, the water still dripping from his chin, the papaya stuck between his teeth like a tiny orange flag of surrender.

"Deal," she said. "But maybe we start with eating fruit that doesn't taste like gym socks."