The Papaya Incident

The first day of my lifeguard gig at the rec center, I learned three things: never eat papaya right before whistle duty, always check if your swimsuit is fully tied, and apparently, I'm incapable of functioning around cute boys.

The pool deck was already packed with summer campers when Marcus wheeled in. Track star, senior, and the reason I'd spent forty minutes perfecting my eyeliner despite knowing chlorine would destroy it anyway. His running times were legendary, and so was my ability to embarrass myself within a thirty-foot radius of him.

"Hey, lifeguard," he called, jogging over in that annoyingly effortless way. "Which lane's open?"

"Uh..." My brain short-circuited. That's when it happened. My stomach did this violent lurch from the papaya smoothie I'd chugged earlier. I tried to play it cool, but suddenly I wasn't cool—I was gagging. Like, full-body retch.

"You good?" Marcus looked concerned but also kind of horrified.

I bolted for the bathroom but didn't make it. Puked behind the concession stand instead. A cat—a literal calico cat that hung around the pool—yowled at me like I was offending its entire existence with my existence.

Coach Miller, who everyone called Bear because the man was built like one and had approximately zero patience for weakness, found me trying to clean myself off with pool towels.

"Rookie mistake," he grunted. "Papaya'll do that to you every time. Don't think I didn't see you chugging that smoothie."

I wanted to die. Literally dissolve into the concrete and never be heard from again.

But then Marcus was back with a water bottle and this crooked grin. "My first year of track, I ate two protein bars before practice and threw up during warmups. Coach made me run laps anyway."

"Seriously?" I wiped my mouth, face burning.

"Bear's nickname didn't come from nowhere," he said, nodding toward Coach Miller. "Also, your cat friend seems worried about you."

The cat was rubbing against my leg now, purring like a tiny motor.

"I think he's just hungry," I muttered.

"Maybe." Marcus leaned against the fence, all casual-like he hadn't just witnessed my lowest moment. "But I think he's got good taste. You coming back to the chair? You've got rotation in ten."

"In ten?"

"I'll cover you," he said, like it was nothing. "Just don't let Bear catch you slacking again."

By summer's end, I'd learn way more than CPR and proper whistle technique. I learned that everyone has their papaya moment—some of us just have ours in front of the whole pool. And sometimes, the most mortifying moments become the ones that make you finally feel like you belong.