The Papaya Incident

My lucky beanie wasn't supposed to end up in the school cafeteria trash can.

I'd spent three months curating my aesthetic — thrifted oversized everything, combat boots scuffed just right, and this gray knit hat with a tiny pom-pom that I never removed indoors. It was my armor against the terrifying vastness of freshman year at Northwood High.

"You're not actually going to eat that, are you?" Maya asked, eyeing the papaya I'd dramatically placed on my lunch tray like I was some sophisticated foodie instead of someone whose diet consisted mostly of Cheetos and whatever my mom cooked.

"It's exotic," I said, even though I'd never tasted one in my life. "Very cultured."

I was trying to impress her. We'd been lab partners since September, and I'd been lowkey obsessed with her art-student vibe ever since she'd sketched a dragon in the margins of our bio worksheet. If eating weird tropical fruit was what it took to seem interesting enough to sit with the cool crowd at her table, I'd do it.

The papaya was orange and gelatinous inside. I took a giant, confident bite, and my face did something involuntarily unholy. It tasted like — I don't know what it tasted like, but my body rejected it immediately.

I gagged. My dog Skipper would've turned his nose up at this.

"Oh my GOD," Maya laughed, not meanly, but genuinely doubling over. The seniors at the next table glanced over.

My cheeks burned. In my panic to appear normal and unbothered, I somehow managed to flip the entire papaya onto my favorite gray beanie. Orange seeds everywhere. Sticky pulp all through the knit.

For three seconds, nobody said anything.

Then Maya was laughing so hard she couldn't breathe. "Okay," she wheezed. "Okay, that was legendary."

I stared at my ruined aesthetic armor. Then I started laughing too.

"Skipper would've made better choices," I admitted.

"Skipper?"

"My dog. He has more culinary sense than I do."

She grinned. "Tell me more about this genius dog."