The Papaya Incident

The invitation sat on my phone for three days. Chloe's pool party—the social event of the summer before sophomore year. Everyone who was anyone would be there, and somehow, I'd made the cut. Probably because she needed to fill out the guest list after half the soccer team got mono.

I stood at the edge of the pool deck in my two-piece from Target that suddenly felt incredibly basic. Girls in bikini sets that cost more than my entire wardrobe floated on unicorn floats. Someone passed around a tray of exotic fruit—pineapple, mango, slices of bright orange papaya that looked like something out of a magazine photo shoot.

"Try the papaya," Chloe called from her throne on the pool's built-in tanning ledge. "It's imported. My dad's company has this organic farm connection in Hawaii."

I took a slice, determined to play it cool. But my hands were sweating, and that's when Buster—Chloe's ancient golden retriever—decided to make his entrance. He'd been MIA all afternoon, probably napping somewhere air-conditioned, and now he came trotting out with the energy of a puppy half his age.

Straight toward me.

I panicked, did this weird little shuffle backwards, and papaya juice splashed all over my white bikini top. Bright orange stains bloomed across the fabric like I'd been attacked by a radioactive Cheeto.

The conversation around the pool stopped dead.

I thought I'd die. I honestly thought my social life was over before it had even started.

But Buster just pressed his wet nose against my papaya-stained stomach and let out this happy huff, tail wagging so hard his whole body shook. He looked up at me with these dopey, adoring eyes, and I couldn't help it—I cracked up.

"He likes you," Chloe said, and instead of mean-girl sarcasm, she sounded almost wistful. "He never likes anyone. He's been growling at Jake all day."

Jake, Chloe's boyfriend and the starting quarterback, looked offended from his pool float.

Buster sat down and rested his head on my foot, completely unbothered by the papaya chaos. I took a bite of the fruit—sweet, musky, unlike anything I'd tasted before—and found myself sitting on the pool deck with a dog who'd decided I was his person, while the most popular girl in grade ten watched us like she was jealous of a girl with orange-stained clothes and dog hair on her legs.

"You know," Chloe said, sliding into the water beside me, "I brought the papaya because everyone said it was fancy. But I've never actually tried it." She held out her hand. "Is it good?"

"Weird," I said, handing her a slice. "But good."

We sat on the pool edge feeding papaya to the dog while the party carried on around us. Not as Popular Girl and Random Invite, but as two people figuring out that sometimes the best things happen when everything goes completely wrong.