The Papaya Pool Protocol

I'd been hiding near the tangled cable behind the TV stand, scrolling through my phone while bass thumped from the backyard. Maya's legendary end-of-summer party raged without me, and I'd already spent forty-five minutes psyching myself up to actually walk outside.

Water droplets from the pool splashed my ankle. A group of seniors erupted into laughter when Tyler—our varsity linebacker built like a pissed-off bull—cannonballed in, soaking everyone within a ten-foot radius. I scrambled backward, clutching my phone like a lifeline.

"Dude, you gonna stand there all night?"

I looked up to see Sam, Maya's older brother, dangling a papaya skewer like some exotic peace offering. He had this lazy grin that made me feel ridiculous for being so nervous.

"First party," I admitted.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? You've been hiding behind the cable for forty-five minutes because you've never been to a party before?"

My face burned. "Maybe."

He laughed and passed me the papaya. "Try this. Maya ordered 'em 'cause she's extra like that."

The fruit hit my tongue—sweet, weird, totally unlike the stuff my mom bought from Kroger. Sam didn't make fun of me for making a face. He just nodded toward the pool.

"Tyler's bull-in-a-china-shop routine got old sophomore year," Sam said. "But you know what?"

The family cat, Mochi, bolted past us, darting between legs with a dead lizard in her mouth like she'd just won the Super Bowl. Everyone shrieked and scattered.

Sam and I cracked up.

"Best entertainment all night," he said.

For the first time all evening, my shoulders dropped. I wasn't the cable-kid anymore, just some nervous wreck clinging to the wall while everyone else lived their best lives. I was just... here. With papaya on my tongue and water on my ankle and a weird cat doing weird cat things.

"Cannonball?" Sam asked, grinning.

I thought about saying no. About retreating to my room and safe, predictable solitude.

"Yeah," I said. "Cannonball."

We jumped in together.