The Pool Party Gambit

Marco's vintage **baseball** cap sat three inches deep on his head.

It was his security blanket, his anti-eye-contact shield, and he was freaking out about what lay beneath it.

"You gonna take that off in the **pool**?" Tyler called from the diving board, surrounded by the kind of effortlessly cool people who'd never had a bad hair day in their lives.

Marco's hand shot to his **hat** brim. "Maybe later."

Later meant never, and they both knew it.

Then there was Jade, cutting through the water like she'd been born part fish. She climbed out, water streaming down her arms, **palm** trees swaying behind her in the California sunset like they'd been paid to pose. She reached for a slice of fruit from the party platter.

"You want some **papaya**?" she asked Marco, suddenly standing right there. "It's actually fire."

Marco's brain short-circuited. She was talking to him. At Tyler's party. While he looked like a misplaced librarian.

"I've never had papaya," he admitted.

"First time for everything." Jade grinned, and something in her expression made him wonder if she wasn't talking about fruit anymore.

He took the slice. It was sweet, weirdly exotic, nothing like the lunchbox fruit cups his mom packed.

"So about the hat," Jade said.

"It's... complicated."

"Tyler's gonna dunk you if you don't take it off. He's already planned it. I heard him talking smack."

Marco's stomach dropped.

"Or," Jade continued, "you could own it. Beat him to the punch."

She held out her hand.

Marco looked at the **pool**, at Tyler waiting like a shark, at Jade's outstretched fingers. His hand moved to his cap, fingers trembling.

One breath. Two.

He pulled it off.

His hair stuck up in eight directions. The group erupted into laughter—but Jade was laughing with him, not at him. And Tyler looked disappointed that his prank had been neutralized.

"Nice hair, bro," Tyler yelled. "Messy look works for you."

Marco actually smiled.

Maybe first experiences weren't so terrifying after all. Maybe they were just papaya—you had to try them to know you'd like them.