Tropical Depression

The papaya sat abandoned on the kitchen counter, slowly oxidizing into a sad brown mess. Much like my social life at this party.

"Dude, you've been staring at that fruit for five minutes," Marcus said, side-eyeing me as he scrolled through his iPhone. "Either eat it or admit you're spiraling."

I was spiraling. This was supposed to be the party of the year — Jessica's tropical-themed blowout before junior year officially launched us into hell week. But here I was, 17 years old and suddenly hyper-aware that everyone else seemed to have received the manual on How To Be Cool while I'd been home watching Netflix.

"I'm not spiraling," I lied, picking at my cutoff shorts. "I'm ... observing."

"You're brooding. There's a difference." Marcus tapped my shoulder. "Hey, isn't that what's-her-name from algebra? The one who made that presentation on urban foxes?"

I followed his gaze. There she was — Avery Fox, actual human with a last name that had spawned a thousand jokes, standing near the palm tree decoration someone had duct-taped to the ceiling. She looked unreasonably comfortable in her flower crown, laughing at something I couldn't hear.

"You should talk to her," Marcus said, because Marcus was apparently channeling the confidence of a thousand frat boys.

"Absolutely not. Have you met me?"

"Bull." Marcus grinned. "You've got game, you just keep it locked behind that wall of overthinking. Watch this." He raised his voice. "YO AVERY! My boy here was just telling us about that fox presentation you did — said it was actually fire."

I wanted to die. I wanted the papaya to strike me dead.

Avery turned. Her eyes landed on me, and something unexpected happened — she didn't look away. "Oh yeah?"

My brain short-circuited. "Uh — yeah. The part about how they've adapted to urban environments? That was actually kind of sick."

"Right?" Her face lit up. "Everyone thought I was weird for doing it, but foxes are lowkey fascinating." She stepped closer, and my heart did something embarrassing. "I'm Avery, by the way."

"Maya," I managed, as my iPhone buzzed in my pocket — probably my mom asking if I was having fun. (Spoiler: I suddenly was.)

"You want to get out of here?" Avery asked, nodding toward the backyard. "This party's giving middle school dance energy and I'm not about it."

The old Maya would've made an excuse. The Maya who overthought everything would've worried about what people would think. But new Maya — the one who realized that the worst that could happen was awkwardness, and the best that could happen was something real — just smiled.

"Lead the way."

n

Outside, the air was cooler. We sat on the back porch steps and talked about foxes and AP classes and the absurdity of high school, while somewhere inside, a papaya continued its slow, lonely oxidation, and I didn't care at all.