Chapter 1: Oranges and Online Dreams

My name is Tyler Reed, a small-town fruit seller from Maple Heights, Florida—a place where the Friday night lights shine over the Maple Heights Mustangs and the best pie in town is served at Betty’s Diner on Main Street. Here, the gossip moves faster than the trains that rumble past, and everyone knows your business before you do.

It’s the kind of town where nothing ever seems to change, but this year, everything was different. I grew up under the shade of orange trees, always under the watchful gaze of neighbors who never missed a thing. But now, change was coming whether we liked it or not.

Here’s how it all started: The produce distributor who always drove out to Maple Heights to buy our oranges didn’t show up this year. Nobody could explain why, but it left the whole town with crates of unsold fruit and a growing sense of panic.

Our front porch was piled high with crates, the sweet citrus scent hanging thick in the humid air. Folks in town started whispering, their concern growing with every passing day. The pressure to fix things landed squarely on my shoulders, and I could feel my heart pounding every time I thought about it. My stomach twisted with anxiety, but a small part of me still hoped I’d find a way out for us.

Feeling the responsibility to support my family, I decided to try something new—live streaming our oranges, hoping to sell enough to get us through the season.

It sounded wild, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I dusted off my battered Dell laptop, stacked my phone on a pile of old National Geographics, and tried to muster a confident smile, though my hands shook so hard I nearly dropped the phone.

On my first day, I streamed for ten hours straight. Number of viewers in my live room: three.

My dad, my mom, and me.

Mom made popcorn in the kitchen while Dad sat on the old plaid couch, arms folded and face stern—the kind of audience you’d pay not to have. I kept talking, praying someone—anyone—would join. But nope. Just us, in our living room with the popcorn getting cold.

Late that night, restless and frustrated, I scrolled through Google and YouTube, hunting for the secret to building an audience.

I clicked through endless clickbait and watched a few over-produced YouTube Live tutorials, but nothing stuck. Then, in the blue glow of my phone, I spotted a trending post: Some fruit seller had gone totally viral.

I slapped my knee—wasn’t this exactly what I needed?

It felt like fate giving me a nudge. Maybe this was the break I’d been waiting for.

I clicked the video, eager to learn from another small-town seller who’d cracked the code.

On screen, a fruit guy with a chiseled eight-pack, all tan skin and movie-star swagger, showed off his oranges while flexing for the camera.

His smile was blinding, his confidence off the charts. The guy made peeling an orange look like a CrossFit event. I’ll admit, I felt a little jealous.

I checked the comments. The top one read: “Tears of disappointment rolling down my face…”

The second: “Hahaha, I’m buying now—let the hot guy deliver it himself!”

The comments were pure chaos—emojis, thirst, and jokes flying everywhere. It was like a bachelorette party in the chat.

…

Suddenly, it all clicked.

So that’s the secret to internet fame: exposure.

I rushed to the bathroom, yanked off my shirt, and stared at myself in the mirror… then quietly put my clothes back on.

The person staring back at me had pale skin, delicate features, a slim waist, and long legs—not exactly a bodybuilder.

I tried flexing, but the only thing that popped was my elbow. Still, there was something kind of otherworldly about my reflection—like I’d stepped out of a vintage cologne ad.

I was born with a small frame and a metabolism that never quits—no matter what I eat, I never gain weight. People always said girls would be jealous of my metabolism, but as a guy, it just made me look skinny and fragile.

In the locker room, I got the side-eye from teammates. Coaches shook their heads, and my cousins teased me for looking like a model, not a linebacker.

If being a fruit-selling guy wasn’t working, what about trying something different—like being a fruit-selling girl?

A wild idea hit me out of nowhere.

I looked at my familiar reflection—pale, delicate. With a wig and a little imagination…

My mind spun. I’d seen enough TikToks to know gender-bending streams could blow up—if you had the nerve. Was this my shot?

The next morning, just as the sun peeked over the orchard, I woke up groggy but restless, the idea still gnawing at me.

Sleep barely touched me that night. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling fan, replaying what I’d say if someone caught me. But the idea wouldn’t go away.

As soon as I opened the door, I saw my dad perched on the front steps, puffing away on his old Missouri Meerschaum corncob pipe.

He only pulled out that pipe when things were really bad—the days the tractor broke down or the bank called. The sweet, earthy scent of Prince Albert tobacco drifted in the morning air, wrapping around him like a storm cloud.

Usually, when Dad was in a good mood, he’d just take a puff or two. Today, the pipe was going full blast.

He looked like he was trying to smoke away his worries. The smell of that tobacco always reminded me of stories he used to tell about his own dad, sitting on these same steps.

I followed his gaze out to the orchard.

The trees looked golden in the morning light, but I saw what he saw: a season’s work, hanging there, waiting to rot.

I stood in the doorway, half in shadow, my head bowed. Last night’s wild idea felt even more urgent.

I felt like I was standing at a crossroads—one foot in the old world, one in the new. The pressure of everyone’s expectations pressed down on me, but I couldn’t let it crush me.