Dead Goldfish Society

My mom didn't get it. When she handed me that tiny Ziploc bag with Nemo floating inside like a clarinet reed, she said, "Just flush him, honey. He was a good fish."

But Nemo deserved better than the plumbing treatment.

So there I was at 7 AM on a Tuesday, creeping toward the old baseball field behind the rec center, Nemo in one pocket, my dad's rusted spade in the other. I felt like a total zombie—three hours of sleep will do that to you, especially when you spend half the night watching a goldfish breathe its last bubble.

The field was empty except for this massive dog sleeping near home plate. A chocolate lab, snoring like a chainsaw. I stepped around it, dug a hole near the pitcher's mound, and said my goodbyes.

"You were a simple fish, Nemo. I respect that."

That's when I heard the laugh.

"Dude, are you literally burying a fish?"

I froze. This girl sat in the bleachers, eating an apple, like she'd been watching me the whole time. Maya—she was in my English class, always sat in the back, always had paint under her fingernails.

"His name was Nemo," I said, defensive. "What are you doing here?"

"Her name is Agnes," she said, nodding at the dog, who'd lifted her head and was now thumping her tail against the dirt. "And I'm here because my mom's the morning custodian. I come here to think."

She hopped down, walked over. "Can I see him?"

I showed her the fish.

"We should have a funeral," she said, completely serious. "Like, a real one. My grandpa says bull riders get funerals with music and stories. Why not goldfish?"

So we did. We stood there in the crisp morning air, Agnes snoring softly beside us, while Maya delivered this eulogy about how Nemo had taught her that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is swim in tiny circles and never complain.

I don't know why, but I started crying. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Maybe it was everything else—my parents fighting, tryouts next week, the feeling that I was constantly performing and never enough.

Maya didn't make it weird. She just said, "Yeah," and handed me a piece of her apple.

We sat there until the sun came up, talking about everything and nothing. About how we both felt like zombies sometimes, just going through the motions. About how her art teacher said she had talent but her parents wanted her to be a doctor. About how I was terrified I wouldn't make varsity and everyone would know.

"Life's BS," she said, using the actual word. "But sometimes you find a random person burying a fish at dawn, and it's not so BS anymore."

The dog sneezed.

We laughed. And I realized something—I'd come here to say goodbye to a fish, but somehow, I'd found something alive.

"See you tomorrow?" Maya asked, standing up.

"Yeah," I said. "Same time?"

She grinned. "Bring a shovel. Agnes likes to dig."

I walked home feeling lighter, like maybe I didn't have to be a zombie anymore. Maybe I could just be a guy who buried a goldfish and found a friend.

Nemo would've dug that.