Electric Goldfish

The plastic bag sloshed against Maya's leg as we sprinted through the parking lot, rain plastering our hair to our foreheads. Inside, a tiny orange goldfish darted panic circles, oblivious to the fact that Maya had just spent twenty bucks worth of carnival tickets to win him.

"I'm naming him Bart," she yelled over the thunder. "Bart the Electric Fish."

I laughed so hard I tripped over a curb, my phone flying from my pocket into a puddle. Perfect. Just like Maya to turn a sketchy carnival win into an adventure, and just like me to faceplant while trying to keep up.

She'd been my best friend since seventh grade, back when I was the quiet new kid and she decided that needed fixing. Now, three years later, I was still the quiet one, and she was still collecting strays—first me, now a fish that probably had a three-day lifespan.

Lightning cracked the sky open, strobe-bright against the mall's looming silhouette. We ducked under the awning of a closed yogurt shop, breathless and dripping. Maya held up the bag, peering at Bart like he was a prize she'd actually earned.

"You know," she said, her voice dropping to that serious tone she got sometimes, "goldfish are supposed to have, like, zero memory. But I feel like Bart here is judging me."

"He's definitely judging your fashion choices," I said, gesturing to her neon carnival hoodie that somehow managed to clash with itself.

She flipped me off, but she was grinning. Then she looked at me, really looked at me, and her grin softened into something else. Something I'd been pretending not to notice for months.

"You're the only person who'd run through a storm with me for a fish, Ice," she said softly.

My stomach did that thing where it tried to exit my body through my throat. Another lightning flash lit up her face, and for a second, everything was painfully clear—how much I wanted to kiss her, how scared I was to ruin everything, how running through storms with Maya was the most alive I'd ever felt.

The bag tore.

"Oh SHIT," Maya shrieked as water cascaded down her jeans, Bart flopping onto the wet pavement.

We both scrambled, scooping him up with handfuls of water from a puddle, shoving him back into the shredded plastic. When we finally stopped laughing—because somehow, of course, this was happening—Maya was soaking wet, I was covered in mud, and the goldfish was doing suspiciously well, all things considered.

"Well," she said, wiping her face with a muddy sleeve. "Bart's definitely seen some shit now."

We walked the rest of the way in the rain, shoulders touching every other step. And yeah, maybe I still didn't kiss her. But holding her hand while we carried home a traumatized carnival fish? That felt like something close enough.