Fox in the Outfield

Maya's goldfish was floating sideways again. Third time this month. She named him Bubble, then Bubble 2, then Bubble 3. Now Bubble 4 was doing the backstroke.

"Can't you just admit you're killing them?" I said, dumping the fourth replacement into the bowl beside her bed.

She rolled her eyes, which was basically her default setting these days. "You don't get it, Leo. That's how goldfish ARE. They're fragile. They're ART."

I left her room before she could explain why fish mortality was actually a metaphor for our parents' divorce or whatever.

Friday night cable was supposed to be our thing, me and Dad. Baseball games, pizza, zero expectations. But lately he'd been bringing HER over. Christine. Who smiled too much and didn't understand why sarcasm was basically our love language.

That night, though, Dad was actually solo. Orioles game. Cold pizza. And I was DYING to tell him about the orange hair dye hidden under my bed, but the timing felt wrong. Again. Always wrong.

"You trying out for the team this spring?" he asked, as if middle school hadn't happened. As if I hadn't spent last season warming the bench while kids half my size crushed it in baseball.

"Maybe," I said, staring at the tv. "Not sure I'm ready."

He nodded, didn't push. That was new. Before, he would've gone full Coach Mode.

I went for a walk afterward, orange hair dye burning a hole in my pocket. Behind the elementary school, near the baseball field, something moved near the dumpsters. A fox. Actual fox. Red coat, golden eyes, watching me like I was the weird one here.

We stared at each other for like a full minute. It felt intense. Spiritual, almost. Then it trotted off, tail flicking, like it had places to be.

I sat on the curb and pulled out the hair dye. My hands were shaking. What if it looked terrible? What if everyone stared? What if I couldn't pull it off like the fox did?

The fox circled back. Sat five feet away. Head tilted.

"You judging me?" I asked.

It blinked slowly.

I went home and did it in the bathroom mirror. Orange. Bright, ridiculous, ORANGE.

Maya stopped brushing her teeth in the doorway. "So you're finally doing it."

"Yeah."

"Bubble 4 would be proud."

I laughed. She wasn't wrong.

Next morning at breakfast, Dad looked up from his coffee. Did a double-take. Then he nodded, once.

"Bold," was all he said.

I'd take it. The fox would approve.