Goldfish and Garage Bands

Maya's dad dropped the biggest bomb ever while she was heading to Jordan's party: "You're watching your sister's goldfish. It's sick."

"You're joking, right?" Maya stared at her reflection—curly hair finally tamed, fake freckles applied (yes, she was that basic), outfit consisting of three too many layers because it was giving ✨aesthetic✨. "I'm literally about to become sociable. With humans. My age."

"Barnaby needs spinach puree every two hours. Your mom and I are going to that bear exhibit thing—"

"SAVE THE BEARS gala?"

"—and we'll be back tomorrow. You're good."

Fast forward three hours. Maya was hiding in the bathroom at Jordan's, watching the time like a literal hawk, when her crush Riley walked in. Well, not IN—this wasn't a rom-com moment. They started talking through the door.

"You've been in there forever," Riley called. "You sick?"

"No! Just... thinking about life."

"Deep. Jordan's basement band is about to start. You coming?"

Every fiber of her being wanted to say yes. Instead she heard herself whisper, "I have to go home actually. Family thing."

"Lame." But he sounded disappointed. "Text me though?"

She practically sprinted home, heart racing, breathless, already planning their wedding in her head, when she burst through the door and remembered—

Barnaby.

The goldfish was floating sideways.

"No no NO," Maya grabbed the net, started singing him Coldplay (which was weird, she didn't even like Coldplay), googled "goldfish resurrection" while pacing in circles, and that's when her neighbor's cat stared at her through the window like she had completely lost it.

She had. She absolutely had.

But here's the thing about being sixteen: sometimes you're alone on a Friday night, serenading a fish, while a cat spies on you through the glass, and you realize—this is actually okay. Not the part where Barnaby might be dying, obviously. But the part where you're messy and awkward and nothing works out how you planned.

Barnaby swam upright.

Maya sobbed. Riley texted: "band was terrible anyway 🐟"

She smiled, typed back, "remind me to tell you about my goldfish sometime," and felt something shift inside her chest. Maybe growing up wasn't about performing for other people. Maybe it was about figuring out who you were when literally nobody was watching.

Except the cat. That cat was always watching.