Goldfish and Gravity

The goldfish peered at me through the glass, its mouth opening and closing in what looked suspiciously like judgment.

"You're overthinking it again, aren't you?" I muttered, sprinkling flakes into the bowl. Finneas — my only confidant since my best friend moved away — just kept swimming in his endless circles, probably wondering why his human was spiraling over baseball tryouts again.

It wasn't even the varsity team. It was intramural softball, literally the most low-stakes activity known to teenager-kind. But this was freshman year at a new school, and somehow everything felt like it had the weight of a cosmically important decision.

"Hey, fish-freak," came a voice from the doorway. My sister Jackie leaned against the frame, smirking. "Still having existential conversations with your aquatic friend? You know, normal people just, like, text their actual friends."

"Finneas is an excellent listener," I said defensively. "And he doesn't make me feel weird about not knowing how to play softball."

"It's baseball," she corrected. "And literally everyone plays. It's gym class, not the MLB. Just swing the stick, run the bases, try not to look like a total loser." She paused. "Wait, I thought you had practice today?"

I checked my phone. "In twenty minutes. I'm mentally preparing."

"You're procrastinating."

"I'm building emotional resilience."

Jackie rolled her eyes so hard I worried they might get stuck. "You're going to be fine. Just don't think about it too much. Overthinking is your bull in a china shop routine — you charge in, create chaos, then wonder what happened."

"That's not even how that expression works," I called as she sauntered away.

But she wasn't entirely wrong about the chaos part.

Twenty minutes later, I stood in the outfield, glove awkwardly perched on my hand like a dead animal. Coach Martinez was explaining something about positioning and communication, but all I could think about was how everyone else seemed to know exactly what they were doing while I was mentally reviewing goldfish care guidelines from the internet.

"Hey, new girl!" someone yelled. I looked up just in time to see the ball arcing through the blue sky like something that had forgotten how gravity worked.

"MOVE!" screamed Sam, this junior who'd appointed himself captain of everything.

I scrambled backward, tripped over my own feet, and somehow — through some combination of panic and beginner's luck — my glove connected with the ball. I caught it.

"Holy shit," Sam said, jogging over. "You actually got it. Nice arms, new girl."

"Thanks," I managed, my heart doing something complicated in my chest. "I think."

"Think nothing of it." He grinned. "You're not half bad for someone who looked like they were going to pass out five seconds ago."

"I was contemplating existential dread, actually."

"Same thing." He tossed me a Gatorade from the cooler. "Welcome to the team, goldfish girl."

"Goldfish?"

"You've got that same blank fish stare when you're concentrating. It's kinda great." He nodded toward the dugout. "Same time Thursday?"

"Yeah," I said, and for the first time in months, something in my chest unclenched. "Yeah, I'll be here."

That evening, I fed Finneas his dinner and watched him swim to the surface.

"You'll never guess what happened," I told him, and for the first time, his judgmental little fish face seemed almost proud.