Goldfish Are Liars

The thing about goldfish is they have approximately zero chill.

I'm standing in the pet aisle at Walmart, holding a plastic bag that contains what my sister Chloe swore would be 'a low-maintenance friend' for my fifteenth birthday. The fish—orange, suspiciously bug-eyed, already judging my outfit—is swimming in tiny, aggressive circles.

'His name is Neptune,' Chloe had said this morning, shoving the bag into my hands. 'Because he's gonna rule your aquatic kingdom.'

Now Neptune's doing that weird thing where he floats vertically, nose-down, like he's contemplating the existence of water itself.

My phone buzzes. Party tonight. Skylar's house. Her older brother is home from college and apparently he's bringing friends. This is the kind of information that gets passed around like contraband in the group chat: Sky's pool party. 9 PM. Parents 'away' (translation: at a winery three hours north). Bring swimsuit.

The problem is, Skylar's crowd is the crowd. The ones who wear matching crop tops and have inside jokes about people they've known since preschool. I've been orbiting them since sixth grade, close enough to see the gravitational pull but never actually getting pulled in.

I'm still holding Neptune when I run into them—literally. I round the corner near the dog food aisle and nearly collide with Harper, flanked by two of her friends. They're clustered around the puppy adoption event, cooing over a Golden Retriever that's basically a cloud with legs.

'Shit,' I say, and Neptune's bag sloshes.

Harper looks up. For a second, I think she's going to act like she doesn't know me. We've been in bio together for three years and have exchanged approximately forty words total. But then she notices the fish.

'Is that... a goldfish?'

'Yeah,' I say, feeling heat crawl up my neck. 'Birthday gift from my sister.'

'That's kind of adorable.' Harper's eyes are bright, and I realize I've never actually seen her up close. She has a tiny constellation of freckles across her nose. 'What's his name?'

'Neptune.' The word falls out of my mouth before I can second-guess it.

She laughs, and it's this genuine sound that makes something in my chest feel weird. 'Like the Roman god?'

'Because he's gonna rule my aquatic kingdom,' I quote, then immediately want to die.

But Harper doesn't mock me. She leans in closer to the bag, watching Neptune do his vertical hang. 'You know, goldfish are actually super smart. My cousin had one that lived for seven years. Recognized her face and everything.'

'Really?'

'Totally.' She glances at her friends, who are already drifting away toward the dog treats. 'Hey, you should come tonight. Skylar's thing?'

I blink. 'I wasn't sure if...'

'Obviously you should.' She taps the bag gently. 'Bring Neptune. I feel like he needs to see some action.'

Later, standing in Skylar's backyard, watching Harper laugh with her head thrown back under the string lights, I understand something about goldfish and their supposed three-second memories. They're wrong about that, just like they're wrong about goldfish being boring or basic or whatever.

Neptune is currently swimming in what used to be a proper tank (borrowed from Skylar's little brother), doing little laps and generally living his best life. And I'm standing here, actually talking to Harper about whether goldfish get lonely, while her friends—now my friends?—debate over which Spotify playlist is least mid.

'He needs a friend,' Harper says, watching Neptune. 'Nobody should rule an aquatic kingdom alone.'

'Maybe,' I say, feeling something shift in my chest that has nothing to do with water or fish or social dynamics and everything to do with the way Harper is looking at me like I'm someone worth knowing.

Outside, it starts to rain. Water against the windows, the pool, the slick deck. Harper grins and grabs my hand, pulling me toward the sliding door.

'C'mon, Neptune. Party time.'