Goldfish at Morgan's Party

I stood by the kitchen island, nursing my warm orange soda like it was the most interesting thing on Earth. Morgan's house party raged around me — bass thumping through the floorboards, people shouting over the music, someone definitely throwing up in the bathroom. Classic Friday night.

"You look like you're plotting everyone's murder," a voice said.

I jumped. Riley leaned against the counter, all messy curls and effortless cool. She was one of those people who moved through high school like she owned the hallway.

"Just observing," I managed. "Like a scientist."

She laughed, actually laughed. "I'm Riley."

"Jamie."

"Come here." She grabbed my wrist and dragged me toward the living room, where a goldfish bowl sat on a side table, completely ignored. The fish inside — an unimpressive orange blob — did slow laps.

"This is Bubbles," Riley said, gesturing dramatically. "My ex won him at a carnival last year and then left him here when we broke up. I've been keeping him alive out of spite."

I snorted. "That's dark."

"That's high school relationships, babe." She flopped onto the couch, patting the spot beside her. Her cat, Potato, materialized from nowhere and sprawled across her lap. "You're in my AP Bio class, right? You sit in the back and never talk."

"Observing," I said again, sitting down. Potato regarded me with yellow eyes, then decided I was worthy of head-butts.

"I see you," Riley said, suddenly serious. "You think you're invisible, but you're not. You're just... waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"For someone to notice you." She bumped my shoulder. "Well, I noticed. And Bubbles noticed. And Potato definitely noticed — you have treats in your pocket or something?"

I laughed. It felt good. Real.

"Your soda's probably hot by now," she said. "Wanna get water from the tap? Actual water, not whatever sugary chaos you've been holding."

We ended up on the back porch, bare feet in the pool, just talking. About everything. About nothing. About how high school felt like swimming upstream without a map.

"Next party," Riley said, splashing water at me, "you don't stand by the kitchen island. You find the goldfish and the weird girl with the cat."

"Deal."