Goldfish at the Deep End

The plastic bag swung from my wrist, a tiny orange **goldfish** darting through its water like it was late for something important. I was literally the only person at Chloe's end-of-summer bash carrying a carnival prize, but what was I supposed to do? Leave it in my hot car and become a fish murderer? Not today, Satan.

Chloe's **pool** glittered like something out of a TikTok aesthetic video, complete with those expensive floating lights and speakers bumping Spotify's hottest tracks. I hovered near the snack table, clutching my fish bag like it contained the secrets to life itself.

"You want some **papaya**?" Chloe asked, gesturing to a fruit arrangement that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. "It's organic. My mom's assistant got it from this farm in—"

"Actually," I cut in, then immediately regretted it. Everyone's eyes swung toward me. "I'm good. Thanks."

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Mom, again. HAVE YOU TAKEN YOUR **VITAMIN** D YET?? followed by three pill emojis. Because nothing says embarrassing teenager like your mom texting about supplements during a party.

"Is that a goldfish?"

Santiago. The Santiago who'd sat behind me in bio since freshman year, whose hoodie game was absolutely unfair, who I'd literally never spoken to outside of class. He was dripping wet from the pool, hair plastered to his forehead in a way that should be illegal.

"Yeah," I managed, my voice doing that squeaky thing it does when I'm nervous. "Won it at the boardwalk. Named him Bubbles. Super original, I know."

He laughed. Actually laughed. "Classic. I had like twelve goldfish growing up. They all lived way longer than they're supposed to. One survived for five years."

"No way."

"Swear on my life. My little sister tried to train it to do tricks. It was weirdly impressive."

We stood there talking about fish while Chloe's playlist thumped against the summer dusk. Santiago didn't look at me like I was the weird girl with a plastic fish bag. He looked at me like I was someone worth talking to.

"Hey," he said, as the party started winding down. "Want help getting Bubbles home? I've got a cooler in my car. Safer than that bag."

And just like that, the social hierarchy of Chloe **pool** party didn't matter. My papaya-rejecting, vitamin-texting, goldfish-carrying self was having a moment. A real one.

"That," I said, "would be amazing."