Goldfish Confidential

The fluorescent classroom lights buzzed like an angry hornet trapped inside my skull. I'd been running on three hours of sleep and caffeine, basically a certified zombie at this point. Finals week at Northwood High turned everyone into the walking dead, but I was particularly spectacular at playing the part—hoodie up, eyes glazed, shuffling through the hallway like my feet were made of lead.

"Earth to Miles," Maya snapped her fingers in my face. "You look like you've been dead for three days."

"Feels like it," I mumbled, slumping against the lockers.

At home, my room was my sanctuary. Specifically, the corner with my five-gallon tank. Goldie was my only real listener these days—a fantail goldfish with flowing fins like orange tulle. I'd flop onto my beanbag and spill everything to him. The crush. The anxiety about college applications. How I felt like everyone else had their life figured out while I was just treading water.

"She's out there again," I whispered to Goldie, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. His tiny mouth opened and closed in silent judgment.

Through my window, across the street at the community rec center, I could see her. Chloe. The one who sat behind me in AP Lit and smelled like coconut and vanilla. I'd become something of a spy, watching from my window as she played padel with her friends every Tuesday and Thursday. The way she laughed at her own terrible serves. How she high-fived her team even when they lost. It was pathetic, maybe, but also the highlight of my week.

This time was different though. This time, instead of watching from my room like a total creep, I was going down there.

"Wish me luck, Goldie," I said, grabbing my racket from the corner.

The walk to the rec center felt like the longest five minutes of my life. My heart was doing gymnastics. What was I even doing? I barely knew how to play padel. I was going to embarrass myself in front of her and then I'd have to move schools. Change my name. Live under a bridge.

But then she looked up and saw me. And instead of looking away, she grinned.

"Miles?" she called, waving her racket in the air. "You play?"

"Not well," I admitted, stepping onto the court.

"Neither do we," said her friend, who I recognized as Elena from my history class. "We need a fourth player. You in?"

I looked back at my house one last time, imagining Goldie doing a victory lap around his little castle. Then I stepped onto the blue court, the echo of the ball against the glass walls sounding like possibility itself.

"I'm in."