Goldfish Confidential

The glow-up regime was NOT going according to plan. I'd spent forty-five minutes on my hair only for it to frizz up the second I stepped outside, and now here I was, crouched behind a fake potted plant in the school cafeteria, conducting recon like a total creep.

My target: Emma Torres, who sat three tables away, laughing with her friends like she hadn't completely destroyed my ability to form coherent sentences yesterday in chem lab.

"You're being dramatic," I whispered to Finneas, my pet goldfish back home. Obviously he couldn't hear me, but we'd developed this whole telepathic thing since my parents said I couldn't have a dog because "we're not home enough." Finneas lived in this fancy bowl on my desk, swimming laps and judging my life choices through his expressionless fish face.

The spy mission had started yesterday when I'd accidentally liked a photo from three years ago on Emma's Instagram. We're talking ancient history—her braces phase, before she got contacts and somehow became the most gorgeous human at Westwood High. The notification must have pinged because she'd looked directly at me across the lab tables and said, "Nice throwback, right?" and I'd literally almost swallowed my own tongue.

Now I was conducting stakeout operations to gather intel. What kind of music did she like? What shows was she watching? Critical information for when I inevitably had another chance to not make a complete fool of myself.

My mom had other plans. "You need more vitamin D," she'd announced that morning, slamming a grocery bag on the counter like it contained contraband. "And spinach. Your father read that article about brain development in teenagers."

"I'm fifteen, Mom. My brain is fully developed."

"Then why were you staring at your phone for twenty minutes without blinking yesterday?"

Touché.

So now I was carrying around this green smoothie situation that tasted like literal lawn clippings, watching Emma Torres from behind decorative foliage, feeling like the protagonist in a movie where the main character definitely doesn't get the girl.

But then—game changer.

Emma stood up, heading straight toward my hiding spot. I straightened up so fast I knocked over the smoothie. Green splattered everywhere. On my jeans. On the floor. On my dignity.

Emma stopped. Looked at the mess. Looked at me.

And then she smiled—not the polite one, but a real smile, like she was actually amused.

"I've got one of those too," she said, gesturing to the backpack slung over her shoulder. "My mom's going through this wellness phase. Want help cleaning that up?"

I didn't spy on her social media that night. Some things are better learned in person anyway.