Goldfish Courage

The **cable**-knit scarf lay abandoned on my bed, rows of twisted stitches mocking my failed attempt to appear normal. Mom had thrust the yarn at me that morning, saying crafting would calm my nerves before the presentation. Instead, I'd spent three hours tangling the soft blue wool around my fingers while panic built in my chest like static.

Constellation—my **goldfish**, won at a sad roadside carnival last summer—floated to the front of his bowl. His tiny mouth opened and closed, open and close, open and close, like he was practicing too.

"You got this, fish," I whispered, then jumped when my phone buzzed.

Marcus: *u ready to present or r u gonna choke lol*

I groaned and threw myself onto my beanbag chair. Marcus had been absolute **bull** to me since seventh grade, back when I accidentally called him "Marcia" during roll call on the first day. He'd never let me forget it. Neither had anyone else.

The presentation loomed: ten minutes about "identity" in front of the most judgmental room of nineteen-year-olds on planet Earth. I'd thrown up yesterday just thinking about it.

Constellation did a lazy flip, his orange scales catching the afternoon sun through my window. I'd kept him alive for eleven months despite knowing nothing about fish. My sister said goldfish had three-second memories, but Constellation seemed to recognize me. He'd swim to the front whenever I entered my room.

"Three seconds," I muttered. "That would be nice, huh? Just forget everything every three seconds. No overthinking. No replaying conversations from three years ago at 2 AM."

My eyes landed on my half-knitted scarf again. The pattern was actually starting to look like something now—this twisted braid thing Mom called a cable stitch. Messy, but real.

I grabbed the needles. For ten minutes, I knit. The rhythm grounded me. Slip one. Knit two together. Yarn over. My breathing slowed.

Constellation watched from his bowl, completely unbothered, existing without apology. Just floating there, being a fish in his weird neon castle with the fake plastic plants.

"You know what?" I said aloud. "Screw Marcus. Screw being cool. I'm just gonna talk about my fish."

The next morning, I stood at the front of Mr. Rivera's classroom with my PowerPoint slide titled: "What My Goldfish Taught Me About Being Human."

Marcus was already smirking, phone in his lap.

"So," I said, my voice shaking only a little. "Identity isn't about being the loudest person in the room. It's not about performing for other people. Sometimes it's about keeping a living thing alive for eleven months straight and feeling weirdly proud of yourself. It's about knitting terrible scarves because they help you think. It's about being awkward and anxious and still showing up anyway."

The room went quiet. Not the mean kind. The listening kind.

Constellation would've been proud.