Goldfish Don't Run

The track field was empty except for me, my lungs burning, legs pumping, everything blurry except the finish line. That's the thing about running—when you're moving that fast, nobody can catch you. Not the expectations. Not the awkwardness. Definitely not the way Tyler looked right through me in homeroom like I was invisible.

"Hey, Goldfish!"

I skidded to a stop. Jackson, leaning against the bleachers in that effortless way that makes me simultaneously hate and admire him. He calls me Goldfish because of my backpack—it's covered in those fish stickers I collected in middle school before I realized cool kids don't decorate anything.

"What?" I snapped, wiping sweat from my forehead.

"English. Mr. Henderson's sphinx riddle? Everyone's stuck." He tossed me an orange from his lunch bag. "You looked like you were thinking about it yesterday."

I caught it automatically. Jackson actually noticed me thinking? This was unprecedented.

"The sphinx riddle's easy," I said, sitting beside him because my legs were done and also because Jackson Miller was inviting me to sit beside him. "It's not about what you are. It's about what you're becoming."

He stared at me. "That's... actually really deep."

"I spend a lot of time not talking," I said. "Lots of thinking happens."

"My sister's goldfish died last week," Jackson said suddenly. "She had a funeral and everything. It was weirdly sad."

"Goldfish have a three-second memory," I said. "Maybe that's a gift. They just keep swimming, not remembering anything that sucked before."

Jackson was quiet. The water fountain bubbled nearby, rhythmic and endless.

"I'm having a party Friday," he said. "You should come. Goldfish."

I laughed. "My name's Maya."

"I know." His orange hair caught the sunlight. "I've known since kindergarten, Maya. You're the one who never talks to anyone."

The shock must've shown on my face because he grinned, all crooked and genuine. "You're always running, Goldfish. Sometimes you gotta stop and let people catch up."

"You sound like a fortune cookie."

"But I'm right, aren't I?"

I took a bite of the orange he'd given me. It was perfect—bright and messy and completely unexpected.

"Maybe," I said. "But first, tell me why you really came out here. The riddle?"

Jackson stood up, dusting off his jeans. "Nope. Just wanted to see if Goldfish could fly."

"That's the worst nickname ever."

"Better than being nobody at all," he called back, already walking away.

I sat there a long time, orange peel in my hand, watching him go. Maybe the sphinx was right about becoming something new. And maybe, just maybe, I was done running.