Goldfish Don't Wear Hats

The orange hat was supposed to be my armor. Freshman year at Northwood High, and I'd decided, somewhere between middle school graduation and three sleepless nights of overthinking, that I was going to be That Girl. Confident. Weird-cool. Someone who wore orange fedoras inside the school cafeteria like she didn't care what anyone thought.

The problem was, I cared. A lot.

My hair had been this frizzy, uncooperative situation since birth, and the hat was supposed to hide it. Instead, it made me look like I was wearing a traffic cone on my head. I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror on day three and almost cried. Who was I kidding? I wasn't mysterious or artsy. I was just the girl with the orange thing that made people whisper behind their hands in homeroom.

"Nice hat," Marcus said at lunch, sliding into the seat across from me. His hair was perfect—curls that actually behaved, unlike mine. "You joining the drama club? They're doing some weird retro thing this semester."

My face burned. I'd talked to Marcus exactly twice before, both times during mandatory group projects where I'd said maybe three words total.

"No," I managed. "Just... experimenting."

"With headwear in general or specifically"—he gestured at the monstrosity on my head—"that particular shade of construction orange?"

I actually laughed before I could stop myself.

"Both? I guess?"

"Cool." He poked at his phone. "I have a goldfish at home that's dying. Orange, too. Pretty, though, in a doomed sort of way."

I stared at him. "That's the weirdest transition I've ever witnessed."

"My therapist says I deflect with random facts."

"Your therapist sounds right."

We looked at each other, and something shifted. The hat still felt ridiculous, my hair was still a disaster, but suddenly that was funny instead of tragic. Marcus had perfect hair and zero social filter. I had a depression-era fashion statement and anxiety that could power a small city. We were both just awkward, swimming around in our own little bowls, pretending we knew what we were doing.

"You want to come over?" Marcus asked. "Say goodbye to the goldfish? It's probably dead by now, but we can hold a vigil."

I took off the hat. My hair was messier than ever, but I didn't care.

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I do."