Goldfish & Glow-Ups

Maya's summer glow-up wasn't going according to plan. For starters, her **goldfish** - named Gerald because basic names were ironically cool now - was floating sideways in his bowl, mocking her life choices.

"You're supposed to be my emotional support animal," she told Gerald's increasingly lifeless form. "Not another metaphor for my failed potential."

Her phone buzzed. Group chat: *Pool party @ Jake's Friday. Bring it or don't come.*

Maya groaned. Jake, with his stupid perfect smile and stupid perfect life. She'd been lowkey obsessed with him since seventh grade, when he'd defended her against some jerk who made fun of her **hair** after she'd attempted DIY highlights that turned her haircolor the exact shade of construction zone orange.

Three years later, and her hair was still her biggest insecurity. Her mom swore her natural curls were "beautiful and ethnic," whatever that meant, but Maya just saw frizz. She'd spent the past week researching every product tutorial, watching influencers with impossible routines, convinced she needed a total transformation.

"Maya! Come eat!" her mom called.

Dinner was, predictably, **spinach** salad with something that smelled suspiciously like health. Her mom had gone full wellness influencer since the divorce, pushing **vitamin** supplements and green juice like they were the key to happiness.

"I'm not hungry," Maya said, though her stomach growled in betrayal.

"You need nutrients for that growing brain," her mom insisted, sliding a bowl toward her. "You want to glow up for this party? Start from the inside."

Maya poked at the spinach. Her mom didn't get it. This wasn't about health - it was about survival. In two weeks, she'd be a sophomore, and somehow that felt infinitely more terrifying than being a freshman. At least freshmen were supposed to be awkward. Sophomores were supposed to have figured it out.

Her phone buzzed again. A text from Lena, the actual coolest person she knew: *heard you're coming Friday. wear that red dress from insta. u look fire in it.*

Maya's stomach did that stupid flippy thing. Lena had noticed her Instagram story? The one where she'd pretended to be confident in her body while actually sweating through three layers of spanx?

Later that night, Maya found herself at her neighbor's door, returning a Tupperware container. Mrs. Hernandez answered with her elderly **cat**, Señor Fluff, draped around her neck like a stolen scarf.

"Mija, you look so grown," Mrs. Hernandez said, pinching Maya's cheek. "Remember when you were little and you tried to teach Señor Fluff to sit? He still won't listen to anyone, but he likes your spirit."

Maya smiled weakly. She remembered that summer - before middle school, before she'd learned that being herself was somehow wrong, before she'd started shrinking to fit everyone else's expectations.

Back in her room, Maya stared at Gerald. He was still floating sideways, but his gills were moving. Barely.

"You know what?" she whispered. "If you can survive my care, I can survive sophomore year."

She picked up her phone and texted Lena: *thx! kinda nervous tho.*

Lena responded immediately: *don't be. real ones notice u for u. also bring snacks I'm starving.*

Maya laughed, then grabbed the spinach from the fridge. It was gross, but her mom was right about one thing - she'd need the energy. Gerald stirred, doing an actual barrel roll. "That's what I thought," Maya said. "We got this."