Goldfish Goals

I was literally running on three hours of sleep and zero chill when it happened.

Track practice had ended twenty minutes ago, but I was still at the school, pacing the hallway like a neurotic squirrel. Coach Miller had pulled me aside after everyone else left — that look in his eyes that says "we need to talk about your future." The future. Like I even knew what I was having for dinner.

"Marcus, you've got real potential," he'd said, all serious and intense. "State qualifiers could be in your range if you keep this up."

State qualifiers. Me. The guy who once tripped over his own feet during warmups and faceplanted in front of the entire team.

My phone buzzed. Jenna.

"Emergency at my house. NOW."

I didn't even think. I was running out the door, down the street, mind racing with all the terrible possibilities. Jenna's grandma sick? Her parents fighting? Something worse?

I burst through her front door, chest heaving, ready for literally anything.

Except what I found.

Jenna sat on her bedroom floor, surrounded by construction paper, glitter glue, and those tiny neon markers that smell like artificial fruit. And there, flopping around in a mixing bowl on her desk, was the tiniest orange goldfish I'd ever seen.

"His name is Gerald," she said, totally straight-faced. "And I need you to help me give him a proper funeral."

I just stared at her. "A funeral? For a goldfish?"

"He was my emotional support fish since third grade, Marcus. Show some respect."

That's when I noticed she was wearing those ridiculous oversized black shades indoors, and I realized — oh. She was going through it. Maybe not just about the fish.

So I sat down on her bedroom floor and helped her construct a tiny cardboard casket. We wrote "RIP GERALD" in sparkly orange letters because apparently that was his favorite color. Jenna told me about how Gerald had witnessed her first breakup, her failed math test, her braces removal — everything.

"He was just there," she said quietly. "Swimming in his little corner, living his best fish life while mine was falling apart."

I thought about Coach Miller, about state qualifiers, about how I was running myself into the ground trying to be someone I wasn't even sure I wanted to be. Gerald the goldfish had it figured out. Just swimming, doing his thing.

We buried Gerald in Jenna's backyard beneath her mom's prize-winning petunias. Jenna cried a little. I pretended I had allergies.

"Thanks for coming," she said later, wiping her face. "You're a good friend, Marcus."

"Yeah, well," I shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Anything for Gerald."

Walking home, I realized I'd missed dinner. My mom was gonna kill me. Coach Miller would probably be disappointed tomorrow when he found out I hadn't done the extra drills. But somehow, none of that mattered as much as it had two hours ago.

Sometimes you just gotta stop running and appreciate the fish bowl you're in, you know?