Goldfish, Gone

The pet store hummed with fluorescent lights and the subtle gurgle of thirty aquariums. My summer job, minimum wage, maximum awkward. I'd been crushing on Maya since seventh grade, and she'd just walked through the door with her friends, laughing at something I couldn't hear. I immediately straightened my name tag.

"Hey, Finn," she said, sliding up to the counter. "My goldfish died. Again. You got any that don't, like, immediately give up on life?"

"These guys are fighters," I said, gesturing to a tank of orange comets swimming in oblivious circles. "But no promises. They're sensitive."

"Like you?" Maya teased, and my face burned. Behind her, her friends giggled.

The door chime jingled again. Brendan walked in—senior, varsity jacket, the kind of guy who made freshmen scatter like pigeons. Everyone called him "The Bear" because he was massive and supposedly hibernated in class. I'd seen him cry once behind the bleachers when his mom got sick, so I knew the whole bear thing was just armor.

"Yo, Bear," Maya called. "You getting a pet?"

"My sister wants a dog," Brendan mumbled, not meeting anyone's eyes. "Something small."

"We've got these yorkie-chihuahua mixes in back," I said, surprising myself. "They're rescue pups. Kind of nervous at first, but they warm up."

Brendan actually looked at me then. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. One's missing an ear. Looks like a warrior."

"Cool." He paused. "Can I see him?"

I led him to the back room where the rescue animals waited for homes. The little three-legged dog was shivering in his cage. Brendan squatted down, and the dog stopped shaking.

"He likes you," I said.

Brendan's voice cracked. "My mom's in hospice. She keeps asking about her childhood dog. Can't bring a big dog in there, but..."

"This guy's perfect," I said. "Portable. Good listener."

Brendan wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "Thanks, man."

When we came back out, Maya was still there, holding a goldfish bag like it was a prize. "Finn helped me pick the best one," she told Brendan. "He really knows his stuff."

Brendan nodded at me. "Yeah. He's all right."

Later, as I locked up, I checked on the goldfish tank. One fish was floating at the top, gone to its final reward. I tapped the glass. "Rest easy, little guy."

My phone buzzed. A text from Maya: Thanks for today. You're different than I thought.

I smiled at my reflection in the darkened window. Maybe growing up wasn't about becoming someone else entirely. Maybe it was just about letting people see the parts of yourself you'd been hiding all along—even the parts that felt as fragile as a goldfish, as protective as a bear, as loyal as a dog.