Goldfish & Gravity

Maya's fedora was supposed to be her armor. Freshman year had been a disaster—invisible in hallways, nonexistent at parties—so she spent her summer savings on a crushed velvet hat that screamed "I'm someone now."

"Nice hat," Tyler said, leaning against the fence at the county fair. "You joining the circus?"

His friends laughed. Maya's face burned.

"Actually," she heard herself say, "I'm going to ride that bull."

The mechanical bull. The one that had thrown every varsity football player within ten seconds.

Tyler raised an eyebrow. "No way. You?"

"Watch me."

Her heart hammered as she climbed onto the leather seat. The operator winked. "Hold on tight, hat girl."

The bull lurched. Maya grabbed the rope, fedora flying off but she didn't care. Eight seconds. Nine. The crowd started cheering. Twelve seconds. She was doing it—she was really doing it.

At fifteen seconds, the bull bucked hard. Maya flew through the air and landed in the sawdust, breathless and dizzy.

"You okay?" A hand appeared. Tyler's friends were gone, but he was grinning. "That was legit."

Maya sat up, covered in dust but somehow lighter. She'd failed, but she'd tried. She'd been seen.

"Prize for the rider," the operator said, pressing a plastic bag into her hand.

A goldfish. A tiny, confused fish swirling in minimal water.

"His name is Gravity," Maya told Tyler later as they shared funnel cake. "Because he survived the fall with me."

"Cool name," Tyler said. And for the first time, Maya believed him.

She didn't need the hat anymore. She was someone now—someone who'd ridden the bull, someone who'd taken the fall, someone who was sitting with the cute boy and their fish, watching the summer sun dip below the carnival rides. Gravity, indeed.