Goldfish in a Beanie

The first thing you should know about Marcus: he never took off his beanie. Not in chemistry when Mr. Harrison threatened to deduct participation points, not during gym when sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, definitely not at Jessica Miller's pool party where everyone else was already half-subscribed to the idea that summer meant exposing as much skin as possible to the Texas sun.

"Dude, you're literally going to heatstroke," said Tariq, already cannonballing into the deep end with the kind of confidence Marcus had been faking since sixth grade.

"I'm good," Marcus said, adjusting the brim. The hat was his armor. Underneath, his hair was doing something that could charitably be described as "chaotic energy," and less charitably as "a cry for help."

He spotted Chloe by the snack table, carefully arranging something green and leafy on a paper plate. Spinach. Who brought spinach to a pool party? Apparently Chloe, who was now—no, nope, she was definitely putting spinach directly onto a slice of pizza.

Their eyes met. She didn't look away. She didn't even seem embarrassed.

"Want some?" she called. "It's actually a life hack. The vitamin K helps with—" She paused. "Actually I don't remember what it helps with. But my grandma says greens are important."

Marcus found himself drifting closer. "Your grandma sounds... knowledgeable."

"She's literally a witch," Chloe said, like this was the most normal thing in the world. "She gave me this goldfish last week. Said it's supposed to bring me courage or whatever." She pointed to a mason jar on the table. Inside, a tiny orange fish was doing its best to look existential about its circumstances.

"That's... not an ideal living situation," Marcus said.

"Yeah, I'm working on it. His name is Gerald. Anyway, are you gonna swim or just stand there looking like you're hiding a criminal record under that hat?"

Marcus froze. His hand went to the beanie instinctively. "I—"

"Relax. I've seen your hair before. It looked fine."

"When?"

"Sixth grade. You fell off the monkey bars and lost your hat. Your hair was everywhere. Everyone saw." She shrugged. "We all have bad hair days, Marcus. Literally no one cares except you."

Something in his chest loosened. He thought about that day—how he'd scrambled to cover his head, how nobody had laughed, how he'd spent the next seven years convinced the entire student body was secretly judging his follicular situation.

The water looked blue and impossible and suddenly not that scary.

Marcus pulled off his beanie. His hair sprang free, doing something undeniably ridiculous.

Chloe grinned. "See? You didn't die."

"Not yet," he said, and dove in.

The water was cold, shocking, perfect. When he surfaced, Tariq was splashing Chloe, Gerald was still having existential crises in his jar, and Marcus felt lighter than he had in years. The beanie sat on the patio table, a small wool flag of surrender.

Next time, he thought, he'd leave it at home. Or at least consider a haircut.

Maybe.