Goldfish in Fox Games

I felt like a literal goldfish at Tyler's party, swimming in circles around the same groups of people, my three-second attention span catching fragments of conversations I wasn't part of. Sydney—the actual fox in this scenario—kept glancing my way between sips of whatever red Solo cup cocktail she'd mixed, her clever eyes sharp enough to cut through everyone else's BS.

"You're hovering again," Marcus whispered, bumping my shoulder. My best friend had been dogging my movements all night, playing wingman with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who'd been promised extra treats. He'd spent the last hour hyping me up like I was about to walk into the Octagon instead of finally talking to Sydney.

"She's looking over here," he insisted. "Go. Like, right now. Before she thinks you're doing that thing where you orbit but never approach."

My palms were sweating. This was it—my first real shot at breaking out of the background character role I'd been playing since middle school. Sydney Martinez, junior class vice president, debate team captain, and the only person who'd ever actually laughed at my jokes in AP English, was three feet away.

Then I saw it: a silver carton of Capri Sun sticking out of her purse. The same flavor I'd been obsessed with since kindergarten. A tiny, ridiculous detail that made her suddenly real instead of this untouchable social deity.

"Nice taste," I heard myself saying, my voice barely cracking. Sydney turned, surprised. "Strawberry Kiwi? That's vintage."

She laughed, and suddenly I wasn't a goldfish anymore—I was just a person talking to another person who happened to be brilliant and beautiful and currently looking at me like I might actually be worth knowing.

"Only the best," she said, and just like that, the fox had caught me—but I was pretty sure I was exactly where I wanted to be.