Goldfish in Her Palm

Maya's hair fell across her face like a curtain, but she couldn't use her hands. Both palms were occupied—each cradled a tiny goldfish in a plastic bag of water. The carnival goldfish she'd won for throwing a baseball through a tire, which was honestly the most athletic thing she'd done since sixth grade gym class.

"You're actually going to keep them?" Jordan asked, leaning against the picnic table. His hair was that perfect messy style that probably took twenty minutes to achieve. Maya's palms were sweating, which wasn't great for the fish situation.

"Yeah," she said, though she had no idea how. Her mom was going to lose it. Another responsibility she'd procrastinated on, another abandoned pet like the hamster that "went to live on a farm" (Maya was fifteen before she figured out that meant died).

But then Jordan's phone buzzed. Someone tagged him in an Instagram story. The screen lit up—Bella and Chloe at some other party, looking way cooler than anyone here, doing that thing where they pose like they're not posing. Jordan's thumb hovered.

Maya's goldfish did that weird thing where they press their mouths to the plastic, like little alien kisses.

"You should go," she said. "They're waiting for you."

Jordan looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time all night. "I came with you."

"But you want to be there."

"Maybe," he said. "But this is—" He gestured at the whole situation: the fish, the sweat on her palms, the way her hair kept sticking to her forehead in the humid August air. "This is more real."

Maya felt something in her chest do that stupid flutter thing. The goldfish were probably feeling it too, trapped in their tiny bags, mouths opening and closing like they were trying to say something profound about existence.

"Real is overrated," she said, but she was smiling.

Jordan laughed. "Race you to your house? These fish need a tank before they, like, evolve legs and walk away."

They ran through the summer dark, Maya's goldfish sloshing in their bags, her hair streaming behind her, her palms sweaty and her heart doing something that wasn't just a flutter anymore—was something bigger, something that said: maybe real wasn't overrated. Maybe real was exactly what she'd been looking for all along.