Goldfish in the Bull's Eye

The pool water smelled like chlorine and bad decisions, which was basically the theme of my entire sophomore year. I leaned against the slippery tiles, watching Marcus—the human equivalent of a runningback on steroids—do laps with the kind of effortless grace that made me want to simultaneously barf and applaud.

"You're staring again," says Jasmine, sliding up beside me. She's chewing gum with her mouth open, which should be gross but somehow works for her. "It's giving obsession."

"I'm not obsessed," I protest. "I'm conducting research on how some people are gifted at literally everything while the rest of us are just swimming in mediocrity."

Jasmine snorts. "Please. You made varsity. You literally swim for fun. That's not mediocrity, that's psycho behavior."

She's not wrong. But she doesn't know the truth: I only joined the swim team because my mom thought it would "build character" after she found me crying in my room for the third time that week. The irony isn't lost on me—building character by doing something that literally strips away all your layers until you're exposed in nothing but speedos and insecurity.

At home, my pet goldfish Gerald floats in his bowl, judging me with his tiny fish eyes. Sometimes I talk to him about stuff I can't tell anyone else. Like how I feel like a goldfish in a world full of sharks, just swimming in circles, forgetting everything every three seconds because my brain is too fried from overthinking.

So when Marcus approaches me after practice, my heart does this embarrassing little flutter thing that I refuse to acknowledge.

"Hey," he says, all nervous energy and shuffling feet. The bull of the school, reduced to awkward teenage boy. "I was wondering if you wanted to—"

"RUN!" someone screams, and suddenly the entire locker room is chaos. Someone pulled the fire alarm, and everyone's scrambling toward the exits. Marcus grabs my hand, and we're running down the hallway, laughing like idiots, sneakers squeaking against the linoleum.

We end up behind the gym, breathless and flushed, and that's when he finally finishes his sentence.

"—wanted to know if you'd go to homecoming with me."

I look at this boy who makes my chest feel weird, who makes me want to be brave, who somehow sees past the goldfish-girl façade I've been hiding behind. And for the first time in forever, I don't feel like I'm drowning.

"Yes," I say. "A thousand times yes."

Gerald's going to lose his mind when I tell him.