Goldfish in the Deep End

The plastic bag sloshed against my thigh as I walked onto the pool deck, my cargo shorts already sticking to my legs in the July heat. Inside the bag, Orange Julius — my prize from the carnival guessing game — stared at me with those weird vacant eyes. Winning a goldfish wasn't exactly how I'd planned to start summer before freshman year, but here we were.

"Dude, what's with the fish?" Jason called from the diving board, already positioned for maximum audience impact. Jason, who'd somehow grown six inches over spring break and now walked around like he owned the halls. "You bring a snack or a pet?"

"Ha ha, you're so original," I muttered, slipping toward the shaded corner of the pool area where I could disappear without actually swimming.

Then I saw her.

Mia Torres sat on the edge of the pool, legs dangling in the water, completely unbothered by the chaos of splashing freshmen and Jason's ongoing quest for attention. We'd had science lab together last year, and I'd spent eight months developing elaborate conversational strategies that I never actually used.

"Nice fish," she said, and I realized I'd stopped walking right next to her chair. "My brother won one at a carnival once. It lived for five years. We called him Survivôr."

"His name is Orange Julius," I said, then immediately wanted to die. Why was I like this?

But Mia laughed, actually laughed, and suddenly we were talking. Not just talking — CONNECTING. About how the school's baseball team thought they were gods (she called them "the baseball cult"), about how we were both dreading trying out for swim team next week because what if we were that awkward person who couldn't dive properly, about everything.

"My dad's all about me joining the baseball team instead," she said, rolling her eyes. "Keeps going on about how I 'have a natural swing.' But that's such bull. Have you seen me try to hit anything? I have zero coordination."

"Baseball's overrated anyway," I said, feeling weirdly bold. "Swimming's better. Nobody can hear you overthink everything underwater."

Jason launched himself off the diving board with a dramatic yell, creating a wave that actually sloshed water onto Mia's legs. She didn't even flinch.

"You know what," Mia said, standing up and reaching for my hand. "Let's teach Orange Julius how to swim. Metaphorically. Because I'm not actually putting your fish in this chlorine nightmare."

"Obviously," I said, and as we waded into the shallow end together, Jason's performance suddenly seemed very far away. Some goldfish really do grow to the size of their bowl — and sometimes, if you're lucky, you find a bigger one just when you need it.