Goldfish in the Deep End

The gummy vitamin sat on my tongue like a lie I wasn't ready to swallow.

"You'll thank me when you're thirty," Mom called from downstairs, already late for her shift at the hospital. I spat it into the tissue-lined trash can under my bed, right next to last week's stash. The drawer beneath held my actual secret: Leonard, my carnival-won goldfish, swimming in his makeshift bowl because Mom thought pets were "unnecessary distractions."

Leonard was the only thing keeping me sane since we moved to this suburb where everyone already had their friend groups locked down like fortresses. I'd won him at the spring carnival, that night I met Skylar—alive and electric, with chlorine still in her hair from swim practice. She'd smiled at me, really seen me, and I'd spent the last three months trying to recreate that moment.

"You're coming to the party tonight, right?" Tyler had asked at lunch, casual-like, like it wasn't the make-or-break moment of my entire social existence. His pool party. The one Skylar would definitely attend.

Problem was, I couldn't swim. Not a stroke.

I stared at Leonard, his orange scales flashing in the afternoon light. He'd been doing laps around his bowl for three months straight, no complaints. If a fish with a seven-second memory could commit to the grind, surely I could survive one pool party without drowning.

That night, I positioned myself in the shallowest corner of Tyler's pool, clutching a red plastic cup like a lifeline. Skylar was doing laps across the deep end, her strokes smooth and practiced, making it look like breathing underwater was the most natural thing in the world.

"You gonna stay in the kiddie section all night?" She appeared beside me, wet hair slicked back, droplets running down her collarbone like something out of a dream.

"I'm good right here," I managed, my voice cracking.

She splashed me. Just a little. "Come on. I'll teach you."

And somehow, impossibly, I found myself in the deep end, Skylar's hands guiding me through the awkward motions, her laughter mixing with the pool water filling my ears. I kicked, I splashed, I definitely inhaled some chlorine, but I was swimming. Sort of. And when she kissed me—right there in the deep end, surrounded by kids who'd known each other since kindergarten—I felt like I'd finally unlocked something.

I walked home at midnight, chlorine in my hair and something like hope in my chest. I fed Leonard an extra pinch of flakes.

"Tomorrow," I whispered, "I'm taking the vitamin."

Leonard swam three victory laps. Seven seconds later, he swam them again. Some things are worth remembering.