Goldfish in the Lightning

Maya's fedora sat low on her forehead, a velvet shield against the basement party's strobe lights and the way Jake's laugh made her stomach do backflips. She'd spent twenty minutes perfecting the hat's angle—casual but mysterious, like she didn't care what anyone thought. She definitely cared.

The bass thumped through her sneakers as she wove past couples making out against the dryer. Her phone buzzed: mom asking if she'd eaten anything healthy today. Maya rolled her eyes. Because obviously she'd eaten today. Unless spinach artichoke dip from a questionable bowl counted as a vegetable?

She froze at the kitchen island.

A single goldfish glubbed at her from a bowl smaller than her lunchbox. Its orange scales flashed under the pendant lights, trapped in endless circles.

"Barnaby, right?"

Maya jumped. Jake stood way too close, his Snapstreak sunglasses somehow still on his head indoors. He smelled like expensive cologne and something minty. "Yeah. He's... present."

"My sister won him at a carnival." Jake leaned against the counter. "She's already bored of him. Typical."

The goldfish pressed its nose against the glass, its tiny mouth opening and closing. Maya thought of her own hamster, Cheese, who'd escaped last month and still lived under the dryer. Thought of how she'd almost texted Jake fifty times today but deleted every message. Thought of the spinach stuck between her front teeth that she'd discovered in the bathroom mirror five minutes ago and couldn't dislodge.

"He needs a bigger tank," she heard herself say. "He's barely swimming."

Jake shrugged. "Whatever. It's just a fish."

CRASH.

Thunder shook the house. Lightning flashed through the kitchen window, illuminating everything in harsh white: Jake's bored expression, the tiny bowl, the goldfish's desperate circles.

Maya's phone buzzed again. Cheese's face popped up on screen—he'd somehow managed to activate the pet camera. Her dog Bean was barking at the dryer again, probably sensing Cheese underneath.

Something in Maya snapped.

"I'm taking him."

Jake blinked. "What?"

"Barnaby. He deserves better than this." She grabbed the bowl with both hands, spinach and social suicide be damned. "I have a tank at home. A real one."

Jake stared at her, then at the fish, then back at her. And for the first time all night, he actually looked interested. "You're weird, Barnaby."

"Maya."

"You're weird, Maya." He grinned. "Want to get out of here? I can help you carry the fish."

Outside, the lightning split the sky again. Maya adjusted her hat, grinning back. The goldfish swam faster, like it knew everything was about to change.