Goldfish in the Palm

The orange hair dye was supposed to be subtle highlights. That's what the box promised. Instead, Maya looked like a traffic cone exploded on her head.

"Maya, what did you DO?" Her little brother Leo stood in the doorway, clutching his phone like a grenade.

"Don't Instagram this," Maya warned, but he was already typing. Within minutes, her iPhone blew up. #TrafficConeMaya was trending at Northwood High.

She fled to her room, tears mixing with the chemicals still stinging her scalp. Her parents had spent fifty bucks on this disaster. She had homecoming in three days.

Leo appeared again, this time with something cupped in his hands. "I'm sorry. Look what I won at the arcade."

In his palm sat a pathetic goldfish in a plastic bag, swimming in maybe two inches of neon-pink water. It had bulging eyes and scales that shimmered like a disco ball.

"His name is Carl," Leo said solemnly. "He has orange fins like your hair."

Maya snorted despite herself. "Carl the Goldfish. Original."

"He's a survivor," Leo insisted. "They gave him away because he's too ugly for the display tank."

Something about that resonated. Maya reached out and let Carl swim into her own palm, his tiny fins fluttering against her skin like wet tissue paper. He was ridiculous and weird and kind of beautiful.

"You know what?" Maya said. "Carl's awesome. And so is this hair."

"But homecoming—"

"Homecoming's going to remember me," Maya said. She grabbed her iPhone and snapped a selfie with Carl. "Let's see how many likes TRAFFIC CONNEQueen gets."

By Friday, half the sophomore class had spray-painted their hair orange. Carl got a proper bowl. Maya learned that sometimes the best way to survive high school is to just own the disaster.

And Leo? He started a business selling "vintage aesthetic" fishbowls for twelve bucks a pop. Capitalism runs deep in that family.