Goldfish in the Pyramid Hat

The pyramid hat was my mom's idea, obviously. It sat crooked on my head, three tiers of cardboard wrapped in gold foil, bobbing every time I moved. I looked like a medieval court jester who'd given up.

"You'll stand out," she'd said, handing it to me like it was wisdom instead of embarrassment. "People love uniqueness."

Uniqueness. The thing that got you noticed for all the wrong reasons.

Now I was standing in Tyler's backyard at the last party before freshman year ended, pyramid hat dipping toward my left eye, watching everyone else be normal. The dog—some golden retriever mix whose name I'd forgotten immediately—kept circling me like I was a particularly suspicious fire hydrant. It had already knocked into me twice, nearly dislodging my dignity along with my headgear.

"Nice hat," someone said behind me.

I turned around. It was Maya, who sat behind me in English and had the kind of laugh that made you want to say things just to hear it. She was holding a red solo cup, smiling like she actually meant it.

"My mom made it," I said, which was true but didn't explain why I was wearing it. "For, um. Uniqueness."

Her smile got wider. "Well, you definitely succeeded."

I couldn't tell if she was being nice or if I was a joke. The worst part was I couldn't decide which I preferred.

Then the dog bounded over with something in its mouth, tail wagging like a metronome on fast-forward. It dropped a plastic bag at my feet. Inside, a single goldfish—actual, literal goldfish—swam in murky water. Someone's party favor, probably abandoned after two minutes of not being entertaining.

"Is that..." Maya started.

"A goldfish," I said. "The dog just brought it to me."

"Are you going to keep it?"

The dog nudged my leg, like this was all according to plan. I looked at the goldfish, at Maya, at the strange reality that I was standing at a party in a pyramid hat with a dog who'd just delivered me a pet. Something in my chest loosened. This was ridiculous. I was ridiculous. And Maya was still smiling.

"Its name is Papaya," I heard myself say.

Maya laughed—that laugh, the real one. "Papaya the goldfish. Of course." She pulled her phone from her pocket. "We need to document this. My cousin will never believe it."

So we took a selfie: me in my pyramid hat, Maya grinning beside me, Papaya the goldfish in a plastic bag on the lawn, and the dog photobombing from the bottom corner. Later, Maya would set it as her lock screen. Later, she'd ask if I wanted to come to her house to "properly introduce Papaya to her new tank." Later still, I'd realize this whole ridiculous night had been exactly what my mom meant by uniqueness—not being different on purpose, but letting yourself be weird enough that the right weirdness found you.

But for now, the pyramid hat stayed on, and I laughed, and for the first time all night, I didn't want to disappear.