Goldfish Memorial Service

The cafeteria smelled like boiled vegetables and regret. Maya sat across from me, picking at her lunch like she was conducting an archaeological dig rather than eating.

"So," she said, not looking up. "You coming to the thing?"

I'd been waiting for her to ask all week. The invitation had been sitting in my pocket since Tuesday, crumpled from my nervous sweating. Chace's annual end-of-summer party. The social event of the season, apparently. Everyone who was anyone would be there.

"Maybe," I lied, pushing my food around with my fork. "I've got... stuff."

Maya finally looked at me. Her eyebrows did that thing where they communicated everything she wasn't saying. "Right. Stuff. Definitely not because you're terrified Chace will still think you're the guy who—"

"Okay, we don't need to recap the Incident." My face burned. The Incident. Capital I. Last year, I'd tried to be cool in front of everyone at the spring formal, attempting to show off my skateboard tricks, and instead launched myself into the refreshment table. Two **orange** punch bowls, dead. My nickname had been "Punch Boy" until approximately three people transferred out of our grade.

My phone buzzed. Mom. Again.

"Your mom's been blowing up your phone all week," Maya noticed. "Everything good?"

"Yeah, she's just... going through a phase." A health phase. A weird phase. A phase that involved our kitchen slowly transforming into something that looked like a grocery store had exploded in it. Yesterday I'd reached for what I thought was fruit snacks and came up with organic **spinach** chips. The betrayal still stung.

"You should go," Maya said, suddenly serious. "To Chace's party. It's been, like, eight months since the Incident. Nobody remembers."

"Liar."

"Fine. But Jordan's not gonna be there, and honestly? That's the real tragedy." She smirked.

Jordan. The whole reason I even wanted to go in the first place. We'd been paired up for that chemistry project last month, and for three weeks, I'd had actual coherent conversations with a human female who wasn't related to me or trying to sell me chocolate bars for band camp. We'd talked about music and memes and whether hot dogs were sandwiches (controversial, I know). It had been... nice. Really nice.

Then the project ended, and I hadn't figured out how to transition from "lab partner" to "person who texts you about memes on weekends" without seeming like a total weirdo.

"Jordan's going?" I tried to sound casual. Failed, obviously.

"Yeah, they're gonna be there." Maya studied me. "You should just talk to them. What's the worst that happens?"

I thought about it. Rejection? Humiliation? Having to relive the Incident in real-time while everyone watched?

"Actually," I said, "the worst that happens is Jordan finds out I'm secretly a massive loser with no game and a weird home life."

"Bro, they already know." Maya's grin was evil. "The question is whether they care."

My phone buzzed again. Mom. This time with a picture.

"What now?" Maya leaned over.

I turned the screen toward her. There, in the middle of our kitchen table, sat the latest addition to Mom's health journey: a crystal bowl containing two living **goldfish**.

"No," I said.

"YES," Maya read the caption. "'Embracing the calming energy of aquatic life partners! Namaste 🐠'

"I'm being raised by a conspiracy theorist who thinks crystals and fish are going to fix her stress levels."

"Hey, at least they're cute?"

"One is named Consciousness, Maya. The other is named Inner Peace." I put my head in my hands. "I can't bring Jordan over to my house ever. What if they ask about the fish? What if Mom tries to teach them about mindfulness?"

"So go to the party," Maya said, like it was obvious. "Get Jordan's number. Figure out if there's something there. And deal with your mom's midlife crisis later."

I thought about it. Really thought about it. About the way Jordan laughed at my terrible jokes during our project. About how they'd noticed when I was having a bad day and offered me their extra snacks without making a big deal out of it. About how, for once, I didn't feel like just Punch Boy or the guy with the weird mom.

"Fine," I said. "I'll go. But if anyone mentions the Incident, I'm leaving."

"Deal." Maya fist-bumped me. "Also, you should probably tell Jordan about the fish eventually. If things get serious." She wiggled her eyebrows.

"Maya, we had three weeks of chemistry partnerships. I wouldn't call that 'serious.'"

"But you want it to be."

I didn't answer. I didn't have to.

Friday night came faster than I was ready for. I spent forty-five minutes on my hair, changed my shirt three times, and practiced casual greetings in the mirror until my **cat**, Luna, judged me so hard that I actually felt bad about myself. A cat who spends 18 hours a day sleeping found my attempts at flirting pathetic.

Chace's house was already thumping when I arrived. The music was that bass-heavy stuff that rattles your teeth, and the backyard was full of people doing that thing where they stand in groups and act like they're having the time of their lives while secretly checking their phones every thirty seconds.

I grabbed a soda and tried to look like I belonged. Failed. But kept trying.

"Punch Boy!"

I flinched. Someone had remembered.

But when I turned, it was Jordan, grinning at me. "Sorry. Too soon?"

"Way too soon," I said, but I was smiling. "You're never gonna let me live that down, are you?"

"Nah, it's way too good." They stepped closer, and suddenly the noise of the party felt very far away. "I was hoping you'd come."

"You were?"

"Yeah. I, uh, wanted to ask you something." Jordan's cheeks were slightly pink in the string lights. "About that chemistry project—"

"Oh god, did I mess up the final report? Because I swear I double-checked everything, but if I got something wrong—"

"No, you didn't mess anything up." Jordan laughed. "I was wondering if you wanted to maybe do another project sometime? Or, like, hang out? Without the beakers and safety goggles?"

My brain short-circuited. This was it. This was the moment every teen movie had prepared me for, and instead of something smooth and confident, I heard myself say: "My mom has goldfish named Consciousness and Inner Peace."

Silence.

Jordan blinked. Once. Twice.

Then they burst out laughing. "What?"

"I don't know why I said that." I wanted to die. "I think my brain just—"

"No, that's amazing." Jordan was still laughing, but not in a mean way. "Like, actual goldfish?"

"Yes. She sent me a picture. They're on our kitchen table. She says they're her 'aquatic life partners.'"

"Dude." Jordan's eyes were bright. "You have to show me."

"Really?"

"Yes. That's the best thing I've ever heard." They stepped even closer. "So, is that a yes? To hanging out sometime?"

"Yes," I said. "Yeah. Definitely yes."

"Cool." Jordan smiled, and it was this genuine, unguarded thing that made my chest do something weird and fluttery. "Also, for the record? I always thought the Incident was kind of badass. Not everyone has the guts to destroy two bowls of punch for their art."

"It was not for my art."

"That's the story you're going with? Okay, Punch Boy. Whatever you say."

Somewhere nearby, Maya was watching. I could feel her smirk without even turning around. She'd never let me hear the end of this.

But as Jordan and I talked—really talked, about everything from terrible cafeteria food to our mutual inability to keep plants alive—I realized something.

The Incident wasn't the story anymore. The weird fish weren't the story either.

The story was just beginning.