Goldfish Memorial Service

I was supposed to be running—I mean, actually running, track practice, Coach Miller screaming about regionals—but instead I was kneeling on the scratched-up linoleum of Maya's bathroom, holding a funeral for a goldfish.

"His name was Toast," Maya said, tears streaking her mascara. "He was supposed to live forever. The guy at the carnival said--"

"The guy at the carnival also said you had a 'nice smile,' which was objectively false, so I'm not sure we're trusting his judgment," I said, because that's what best friends do—we roast each other at funerals for pets that cost three tickets.

Maya flipped me off, then immediately started crying again.

Outside her window, I could see the woods behind her subdivision. That's where I'd seen it yesterday morning during my run—this gorgeous red fox, just standing there watching me like I was the weird one for running in circles at 6 AM while it was out there actually living. The fox had looked at me with this total energy, like *you're doing too much*. And it wasn't wrong.

Toast had been doing too much too. That fish lasted two weeks.

"We should flush him," I said gently. "Or bury him in your mom's garden? She's got those petunias--"

"No," Maya said, grabbing the Ziploc bag like it contained actual gold. "We need a proper send-off."

So that's how we ended up behind the high school at sunset, me still in my track shorts, Maya in that black dress she wore to her cousin's quinceañera, digging a grave near the bleachers with a plastic spoon from Taco Bell. The same bleachers where we'd sat freshman year, where she'd told me she was scared of high school, where I'd admitted I was terrified of never being good enough at anything.

We'd been so small then.

The fox came back. I swear—I saw it at the edge of the woods, watching us bury a carnival fish in a Taco Bell spoon. It looked at me like, *this is fine, actually*. And suddenly it was.

"Toast was the best fish," Maya said, dumping the bag into the hole. "Briefly. But intensely."

"Like most of our life choices," I said, and she laughed—really laughed—and that felt like winning something.

We didn't run back. We walked, arms linked, not saying anything, just existing in that way you can only do with someone who's seen you cry over a three-dollar fish. Behind us, the sun dipped below the trees. Somewhere in the woods, a fox called out—this sharp, weirdly beautiful sound that echoed across the field.

"You think he's okay?" Maya asked quietly. "Toast?"

"Honestly?" I squeezed her arm. "I think he had a pretty solid run."