Goldfish Memorial Service

The goldfish had been floating sideways for three days before Jordan finally admitted it wasn't just 'sleeping weird.' We were supposed to be studying for finals, but instead we're in the backyard with a shoebox and a plastic shovel, conducting what Casey calls 'a proper burial' for Bubbles the Third.

"This is ridiculous," I say, but I'm already digging because Casey's my oldest friend and somehow I always end up doing whatever she decides we're doing. My phone buzzes in my pocket - probably the group chat blowing up about this weekend's party, the one I'm definitely not going to because social exhaustion is real and nobody talks about it enough.

"Bubbles deserves better than a toilet funeral," Casey says, wiping actual tears. "Anyway, after this we're going to the court. Marcus texted - he wants to teach us padel before summer starts."

I pause mid-dig. "Padel? Since when do you play padel?"

"Since Marcus mentioned it, obviously." Casey flips her hair. "It's like tennis but cooler. More vibe-y."

"That's not a word."

"It IS a word, Maya. It's a very word. Stop being such a hater and start digging."

My phone buzzes again. This time it's my mom: Swim practice moved to 6 AM tomorrow. Perfect. Just what I needed - more mornings doing laps while everyone else sleeps, more chlorine-smelling afternoons, more conversations that go like 'oh, you're a swimmer? That's... intense.' As if spending three hours a day running back and forth in a not-very-large rectangle is somehow less weird than whatever normal people do.

Casey is watching me. "You're thinking about quitting again."

"No I'm not."

"You literally are. I can see it in your face - that thing you do where you look like you're solving complex math problems but you're actually just overthinking everything." She sits down on the grass next to the hole. "What's the point if you hate it?"

"I don't hate it. I just... sometimes I wonder who I'd be if I wasn't the swimmer. You know? Like, if I never joined the team, would I be different? Would we still be friends?"

Casey looks at me like I've grown a second head. "Maya. We've been friends since kindergarten. You saved my pet goldfish from being flushed by your brother. We're literally bonded by trauma. You could literally move to Mars and we'd still be friends."

"That was Bubbles the Second. This is Bubbles the Third."

"They are ALL Bubbles to me."

I laugh despite myself. Casey's hand finds mine in the grass and we sit there for a minute, two almost-adults holding an impromptu funeral for a fish that probably lived a longer, happier life than either of us will admit. The sun is setting behind her house and for a second everything feels okay - the swim practices, the padel lessons I don't want to take, the future that's coming at us way too fast.

"So," Casey says, standing up and brushing grass off her jeans. "Marcus said padel is basically tennis with walls. Which sounds chaotic and therefore exactly our speed. And after that, we're getting boba and you're going to tell me all about your existential crisis regarding not being a swimmer anymore, even though you're definitely still going to swim because you secretly love it."

I look at her - my friend who knows me better than anyone, who somehow always knows what I need before I do. "I don't secretly love it. The practices are brutal."

"But you love the racing part. The competition. That feeling when everything else disappears and it's just you and the water."

I pause. She's not wrong. "Okay, maybe."

"Casey: 1, Maya: 0, as per usual. Now finish the burial so we can go learn this weird sport and embarrass ourselves equally together."