Goldfish Memories

The hat sat on my dashboard like a judgmental creature—one of those vintage fedoras that belonged to my grandpa. I'd only worn it once, and Maya had said it looked "distinctly felonious," which I think was her way of saying I looked like I was about to rob a convenience store.

"You going to the padel courts?" Jake asked, leaning into my passenger window. "Everyone's there. Sarah's bringing her cousin from college."

Padel. The sport that had somehow taken over our school like an invasive species. I'd never played, but apparently if you wanted to be socially relevant, you needed to be seen holding a racquet and looking moderately athletic.

"Maybe," I said, which meant yes because I had zero backbone.

The fedora caught the orange glow of sunset. My mom had asked me to feed the goldfish before I left, but Goldie had been doing this thing where he floated sideways for suspiciously long periods, and I was pretty convinced he was having existential thoughts about the meaning of being a fish in a bowl on a teenager's nightstand.

At the courts, Sarah's cousin turned out to be devastatingly cool in that way college kids are—she had that effortless vibe that comes from surviving freshman year and discovering indie bands you've never heard of.

"Nice hat," she said, and I froze.

"Oh, this? It's—" I stopped. The fedora wasn't on my head. It was still sitting on my dashboard at home.

She was looking at Jake, who was wearing my grandpa's hat like he owned it.

"Found it in Leo's car," Jake said, grinning. "He never wears it. Criminal waste."

Something hot and orange-flushed crept up my neck. Not because of the hat—because of the lie I'd told everyone last week. About how Goldie had died and I'd given him a proper burial in the backyard, complete with a eulogy and tears.

"Wait, you have a goldfish?" College Cousin asked. "That's actually kinda wholesome."

The lie. The one that had made me sound deep and sensitive instead of just a kid with a depressed fish.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "He's... doing great."

Later, sitting on the curb while Jake dominated at padel with College Cousin laughing at his terrible jokes, I called my mom.

"How's Goldie?" I asked.

"Floating again," she said. "I think he's meditating."

I smiled. Goldie wasn't dead. He was just contemplating the universe.

The fedora looked less judgmental on Jake anyway. And sometimes the coolest thing you can do is admit you're just a kid with a meditating goldfish and absolutely no game at padel.