Goldfish Memories and Running Shoes

My goldfish died the same day I decided to run for class president. Coincidence? I think not. The universe was clearly trying to tell me something.

"You're literally running unopposed," Maya pointed out, scrolling through her phone like it held the secrets to life. "Just don't pull a Jordan and accidentally nominate your cat."

"First of all, Mr. Whiskers is a dignified creature who would make an excellent vice president. Second, I'm not Jordan. I have a platform."

Maya snort-laughed so hard she choked on her bubble tea. "Your platform is 'let students wear hoodies during finals week.' That's not leadership, that's just common sense."

She wasn't wrong. But I needed something to make me feel less invisible in our school's social pyramid, where the varsity athletes sat at the apex and the rest of us peasants scattered downward according to an algorithm I'd never cracked.

Then I saw HIM. Lucas. The sphinx of our junior class. Mysterious, barely spoke, yet somehow knew everyone's secrets. He sat in the back of AP Bio, answering everything with a noncommittal shrug that made girls (and okay, me) absolutely lose it.

So I did what any rational person would do: I accidentally volunteered to partner with him for the Egyptian mythology project.

"Great," he said, and I swear his voice was actually made of velvet and secrets. "I'll do the sphinx riddles. You can handle the pyramid construction part."

"I mean, sure, but are we talking cardboard or actual stone? Because I'm not trying to get expelled for archaeological vandalism."

The smallest smile. Not even a real smile, more like his lips remembered what happiness was supposed to look like. "Cardboard's fine."

We built a pyramid that looked like it had survived multiple natural disasters. We discussed sphinx riddles that had nothing to do with Egypt and everything to do with why his eyes were that exact shade of amber. We fell into a rhythm that felt like finding something I didn't know I'd lost.

"You know," he said suddenly, when we were sitting on my bedroom floor surrounded by failed pyramid attempts, "goldfish have a three-second memory."

"That's a myth."

"Exactly." He looked at me. "Things people think they know about you aren't always true."

My heart did something embarrassing and acrobatic. "Is that a riddle?"

"No. That's just... something."

Later, I'd learn Lucas was moving away. Our project would be the last thing we did together. But that afternoon, sitting with the boy who was sphinx-like and mysterious and surprisingly warm, I realized something about running for things I wanted.

Some races aren't about winning. Some are just about showing up at the starting line.

I lost the election (Maya wrote in Mr. Whiskers, and apparently he got twelve votes). But I gained something better than a presidency title: the memory of amber eyes and cardboard pyramids, and the knowledge that sometimes the most mysterious riddles have the simplest answers.

Like how a goldfish's three-second memory is a lie, and how some things—like certain afternoons—stick forever.