Goldfish Memory

My iPhone vibrated against the pool chair for the third time in as many minutes. Instagram story from Liam: *party at jake's!!!* with a fire emoji. Meanwhile, I was literally at Jake's party, sitting fully clothed on a lounge chair like some kind of undercover observer, spying on everyone having actual fun while I doomscrolled through the fun I wasn't having.

"You coming in or what?" Maya appeared beside me, water dripping from her hair onto my denim shorts. "The water's actually not terrible. For Jake's backyard, anyway."

I hesitated. Swimming wasn't really my thing. Neither were parties. But Maya had been my friend since sixth grade, back when I'd accidentally called her "Matthew" for two weeks straight and she'd laughed instead of being weird about it. She knew what she was doing.

"I don't have a suit," I lied.

Maya rolled her eyes so hard I practically saw her brain activity. "You're wearing a sports bra and shorts. Nobody cares. Except maybe that goldfish in the corner pond, and honestly, he's seen worse."

I glanced at the tiny pond near the fence where a single orange goldfish swam in endless circles, trapped in his own little world. That was me, I realized. Swimming in circles while everyone else actually lived.

"Fine," I said, shoving my iPhone under my towel. "But if I embarrass myself, I'm never speaking to you again."

"Deal." Maya grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the pool.

The water hit me like shock therapy. Cold everywhere at once, stealing the breath from my lungs. But then something weird happened—I surfaced, sputtering, to find Maya and Liam and Jake all splashing each other like actual humans, and Maya caught my eye and winked, and suddenly I wasn't spying on my life from behind a screen anymore. I was in it.

My iPhone buzzed from the chair, ignored. The goldfish kept swimming his circles. And for the first time since middle school, I actually forgot to check my notifications.