Goldfish Memory

The carnival lights blurred like tears I refused to cry. Stupid Jeremy. Stupid me for thinking seventh grade's biggest player would suddenly become boyfriend material just because he looked at me twice in math.

I leaned against the railing near the goldfish pond, watching these tiny orange bodies float in endless circles. They had it figured out — three-second memory meant everything was new, always. No awkward encounters in the hallway. No overhearing your friends whisper about how you made a total fool of yourself at Sarah's party last weekend.

"You look like you're plotting murder," said a voice behind me.

I jumped. Tyler. From my English lit class. The quiet one who always wore those beat-up Vans and wrote surprisingly decent poetry for our daily warm-ups.

"Just plotting," I said. "Maybe a little arson."

He laughed, sliding down to sit beside me. "I feel that. The carnival's a total trap. All these couples being basic while I'm over here like..." He gestured at himself.

"At least you don't have to bear the humiliation of slow-dancing with someone who spent the whole song texting his ex," I muttered.

His eyes widened. "Wait. That was YOU?"

I buried my face in my hands. "Please tell me the whole school doesn't know."

"Nah. Just me. I was working the bull ride that night." He paused. "He's such a tool, though. Why'd you even..."

"I don't know! Seemed like a good idea at the time?" I groaned. "I have the emotional intelligence of a literal goldfish."

Tyler smiled. Same smile from when Ms. Henderson read his haiku about autumn leaves out loud. "Hey. For what it's worth? Anyone who can slow-dance through that kind of awkwardness is kind of a legend."

The ferris wheel lights reflected in his dark eyes. Something shifted — not like fireworks, more like... when you finally figure out a song you've been practicing on guitar for weeks. The kind that makes your fingers ache but sound so good when you get it right.

"Want to get out of here?" I asked. "I'm literally running on vending machine snacks and teenage angst."

"There's a 24-hour diner down the road," he said, standing up and offering me his hand. "They have fries. And zero bull ride operators named Chad."

I took it. "Only if you promise not to bring up Jeremy."

"Deal." He grinned. "Besides, I've got way better material."

We walked toward the parking lot, the carnival noise fading behind us, and for the first time all night, my three-second memory didn't seem so bad after all.