Goldfish Memory

I was running eighth lap when my iPhone slipped from my sweat-drenched pocket and shattered against the rubber track. Great. Another thing to explain to my mom.

"You okay, Maya?" Jordan called, jogging backward in front of me. His windbreaker flashed neon blue against the setting sun.

"Fine," I lied, scrambling to retrieve my phone. The screen was a spiderweb of cracks, but it still worked—kinda. Notifications blew up: my cousin's birthday party, my study group ghosting me again, texts from friends who weren't really friends anymore.

Jordan stopped running and dropped down beside me. "That looks brutal."

"It's whatever." I tried to brush off his concern, but he wasn't having it.

"Hey, I have this stupid situation," he said, dropping his voice. "My mom made me bring my little sister's goldfish to school for show-and-tell tomorrow, but I left it in my locker all weekend. I think it might be... you know."

"Dead?"

"Don't say that word!" He practically hissed. "But yeah, probably. Will you help me check?"

I stared at him. This was Jordan—cross-country captain, AP everything, probably headed to Stanford next year. And he was asking me to help him check on a goldfish?

"Why me?"

"You always have those animal rescue stickers on your binder. I figured you'd know what to do."

I didn't have the heart to tell him those stickers were from three years ago.

The goldfish—named Barry, apparently—was indeed not doing great. He floated sideways in a murky mason jar, his gills barely moving. Jordan looked like he might cry.

"We need to change the water," I said, surprising myself. "And get him some actual food, not those weird flakes my grandma uses."

We spent the next hour in the science lab, transforming Barry's home into what I hoped was a fish paradise. Jordan talked about his sister's obsession with Minecraft, and I found myself telling him about my parents' divorce—something I'd never mentioned to anyone at school.

"They think I'm running track to stay busy," I admitted, watching Barry slowly swim upright again. "But really, I just like being alone."

Jordan nodded. "Me too. That's why I joined cross-country. No one can talk to you when you're running."

Barry survived the night. Jordan's sister posted a photo of him on Instagram—#BarryTheFish— tagging me in her stories. When I checked my cracked iPhone later, my notifications were full again. But this time, they were real.

"Want to go for a run tomorrow?" Jordan had texted. "Barry needs a new babysitter."

I smiled at my broken screen. Maybe I didn't need to run alone anymore.