Goldfish Memory

I became a professional **spy** by accident.

It started when Mom started dating Mark—the guy who wore socks with sandals and said "no cap" unironically. I'd creep to the top of the stairs and listen to their conversations, analyzing every laugh like it was intelligence data. Mission: Determine if Mark was a threat to family stability.

Buster, our ancient golden retriever, was my co-conspirator. He'd lumber up the stairs after me, his nails clicking like Morse code against the hardwood, then collapse dramatically beside me like he'd just completed a marathon. Together, we'd surveil.

"He seems... nice," I whispered to Buster one night. Buster thumped his tail skeptically.

The real problem wasn't Mark. It was Maya—the daughter of Mark's friend who sometimes came over for dinner. Maya who existed in a perpetual state of effortless cool, whose Instagram aesthetic was so curated it made my phone screen feel inadequate. Maya who'd smile at me like I was someone worth noticing, then forget my existence within minutes.

I swear she had the memory of a **goldfish**.

"Hey!" she'd say when our paths crossed at school, like we were friends. Then next time? Nothing. Just me again, watching from across the cafeteria while she laughed with people who actually mattered.

Buster would look at me with those soulful eyes like *bro, we need to talk about your priorities.*

The night of the pool party at Mark's house, everything changed. I'd been avoiding it all week—social situations where I didn't know the hierarchy were my personal nightmare. But Mom gave me the look, and suddenly I was poolside in denim shorts I'd agonized over for forty minutes.

Maya was there, of course. She looked like she'd just stepped out of a coming-of-age movie I hadn't been cast in. Everyone was in the **water**, laughing and splashing, while I sat on the edge with a lukewarm soda, analyzing social dynamics like the operative I'd become.

"You coming in?" Maya appeared beside me, droplets sliding down her arms like she was some kind of water elemental.

"I'm good."

"You've been spying on us all night," she teased. "Secret agent man."

My face burned. "I—what?"

"Kidding." She tilted her head. "You okay? You seem... I don't know. In your head."

I looked at her—really looked at her. Maybe she wasn't as effortless as she seemed. Maybe she was just better at hiding it.

"I'm fine," I said. "Just... thinking."

"About?"

"How my dog has better social skills than me."

Maya laughed—genuine, not performative. "Buster's a legend. Last time he ate three of my dad's shoes and acted like nothing happened. Straight face and everything."

"Why do you act like you don't know me at school?" The words fell out before I could stop them.

Maya's expression shifted. Something real underneath the cool. "I don't... I mean, I see you. I just figured you wanted your space. You always look like you're analyzing something." She shrugged. "Like you're gathering intel."

I blinked. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh." She stood up, held out a hand. "Come in the water. The intel gathering can wait."

And for the first time in months, I stopped watching. Started participating.

Buster, watching from his spot on the lounge chair, gave a approving wag.

Mission status: Accomplished.