Goldfish Memory at the Rodeo

The rodeo grounds smelled like dirt dreams and teenage desperation. Maya stood near the fence, her palms sweating so much she feared she'd short-circuit her entire social existence. She clutched her phone like a vitamin supplement she'd forgotten to take—essential for survival, currently useless.

"You okay?" Ethan asked, appearing beside her like he'd materialized from the crush of bodies surrounding the churro stand. His hair was doing that thing where it defied gravity and her dignity simultaneously.

"Totally," Maya lied. "Just loving how every person from our school is witnessing my existential crisis."

Ethan laughed, and she felt it in her teeth. "At least you're not over there." He pointed toward the carnival section where Tyler—the bull of the junior class—was shouting at some poor kid working the ring toss booth. Again.

"Tyler's still mad about last weekend?"

"Dude's got the emotional memory of a goldfish and the grudge-holding capacity of a bottlenose dolphin. It's a terrifying combination."

Maya snorted, then immediately covered her mouth because unattractive laughter was not part of her carefully curated vibe. But Ethan was already smiling, and something shifted between them—electric and terrifying and completely unsanctioned by the social hierarchy.

"Want to get out of here?" he asked.

"And go where? The parking lot's a war zone."

"My grandma's place has a pool. No parents, no Tyler, maximum chill."

Maya looked at the crowd, at Tyler still shouting something about rigged games, at her phone lighting up with notifications she didn't care about. She looked at Ethan, who was waiting. Not assuming. Just waiting.

"Yeah," she said. "Let's bounce."