Goldfish Memory & Other Lies

The carnival goldfish lived in a bowl on my nightstand, a reminder of my mom's failed attempt to win me something cool last summer. His name was Barry, which felt like naming a rock, but whatever. Barry mostly stared at me with that permanent O-face fish have, while I stared back, spiral-ring deep in another overthinking session.

"You need to join something, Maya," my mom had said at dinner, doing that thing where she wouldn't make eye contact. "You're always in your room. It's not healthy."

"I'm thriving, Mother," I'd said, but we both knew it was a lie.

The next day, I found myself at the track, standing near a group of girls who looked like they belonged in a Nike commercial. That's when I saw Fox—aka Scarlett, the senior everyone talked about like she was a mythical creature. She had this hair that fell perfectly even when she was sweating, and she moved like she knew something the rest of us didn't.

"New?" Fox asked, not looking up from her stretches.

"Just trying it out," I managed, my voice doing that embarrassing crack thing.

"Cool. We're doing four miles today if you wanna join."

Four miles. I wanted to laugh-cry. I'd never run four miles in my life, unless you count running from emotional problems, which definitely counts for more distance but looks less impressive.

But something about the way she said it—like it was no big deal, like I could just decide to do it and then actually do it—made me nod. "Okay. Sure."

The first half-mile felt like my lungs were folding themselves into tiny angry accordions. My brain kept serving up helpful thoughts like *you could stop right now* and *literally no one would blame you* and *Barry the goldfish has more athletic ability than you.*

Then something shifted. Around mile two, the pain smoothed out into something else—a rhythm, a clarity. My feet hitting the track, my breath syncing up, the problems that felt so huge in my bedroom suddenly seeming... smaller. Manageable.

Fox fell back beside me. "You good?"

"Actually," I said, surprised by my own honesty, "yeah."

"You've got form," she said. "Like, actual form. Most people run like they're fighting their own bodies. You're not."

That night, I sat by Barry's bowl, watching him do his little fish thing.

"I think I found my thing, Barry," I told him. His response was to open and close his mouth exactly as he'd been doing since I got him, but it felt like validation anyway.

They say goldfish have three-second memories, but I'm pretty sure that's a myth. I think they remember everything—they just don't see the point in holding onto it. Some things you're supposed to let go of, and some things you keep. Like the feeling of your feet hitting the track when everything else fades away. Like someone seeing something in you before you see it yourself.

Like knowing, finally, that you're not the kind of person who sits on the sidelines watching life happen to other people.

"We're going back tomorrow," I told Barry. "This time, you should come watch."

He swam to the top of his bowl, which I'm choosing to interpret as enthusiasm.