Goldfish Operations

Maya's goldfish, Bubbles, stared at her through the glass with those unimpressed eyes that said, *really, you're doing this again?*

"Shut up, Bubbles," she muttered, shoving the neon orange gummy **vitamin** into her mouth. Her mom's latest phase was "wellness through supplements," which meant Maya now started each day chewing something that tasted like artificial orange despair.

She grabbed her phone and opened the folder labeled *Operation Padel Court*. Inside: forty-seven blurry photos of Jake practicing his backhand against the garage door, three screenshots of his Instagram stories, and one voice memo she'd recorded when he'd talked to her in algebra about—she checked her notes—how much he hated the school lunches.

Maya was not proud of being a digital **spy**. But when you spent your life feeling like a background character in everyone else's movie, sometimes you had to manufacture your own plot points.

Her phone buzzed. *padel practice @ 4 - u coming?* from Sarah.

Maya's stomach did that thing where it tried to exit her body through her throat. Sarah had invited her to watch Jake's club practice every day this week, and every day Maya had found increasingly ridiculous reasons to decline. Today she'd already planned to say she had a dentist appointment.

Then she thought about Bubbles, swimming in endless circles in his tiny castle. Never going anywhere. Never taking risks.

Maya grabbed her backpack and started **running** out the door, past the kitchen where her mom was arranging vitamin supplements into perfect little rows, past the living room where her dad was watching some show about people buying storage units, out into the actual world where real things happened to real people who weren't afraid.

She got to the rec center just as Jake was smashing a ball across the court, his laugh carrying across the space. Sarah waved from the sidelines, already saving her a spot on the bench.

"You came," she said, like it wasn't the bravest thing Maya had done all semester.

Maya sat down. Jake looked over, saw her, and smiled—that actual, crinkle-around-the-eyes smile.

"Hey," he said, jogging over. "You gonna join us next time? We need a fourth for tournament practice."

Her heart was doing something athletic and entirely unladylike. "I don't know how to play."

"I'll teach you." He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Unless you're too busy solving crimes?" He nodded at her phone, which had somehow opened to her *Operation Padel Court* folder.

Maya felt her face achieve previously undocumented levels of heat. But then Jake laughed, and it wasn't mean—it was genuine, surprised, delighted.

"No way. You've been spying on my padel game?" He sat down on the bench next to her. "I'm honored. Honestly."

She could've died. Could've moved to another country. Could've faked her own kidnapping.

Instead, she said, "Your form is terrible."

Jake threw his head back and laughed. "Fair. That's fair."

Later that night, Maya fed Bubbles and told him everything. The fish just kept swimming in circles, but somehow, it felt different. Like maybe they weren't stuck anymore.

"Operation Padel Court," she whispered, placing the vitamin bottle on her nightstand. "Status: compromised."

She grinned at the goldfish. "But worth it."