Goldfish Orange

The box said "Sunset Gold." The mirror said goldfish.

I stared at my reflection, mouth open. My normally dark brown hair now glowed an alarming, radioactive orange — like something that should be swimming in a bowl, not sitting on my head.

"Maya! ¿Qué hiciste?" My mom's voice cracked through the bathroom door. "Your abuela is coming over in twenty minutes!"

"It's supposed to be subtle highlights," I lied, reaching for another towel.

Abuela arrived to find me hiding in my room, hood pulled low, surrounded by papaya slices on a plate. She took one look at me, at the orange fuzz escaping my hood, and burst out laughing.

"Ay, mija," she said, setting down her purse. "I did the same thing when I was fifteen. Mine turned out green."

"Green?" I peeked out. "Seriously?"

"Your tío still has the photo somewhere. He uses it as blackmail." Abuela picked up a piece of papaya. "Your hair, your mistakes. They grow out. But this —" she held up the fruit "— your abuela brought all the way from the mercado because it's your favorite. Some things don't change."

I took a piece. The sweet, musky flavor flooded my mouth — exactly like Saturday mornings at her house, exactly like belonging somewhere.

"You think I should just own it?" I asked. "Go to school looking like a goldfish?"

"Fish have more fun than the ones hiding in the corner," she winked. "Besides, anyone who matters knows you're not your hair."

Monday morning, I walked into homeroom with my orange hair in two puffs. Tyler from chemistry did a double-take.

"Whoa, Maya. That's... bold."

"Like a goldfish," I shrugged, sliding into my seat. "Bold like a fish."

He laughed. A real laugh. "Actually? It kind of works."

Maybe Abuela was right. Some things you can't control — like botched dye jobs or people's opinions. But you can choose whether to hide under a hood or swim like you mean it.