Goldfish Rescue at Tyler's Party

My palms were sweating so bad I could practically moisturize a desert with them. First house party. Worst possible timing to be the kid who doesn't drink.

"Yo Leo, you good?" Tyler's voice cut through the bass-heavy music thumping through his basement. He thrust a red cup at me. "It's just punch, chill."

"I'm good," I lied, clutching my orange Fanta like it was a lifeline. Which, honestly, it was.

That's when I saw her. Maya. From third period English. Leaning against the basement wall, laughing at something some baseball jersey-wearing douche said. My stomach did that thing where it forgets how to organ.

I was working up my approach strategy — currently stalled at phase one: stand there awkwardly — when something brushed against my ankle.

Tyler's cat, a chaotic calico named Bagel, bolted past me with something gold and flopping in her mouth.

"Yo, is that—" I started.

"THE GOLDFISH," someone screamed.

Bagel had snagged Mr. Glubbers from his bowl on the ping-pong table and was currently making a break for it with the party's most endangered guest flopping helplessly from her jaws.

Half the room scattered. The other half pulled out phones to document the tragedy.

Not Maya. She moved.

We both lunged for the cat at the same time, colliding in what was definitely not a movie moment. She smelled like vanilla and questionable choices. My face went full tomato.

"On three," she whispered, grinning like this was exactly why she'd come. "One, two—"

Bagel dropped the fish. A perfect arc of gold desperation.

I caught him. Bare hands. Slimy, flopping, totally alive.

"Back to the bowl," Maya commanded, already herding the cat toward the laundry room.

I deposited Mr. Glubbers home, fish-flavored hands shaking. Maya rejoined me, high-fiving my still-slime-covered palm like it was nothing.

"You and me," she said, "we make a pretty solid rescue team."

"Yeah," I managed, my brain still buffering. "We really do."

"Wanna get some air? This party's giving me a headache anyway."

We ended up on the front porch, sharing my orange Fanta and talking until three. Mr. Glubbers survived. Bagel was forgiven. And somehow, I didn't.

I came for the party. Left with something way better.

My palms were still sweating. But for the first time all night, I didn't mind.