Goldfish Salvation

My cat, Beans, sat on my bed looking supremely unbothered. Beside him, my goldfish bowl lay overturned on the carpet, a single splash mark like a tiny crime scene.

"You've got to be kidding me," I groaned, checking my phone. 7:43 PM. Jordan's party started at eight, and I was already running late because Mom had decided tonight was the night for a thirty-minute lecture about "time management."

I spotted Goldie—the goldfish I'd won at the spring fair last month—flopping weakly near my desk leg. Not dead. Not yet.

"Don't you dare," I whispered, scooping him into my hands. His scales were slippery against my palms, his gills working overtime. I'd kept this dumb fish alive through finals week, through that week I forgot to feed him because I was too busy overthinking every single text Maya sent me. I wasn't about to let Beans become a serial killer on my watch.

The bathroom faucet was my best bet. I moved at something between a power walk and a full-on sprint, cupping Goldie like he was made of glass. Mom looked up from the couch, eyebrows raised.

"Everything okay? You seem... intense."

"Fish emergency," I called back, already in the bathroom. "Talk later!"

Goldie went into the largest cup I could find, and I spent the next five minutes staring at him like he was my emotional support animal. Was it weird that I was this stressed about a carnival goldfish? Probably. But something about keeping him alive felt like the one thing I could control in a life that felt like it was spinning off its axis—grades, friends, the way my heart did gymnastics whenever someone mentioned Maya's name.

At 7:58, I grabbed my hoodie and checked on Goldie one more time. He was swimming in lazy circles, looking judgmental.

"You're welcome," I told him. "Try not to almost die again, okay? I've got places to be."

I grabbed my bike, legs pumping as I started running late for the party that would probably change everything or nothing at all. Either way, Goldie would be there when I got back. Small victories.