Goldfish Summer

My iPhone buzzed for the third time in two minutes. Mom again. Probably calling to remind me about Wanda the goldfish, the creature I'd somehow inherited when Nana moved to Florida. The fish sat on my desk in a bowl that looked way too small, staring at me with what I assumed was judgment. Goldfish supposedly have three-second memories, which honestly sounded ideal right now. If I could forget the awkward encounter with Alex in the cafeteria yesterday in three seconds flat, I'd be set.

Instead, I was stuck replaying it: me tripping over absolutely nothing, my tray doing a nosedive, Alex's laugh that wasn't mean but still made my face burn. Teenage life was exhausting.

"You going to the meet tomorrow?" Jen asked, dropping onto my bed and reaching for my phone. I snatched it back.

"Cross country? Obviously. Coach would actually kill me."

"You've been running like crazy lately," she noted. "Everything good?"

"Fine," I said, too quickly. "Just... processing."

Processing what? That I'd barely spoken two words to Alex all week? That my goldfish was probably depressed in its tiny bowl? That I had no clue who I was becoming?

The next day, the meet happened. Rain poured down, turning everything into a squelchy, miserable mess. My orange Nike spikes sank into mud with every step. Coach was screaming something about "mental toughness" from the sidelines, but honestly? My mental toughness was currently rebooting.

At mile marker two, my phone buzzed in my runner's belt. Mom again, but this time the text made me stop cold: Wanda was floating sideways.

"Seriously?" I muttered, already turning around. Jen gave me a weird look.

"What are you doing?"

"Goldfish emergency."

"That's not a thing."

"Tell that to Wanda."

I started running toward home, rain streaming down my face. The meet was forgotten. The mud squelched beneath my shoes. Everything felt wrong and overwhelming and suddenly I was crying, these ugly gasping sobs that made no sense.

Then I saw him.

Alex was running too, coming toward me through the rain. No cross country uniform. Just him, soaking wet, holding—

"Is that a fishbowl?" I called out.

"New water!" he yelled back. "I was at the pet store getting stuff for my dog and I saw your mom's post about Wanda being sick."

He reached me, breathing hard, holding a perfectly round fishbowl with clean, filtered water. "You okay?" he asked, genuinely concerned.

"You saw my mom's post?"

"I follow her on Instagram. Is that weird?"

"A little," I said, but I was smiling. "In a good way."

"Cool."

We stood there in the rain, holding fishbowls, while somewhere behind us, Coach was probably still screaming about mental toughness. But honestly? I'd never felt stronger.