Goldfish Summer

The goldfish died on a Tuesday, which felt weirdly poetic. It was just Logan's stupid carnival prize from three months ago, but staring at its floaty body in the murky water, I felt like my entire middle school existence was flashing before my eyes. RIP Goldie Hawn. She would be missed.

"She's gone," I whispered to Maya, who was sprawled across my bed scrolling through TikTok, completely unbothered.

"Literally who cares? It was a fifty-cent fish." She didn't even look up.

But I did care. Because suddenly I was the friend who couldn't keep a living thing alive, which felt like a metaphor for something bigger. Something about how I was sixteen and still felt like I was playing spy in everyone else's lives — watching from the sidelines while my friends actually lived their main character moments.

I buried Goldie Hawn in the backyard under the orange tree. My mom's annoying golden retriever, Barnaby, decided this was the perfect time to start digging, because of course he did.

"Barnaby, NO!" I shoved him away with my foot, which only made him think we were playing. He knocked over the water bowl I'd brought out for the impromptu fish funeral, sending a wave of water across my new white Converse.

Great. Now I was a fish murderer AND I had ruined my shoes.

That's when I saw him — Tyler from my AP History class, walking his own dog down the street. He waved. I froze there, crouched by an orange tree with a dead fish in a Tupperware container, a soaked shoe, and a dog that was currently trying to eat the funeral flowers.

"Hey," he called. "Everything good?"

"Yeah," I managed. "Just... giving my fish a proper send-off."

He nodded like this was completely normal. "Nice. Respect the dead."

He kept walking. My face burned hotter than the summer sun.

But as I finished the tiny burial, wiping dirt from my hands, something shifted. Maybe growing up meant embracing the messy moments — the dead fish, the wet shoes, the embarrassing encounters in front of crushes. Maybe it wasn't about playing spy in the background anymore.

Maya finally came outside, offering me a juice box. "You good?"

"Yeah," I said, and actually meant it. "Just had a moment."

Barnaby licked my face. The orange blossoms smelled like possibility. And somewhere under that tree, Goldie Hawn was teaching me that even the endings could be beginnings.