Goldfish Summer

The text notification lit up my iPhone screen: *POOL PARTY. BE THERE OR BE SQUARE.* Classic Maya—always dramatic, always assuming I had nothing better to do than drown in social anxiety at the Hendersons' massive backyard pool.

"You're going, right?" my little brother Leo asked, hovering over my shoulder like a helicopter parent. He was holding a plastic bag containing his new pet—a goldfish he'd ironically named Barack O-Fishma.

"Nope. Not my scene."

"Chicken."

"Smart."

But somehow, thirty minutes later, I was running down Maple Street in cutoff shorts I'd outgrown two summers ago, sweating through my t-shirt, because Maya had somehow convinced me that THIS was the summer I'd stop being everyone's background character. The Hendersons' pyramid-shaped fountain sprayed water into the air, and through the crowd of popular kids—our high school's very own social pyramid—I spotted Leo.

He was holding out the plastic bag to Chelsea Miller, the queen bee herself. She was laughing, that perfect laugh that made you question your entire existence.

"He needs a better home," Leo was saying. "I'm not responsible enough."

And then—the worst thing that could possibly happen. Chelsea took the bag, turned to show her friends, and Barack O-Fishma slipped. The bag hit the concrete. Goldfish flopping everywhere.

Everyone froze. I mean EVERYONE. The kind of silence where you can hear your own heartbeat.

I was running before I could think about it—through the pyramid of cool kids, past the pool, dropping to my knees beside the gasping fish. My bare knees hit the rough concrete. I grabbed the goldfish with both hands, sprinting for the pool, and dropped him in.

He floated for a second—still, motionless—and I felt this weird lump in my throat. Like, was I seriously about to cry over my brother's pet in front of the entire soccer team?

Then—a flick of tail. A bubble rising to the surface. The goldfish SWAM.

"Whoa," someone said.

"You just—saved a fish?" Chelsea asked, sounding almost impressed.

"I mean," I said, suddenly aware of fifty people staring at me, "goldfish are technically living creatures. So."

My iPhone buzzed in my pocket. Unknown number. Probably spam.

Later, as I sat on the pool edge with my legs in the water, Chelsea sat beside me. "That was actually kind of hardcore."

"Just doing what needed to be done."

"You know," she said, sliding her phone onto her towel, "I've always wanted a goldfish. My mom says they're too much work."

"They're not," I said, watching Barack O-Fishma patrol the deep end. "Sometimes you just have to know when to jump."