Goldfish Summer

The **goldfish** lived in a grossly overpriced bowl on my nightstand, its orange scales shimmering like tiny jewels every time my new **iPhone** flashlight hit it. "Beta" was what I called him—mostly because I'd seen some tech YouTuber use the term, and honestly, I thought it made me sound knowledgeable.

"You're still obsessing over that fish?" Maya rolled her eyes from where she sat on my bed, scrolling through her own phone. Her feed was probably filled with perfectly aesthetic beach photos, while mine was mostly pictures of Beta doing absolutely nothing.

"He's not just a fish. He's spiritual," I said, which was a lie. He was a carnival prize I'd won because the guy running the booth felt bad that I'd missed every single ring toss.

Summer before sophomore year, and I was trying to become a new, improved version of myself. This involved:

1) Drinking a disgusting green **vitamin** smoothie every morning because I read it helped with "brain clarity"

2) Actually using my new iPhone for something beyond anxiety-scrolling

3) Convincing myself that Beta represented my journey toward enlightenment

The vitamin smoothie tasted like lawn clippings and regret. Maya watched me gag one down during our Facetime call.

"You know those aren't FDA approved, right?"

"That's just what THE MAN wants you to think," I said, then immediately felt cringe for saying "THE MAN" unironically.

Here's what nobody tells you about reinventing yourself: sometimes you're still the same awkward kid who gets excited about a goldfish, but now you have a smartphone to document your awkwardness in high definition.

Beta died three weeks later.

I found him floating at the top of his bowl, and the weirdest part was that I didn't even feel that sad. Maybe because I'd projected all this meaning onto a creature whose entire personality was "swim in circles." Maybe because I was still figuring out who I actually was, and a fish wasn't going to solve that.

Maya came over with orange soda—my favorite. We sat on my bedroom floor, surrounded by the half-empty vitamin powder, the iPhone with its cracked screen (I'd dropped it twice), and an empty fish bowl.

"Want to get frozen yogurt?" she asked. "My treat. You can get that weird orange flavor you like."

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Some things float. Some things sink. And sometimes you're just sixteen, drinking lawn-clipping smoothies, mourning a carnival fish, and realizing that the people who show up with orange soda when you're sad are the ones who actually matter.