Goldfish Summer

The chlorine stung my eyes, but I kept swimming lap after lap until my arms felt like lead weights. Pool parties were supposed to be fun, but ever since Maya and I had our fight last week, everything felt like swimming through Jell-O.

"Zombie mode activated," my best friend Leo said, flopping onto the lounge chair beside me. He'd spent the entire summer cramming for AP Bio and looked it — dark circles, messy hair, zero chill.

"Hard same," I said, wringing out my hair. "Senior year is going to eat us alive."

Leo pulled a plastic bag from his backpack. Inside swam a single goldfish, won from some carnival booth.

"Its name is Pancake," he announced solemnly. "And it's the only thing keeping me sane."

I laughed. Leo was weird like that — found magic in the random stuff nobody else noticed. Meanwhile, I was still stuck on how Maya had basically ghosted me after eight years of friendship. Just like that.

"You know what my grandma says," Leo continued, watching Pancake swim in tiny circles. ""Goldfish memory" isn't real. They remember stuff for months. Maybe longer."

Something clicked. Maya wasn't a goldfish. She'd remember what I said that night at dinner when I complained about her new theater friends. I'd been jealous, plain and simple.

My phone buzzed. Maya.

The screen showed her text from ten minutes ago: "Want to come over? I missed you."

I stared at Pancake doing its laps, then at Leo, who was suddenly very interested in the sky.

"You planned this," I accused, but I was already grinning.

"No clue what you're talking about," Leo said, all innocent-like, but his eyes crinkled. "Though I did see a fox by the creek earlier. Almost made me think of you — always gotta be clever about everything."

"Shut up," I said, but I hugged him anyway, damp bathing suit and all.

That night, Pancake swam in a bowl on my nightstand while Maya and I talked until 3 AM about nothing and everything. Senior year might be zombie territory, but at least I wouldn't be swimming through it alone.