Goldfish Summer Storm

The carnival goldfish swam in circles in its plastic bag, mocking me with its simple existence. I'd won it throwing ping-pong balls into fishbowls—something that apparently impressed absolutely no one except the carnie running the game.

"Nice fish, loser," Maya said, appearing beside me like she'd materialized from the humidity itself. Maya Chen, who I'd been crushing on since seventh period English, who wore torn fishnets like they were royal attire.

I pulled my baseball cap lower. The hat had become my security blanket lately, hiding whatever expression my face decided to betray. "Yeah, well."

She laughed, and it sounded like wind chimes. "My brother won one of those last summer. Named it Neptune. It lived for three years. You believe that?"

"Neptune," I repeated. "That's actually kind of epic."

"What're you gonna name yours?"

"I don't know. I'm not even sure I can keep it. My mom's pretty strict about—"

**LIGHTNING** cracked the sky open. Not the distant stuff—the real deal, close enough that the air tasted like ozone and every hair on my arms stood at attention. Rain dumped from nowhere, instantly drenching everything.

Maya grabbed my arm. "My house! It's two blocks that way!"

We ran through the downpour, slipping on grass that had moments ago been dry. The goldfish bag bounced against my leg. By the time we reached her porch, we were soaked through, my hat plastered to my head like a second skin.

Her mom met us at the door, concerned but smiling. "Oh, you poor things! Come in, come in. I was just making dinner—spinach and ricotta stuffed shells, if you're hungry."

Maya's eyes met mine. In that moment, something electric that had nothing to do with the storm passed between us. She knew.

Because spinach had been my downfall two weeks ago at lunch—stuck in my braces for half the day while I talked to everyone and their mother. I'd mortified myself in front of the entire cafeteria. Maya had been the one to finally tell me, gently, while everyone else pretended not to notice.

"Actually," she said, "we could dry off first? towels?"

Her mom nodded. "Of course. I'll put the salad on hold."

In the bathroom, mirror fogged from my own radiating embarrassment, I caught sight of myself—hat askew, drenched, clutching a plastic bag with a fish that had no idea it had just witnessed my life's most surreal moment.

Maya leaned against the doorframe. "You know, Neptune's brother needs a name."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Something epic. Something that says 'I survived a lightning storm and a girl who noticed spinach in my teeth and didn't make fun of me.'"

I looked at her—really looked at her. Fishnets, ran mascara from the rain, this perfect creature who remembered something as small as spinach and turned it into something kind.

"Persephone," I said. "Queen of the underworld, but she gets to come back every spring."

Maya grinned. "Persephone. That's actually kind of epic."