Lightning in a Fishbowl

The mechanical bull loomed over me like a judgmental metal cow.

"Yo, Marcus, you're actually gonna ride that thing?" Leo heckled, already halfway through his funnel cake.

"Bro, I got this." I adjusted my varsity jacket, even though I'd never actually played varsity anything. The jacket was vintage thrift, which made it cooler, or at least that's what I told myself.

Across the fairgrounds, Maya was laughing at something Tyler said. Tyler, who had perfect hair and probably cured diseases in his spare time.

I needed a moment. Something to prove I wasn't just the quiet sophomore who sat behind her in chem. Something that said I was worth noticing.

"Riders ready?" The bull operator, a guy with a handlebar mustache and zero patience, gestured me forward.

I climbed on, gripped the handle with sweaty palms, and gave Maya what I hoped was a casual wave. She looked over.

Perfect.

"Yee-haw, let's go!"

The bull bucked. I held on for three seconds — three glorious, humiliating seconds — before being launched into the air and landing in what could only be described as a perfect fail compilation moment.

Laughter erupted. Not the good kind.

But Maya wasn't laughing with them. She was walking over.

"Are you okay?" She extended a hand.

Her touch was like lightning. I literally felt it everywhere.

"Yeah, totally. I meant to do that."

She smiled, and I knew she knew I was lying. "You're really something, Marcus."

I'd take it.

"My mom runs that booth." She pointed to the goldfish game. "Come by before you leave. I'll get you a —"

"Consolation prize?"

"Something like that."

That night, watching my new goldfish swim in circles in its bowl on my nightstand, I realized something: I hadn't stayed on the bull. I hadn't won any prizes fair and square. But I'd gotten Maya to notice me.

"Little dude," I told the fish, "I think this is the start of something."