Operation Goldfish

I didn't mean to become a spy. It just kind of happened.

It started when my parents got rid of cable—something about cutting costs and streaming services being the future. Suddenly, my boredom levels reached critical mass. That's when I noticed him across the street: the new kid, Caleb, carrying a baseball bag like it was filled with state secrets instead of cleaves and a glove.

My best friend Maya called it "creepy." I called it "research."

"You're literally stalking him," she said, flopping onto my bed while my goldfish, Bubbles, stared at us with his permanent judgment face.

"I'm observing," I corrected. "There's a difference."

Here's what I knew about Caleb: he moved here two weeks ago, he played baseball (obviously), and he had the most perfect jawline I'd ever seen on a human being. Here's what I didn't know: anything else.

My "spying" operation consisted of strategically timed walks past his house and accidentally-on-purpose grabbing the same lunch table. Subtle? No. Effective? Also no.

The breakthrough came when my dog, Buster, escaped during one of my "surveillance missions" and bolted straight into Caleb's yard. I chased after him, ready to die of embarrassment, and found Caleb on his porch, laughing as Buster attacked his face with kisses.

"This your dog?" he asked, scratching behind Buster's ears.

"Yeah. Sorry. He's... friendly."

"It's cool. I miss my dog. Had to leave him with my aunt when we moved."

We ended up talking for an hour. About baseball (he played varsity at his old school), about why I had a goldfish named Bubbles (fourth-grade birthday present that refused to die), about how much cable TV sucked anyway.

The next day, I deleted my "Caleb Observation Notes" from my phone.

"So," Maya asked at lunch. "Are you still being a total creep?"

"No," I said, smiling as Caleb walked by and actually waved at me. "I'm upgrading from spy to friend. Maybe more."

Bubbles would be proud. Or judgmental. Probably both.