Operation Goldfish

The goldfish—Captain Bubbles, I'd named him in fourth grade—stared at me through the glass with what I swear was judgment. Probably because I was currently crouched behind a sofa in my basement, having what was objectively the worst Friday night of my junior year.

Upstairs, my parents were hosting their monthly dinner party. I'd been banished downstairs after wearing my hoodie all through dinner. Apparently "it's rude to hide your face at the table" even though the hoodie was blocking the mondo zit that had materialized on my chin like some cruel biological watermark for social rejection.

"You look like a zombie," my sister had whispered earlier, delighted. "A greasy, sleep-deprived zombie."

I hated her a little.

My orange cat, Nacho, chose that moment to leap onto the sofa back and directly onto my open backpack. A cascade of items spilled everywhere: my calculus textbook (F), three half-eaten granola bars (why?), and the folded note I'd swiped from Maya's locker after fifth period.

The note. The entire reason I was currently hiding in my basement like a genuine weirdo instead of at Tyler's party, which every single interesting person was attending.

I'd become a spy. Sort of. Unintentionally. My locker was next to Maya's—Maya, who sat behind me in English and wrote poetry in the margins of her worksheets and had once laughed at my joke about metaphors being overrated. Yesterday, I'd seen her shoving a crumpled paper into her locker, eyes darting around like she'd committed a crime. Then she'd rushed off, leaving it slightly ajar.

I'd only meant to close it. But the note—bright purple paper, folded into a tiny triangle—had practically fallen into my hand.

Nacho batted at it now, claws extended.

"No, don't—" I hissed, diving for the paper. But too late. He'd already punctured it, leaving three tiny holes through whatever words I'd been too cowardly to read.

Captain Bubbles continued his silent fish-judgment.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

"You took my note."

Maya.

She knew. She'd seen me. Of course she'd seen me. I was about as subtle as a neon sign in a library.

"I didn't read it," I typed back, hands shaking. "I can put it back."

"Meet me at the park. 15 minutes."

I stared at the screen. The zit on my chin throbbed in solidarity with my racing heart. Nacho headbutted my hand, purring like a tiny motor. Captain Bubbles did a slow, dignified lap around his castle.

Somehow, impossibly, Friday night had just gotten interesting.