Operation Goldfish

My orange hair was basically a beacon. Like, hey everyone, look at Maya, the girl who literally cannot blend in. Which was ironic, considering my current situation: wedged behind the gymnasium dumpster, holding my breath, watching Sam Henderson practice skateboard tricks in the empty parking lot.

"You're doing it again," I whispered to myself. "You're literally spying. This is not normal behavior."

Normal people just talked to their crushes. Normal people didn't create elaborate recon missions just to avoid a conversation.

I'd been at this since seventh grade, ever since Sam had complimented myscience project prototype and I'd mumbled something about goldfish memory spans before fleeing the room. Now we were juniors, and I still hadn't managed more than three consecutive sentences around him without feeling like my brain was buffering.

The neighborhood cat — this ancient, judgmental calico I'd dubbed Agent M — appeared on the dumpster above me, peering down like I was being ridiculous.

"You think I don't know?" I muttered. "My goldfish Finn gets more social interaction than I do, and he's literally a fish with a three-second memory."

That night, I stared at Finn's bowl, pouring out my soul like he was some kind of aquatic therapist. I told him about how Sam always wore that black hoodie with the frayed cuffs. How he'd once helped me pick up my dropped books in the hallway and said "no problem" like it was the most natural thing in the world. How I'd maybe possibly definitely memorized his schedule.

"I'm not creepy, right?" I asked Finn. He blew a bubble. Reassuring.

The next day, I was doing my usual not-stalking thing behind the gym when Sam suddenly stopped mid-ollie. He looked right at my hiding spot.

"Maya?"

I froze. The calico cat abandoned ship immediately, because apparently even cats have standards.

"Since September," he continued, like we were already mid-conversation. "You've been behind that gym every Tuesday and Thursday since September."

I stepped out, face burning hotter than my hair probably looked in direct sunlight. "I wasn't—"

"It's cool." He hopped off his board. "I was waiting for you to say hi, but you seemed... committed to the stealth thing."

My brain definitely stopped buffering. It short-circuited. "What?"

Sam shrugged, looking suddenly less like a mystery and more like just a guy with really nice eyes. "I like your hair," he said. "And Finn's cool. The goldfish." When my mouth fell open, he actually smiled. "You talk about him a lot. To yourself. Behind dumpsters." He paused. "We should probably hang out somewhere that isn't behind a dumpster sometime."

Agent M the cat reappeared on a nearby fence, looking completely unsurprised. Maybe I should've been consulting her all along.