Orange Goldfish Summer

The goldfish bowl sat on my windowsill, its single orange inhabitant staring at me with what I swear was judgment. Norman. That's what I called him, because he looked like a Norman.

"You're not actually my friend, Norman," I muttered, tying my running shoes. "You're a fish. You don't even have a real brain."

Norman swam to the front of the bowl and opened his mouth repeatedly. I took that as agreement.

Summer before junior year, and I was already running from everything. Running from Maya's texts ("we need to talk"), running from the fact that my best friend since seventh grade had decided I was too basic for her new aesthetic, running from the gnawing feeling that everyone was leaving me behind while I stayed exactly the same — just sitting there like a fish in a bowl.

I grabbed the orange Gatorade from my desk and headed out. Running was the only thing that made sense lately. One foot in front of the other, lungs burning, music blasting through my headphones until the world became just rhythm and breath and forward motion.

The sun beat down on the suburban streets, everything hazy and bright. I turned the corner and there she was — Maya, sitting on her front porch in this vintage orange sundress that made my heart do this stupid stutter thing. She saw me and stood up, and I considered literally just booking it in the opposite direction because that's where I was at emotionally.

But I kept running toward her like some kind of idiot.

"Hey," she said, all casual, like she hadn't been ghosting me for three weeks.

"Hey."

"My mom gave me this goldfish," she blurted out, holding up a plastic bag with a fish inside. "She said pets help with... stuff. But I keep forgetting to feed it and I feel terrible about it."

I stared at her. "You ghosted me to tell me about your fish neglect?"

"No!" Maya stepped closer. "I ghosted you because I didn't know how to say that I've been having a really hard time, and I didn't want to drag you down, and then I felt guilty so I avoided you, and now I have this fish that I'm already failing at keeping alive and I just — I miss you, okay?"

The orange Gatorade bottle was sweating in my hand. Everything was sweating.

"Give me the fish," I said.

Maya's eyes widened. "What?"

"The fish. Give it here. I have Norman at home. They can be friends. It'll be a whole thing."

She laughed — actually laughed, and suddenly we were both laughing on her porch in the orange glow of sunset, like nothing had changed and everything had changed. I'd been running so fast I hadn't realized she was right there waiting.

"You're so weird," she said, but she was smiling again.

"I know," I said. "Your fish is going to love Norman. They're going to hate each other. It's gonna be drama."

"Perfect," she said. "Just like us."

Later that night, I watched Norman and the new fish — whom I had immediately dubbed Karen — swimming in their newly shared tank. Norman kept doing these little territorial laps while Karen pretended not to notice.

"You'll work it out," I told them. "Or you won't. Either way, you're stuck together."

My phone buzzed. A text from Maya: "Thanks for not running away today."

I set the phone down and watched the orange fish glow in the tank light. Some things were worth staying for.