Riddle of the Goldfish

Maya sat at the back of the classroom like a living sphinx—mysterious, unreadable, impossible to impress. When she spoke, which wasn't often, everyone listened like she might drop actual wisdom instead of just algebra answers. I'd been crushing on her since seventh grade, when she'd worn a Misfits shirt to picture day and refused to smile.

"You're staring again," said Kaleb, spinning in the seat next to mine. "Bro, you're gonna creep her out."

I wasn't staring. I was observing. There's a difference.

The real problem wasn't Maya. It was my goldfish—technically my fourth goldfish this year, because apparently I have a black thumb instead of a green one. They kept dying within two weeks, like they were allergic to my room. My mom said I was overfeeding them. I said they were just fragile.

"Whatever," I told Kaleb. "At least I'm not doomscrolling through cable's entire streaming library like a zombie."

This was a low blow. Kaleb had watched everything—every show, every movie, every obscure documentary about cheese making. His brain was basically cable TV at this point, constantly cycling through content.

But here's the thing about the sphinx: she had a secret. I found out when I stayed late to make up a history test and saw her in the library, crying over a book.

"You okay?" I asked, because apparently I have zero survival instincts.

She looked up, mascara running, and suddenly she wasn't an untouchable goddess anymore. She was just a girl. "My grandma's in the hospital," she said. "I read to her every day. She loves mysteries."

We talked for an hour. About her grandma, about my dead fish, about how everyone expects us to have our lives figured out at fifteen when we can barely keep goldfish alive.

"You know what's funny?" she said, wiping her face. "The sphinx was supposed to be a guardian, not a monster. People forget that part."

I nodded like I understood.

"Want to come with me?" she asked. "To see her?"

And that's how I ended up visiting a hospital with Maya Fernandez, watching her read Agatha Christie to a woman who kept calling me "nice young man" even though I'd only said hello twice.

Some riddles don't have answers. Some goldfish don't live forever. And sometimes the person you think is a sphinx, guarding all the secrets, is just waiting for someone to ask the right question.