Running From Goldfish

Maya's mom shoved the orange bottle across the kitchen counter. "Your vitamin deficiency is making you anti-social, Maya. Take one."

She swallowed it dry, already running late for first period. The brim of her black beanie pulled low, she ghosted through the crowded hallways of North Valley High, trying to look like she belonged while feeling like everyone could see right through her performative chill. The hat was her shield—her "I'm too cool to care" armor that said everything about nothing.

"Yo, Maya!" Chase called from his locker, flashing that golden-boy grin that made half the sophomore class swoon. "Tryouts today. You coming?"

Track and field. Because obviously the girl who literally ran from confrontation would be good at literally running. "Maybe," she muttered, adjusting her hat.

Her phone buzzed. Unknown number: *I know what you did.*

Her stomach dropped like she'd missed a step. Three weeks ago, she'd accidentally texted Chase that she'd "rather drown a goldfish" than go to homecoming—meant for her best friend, Quinn. And somehow, SOMEHOW, that autocorrect disaster from "go stag" had become a whole thing. People thought she hated fish. That she was some psycho who flushed Nemo for fun.

The truth? She had a pet goldfish named Toast who she'd had since fourth grade. She talked to him about everything. Last night, she'd spilled to Toast about how she kind of, sort of wanted to try out for track, but what if she failed? What if she looked stupid? Toast had just blown bubbles, but still. He was a better listener than most people.

The bear mascot costume sat in the corner of the gym. Anyone inside it was anonymous. Protected. No one could judge a bear.

By lunch, Maya's legs were bouncing so hard her seatmate asked if she was okay. She wasn't. The vitamin was definitely not helping with her anxiety—it was just making her feel physically healthy while emotionally imploding.

"Hey," Chase said, sliding into the seat across from her. "About the goldfish thing..."

Here it came. The judgment. The mockery.

"I have this bet going with Tyler," he continued, "$50 says you couldn't catch me on the track. But if you're worried about the fish thing, whatever. Nobody actually cares."

Wait, what?

Maya's hand went to her hat, then stopped. "You want me to race you?"

"If you're not too busy murdering aquatic life." He grinned. "So? You in?"

Something shifted. Maybe it was the vitamin kicking in, or maybe she was just done running from everything. Maya pulled off her hat, letting her messy hair escape. "You're going down, golden boy."

After school, when she beat him by three seconds, Chase didn't even look mad. Just impressed. And maybe a little terrified.

"Where'd you learn to run like that?" he panted, hands on knees.

Maya thought of Toast. Of every time she'd wanted to hide, to disappear, to just go home and talk to the one living thing who didn't expect her to be anyone but herself.

"Practice," she said, grinning. "Lots of practice."