Seven Seconds of Courage

The goldfish - which I'd creatively named Swimmy - lasted exactly three days before doing the backstroke in its bowl. Mom said it was probably my fault for overfeeding it, but I knew the truth: the poor thing died of boredom in my room, where the most exciting thing that happened was me doom-scrolling through fights I wasn't having with people who weren't thinking about me.

Then Fox moved in next door.

Her real name was Sarah, but everyone called her Fox because she had this copper hair and these eyes that always looked like she knew something you didn't. She was the kind of girl who wore vintage band tees from before she was born and carried herself like she was main character energy and everyone else was just background characters.

"Your fish is dead," she said, leaning against my fence when I was carrying Swimmy's bowl to the trash. "That's deep, actually. Very emo of you."

"It was three days," I muttered. "Not exactly a tragedy."

"Three days is perfect," Fox said, like this was normal fence conversation. "Less commitment than a subscription service, more meaningful than a crush on someone who doesn't know you exist. Goldfish are the introverts of pets."

I stared at her. "Are you always this weird?"

"Only on Tuesdays," she grinned. "Come on. I'm going to the baseball field. There's this spot behind the dugout where you can see everything but nobody can see you. It's prime real estate for judging people without being judged."

I didn't want to go. I wanted to go back to my room and rot. But something about the way she said it, like she was inviting me into some secret club, made me say okay.

We sat in the dirt while the high school team practiced. Fox pointed out everyone's drama - the pitcher who was obviously in love with the catcher, the outfielder who was trying too hard to look cool, the coach who definitely needed to retire.

"You're good at this," I said.

"At what? Being a mess?" She popped a piece of gum. "Nah, I just pay attention. People think they're invisible, but they're not. Everyone's story is written all over their face. You just have to read it."

"What's my story?" The question came out before I could stop it.

Fox turned to me, really looked at me for the first time. "You're waiting for something to happen, but you're too scared to make it happen yourself. You want people to notice you, but you hide so they won't see you fail. Classic, honestly. I respect the commitment to the bit."

I didn't know whether to be offended or impressed that she'd read me that fast.

"Baseball's like that," she said, turning back to the field. "Everyone's watching you, expecting you to crush it, and you're just standing there hoping you don't embarrass yourself. But here's the thing - you either swing or you don't. The strikeouts happen either way."

A ball flew over the fence and landed near us. Fox grabbed it, stood up, and yelled "HEY!" like she'd been waiting her whole life for this moment.

The players looked over. Someone shouted back.

Fox tossed the ball back with way more confidence than necessary, then sat down like nothing happened. "See? Swing."

I looked at her, really looked at her this time. "You're insane."

"I'm a fox," she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "We're chaos in animal form. You should try it sometime."

My phone buzzed. A group chat I was in was making plans without me again.

"They're not your people," Fox said, not looking over. "I can tell by the way you check your phone like they're gonna suddenly remember you exist. Find people who don't make you feel like a goldfish - constantly forgetting who you are because nobody reminds you."

I put my phone in my pocket and didn't check it again.

"So," she said. "What's your deal? Besides dead fish and overthinking."

"I don't know," I said. "I guess I'm still figuring that out."

"Good," Fox said. "Figuring it out is better than lying to yourself. Also, you should come to this party on Friday. It's gonna be awkward and terrible and perfect."

"Is this you kidnapping me into friendship?"

"Maybe," she grinned. "But at least I'm honest about it. Most people just let you wander through life thinking you have a choice."

I laughed, actually laughed. "You're terrible."

"I'm the best thing that's happened to you since Swimmy the Third's funeral."

"There wasn't a funeral."

"There should have been. We're doing one Friday. Bring chips."

I didn't know if this was the start of a friendship or just Fox being Fox. But for the first time in forever, I didn't feel like I was waiting for something to happen.

I was already in the middle of it.