Storms and Goldfish

Marcus stood outside Javier's house, clutching a plastic bag with his new goldfish—bought on impulse because his mom said he needed a hobby. The bass from inside thumped against his chest. Everyone was there. The people who mattered. The people who'd decide his entire social standing for sophomore year.

His palm was sweating against the plastic bag. Great. First party of the year and he'd be the guy whose hand literally dripped with nervousness. He texted his best friend: *come outside*

"Dude, you coming in or what?" The back door flew open. It was Chloe, the girl he'd had a crush on since seventh grade social studies, when she'd accidentally called him "Mark-us" with that tiny gap between her teeth that made his stomach do actual gymnastics.

"I'm—uh—thinking about it."

She stepped out, and Javier's dog—a chaos-fueled golden retriever named Pickles—shot past her like a fuzzy missile, straight for Marcus's goldfish.

"NO! DON'T—"

Pickles skidded to inches from the bag, nose twitching. Marcus held it higher. His palm was officially a waterfall now.

Chloe cracked up. "Pickles, you disaster. Come here, you walnut." She grabbed the dog's collar. "You okay? You look like you're about to throw up."

"Fine. Just—this fish. His name is Toast."

"Toast?" She smiled, and the gap between her teeth was still there, still perfect. "That's the worst name I've ever heard."

"It's better than Fish McFishFace."

"Fair." She sat on the porch steps. "You gonna come in, or are you gonna hang out with Toast all night? Because word on Insta is that Jasmine brought her mom's vodka, and—"

Lightning cracked across the sky, closer than lightning had any right to be. Thunder rattled the porch boards. The party noise inside dipped, then swelled again.

"We should sit under that palm tree," Marcus blurted out. "For the wind. Toast needs protection."

"Toast needs protection from what, exactly? The wind?"

"He's sensitive."

Chloe laughed, actually laughed, and followed him to the palm tree at the edge of the yard. They sat in the sand beneath it, watching the storm roll in over the ocean, carrying a plastic bag between them like it contained something fragile and rare instead of a probably-stressed goldfish.

"You're not drinking tonight?" she asked.

"Nah. Not really my thing."

"Mine either." She leaned back against the tree trunk. "Everyone's acting so fake in there. Like, posting stories about being 'so lit' but honestly I think half of them are just miserable."

"Yeah." Marcus watched the rain start, fat drops hitting the sand. "I feel like everyone's speaking a different language this year. Like there's a manual I missed."

"Same." She turned to him. "This is better anyway. Me, you, Toast, Pickles, and a tree. Living our best lives."

Marcus's palm stopped sweating. The lightning flashed again, painting the whole moment in stark electric white, and he thought maybe sophomore year wouldn't be so terrible after all.

"Living our best lives," he agreed.

Toast survived the night. Marcus survived the party. And somehow, somewhere between the lightning strikes and the terrible goldfish name, he might've just made his first real friend of tenth grade. The gap-toothed kind.