Sunset at the Dive

My baseball hat sat pulled low, hiding the fact that I was basically vibrating with anxiety. The Orange Julius in my hand was sweating more than I was, which was saying something.

"You look like you're plotting someone's murder," a voice said.

I looked up. Fox. Everyone called her that because of her wild red hair and the way she moved through parties—like she owned them, like she was hunting something.

"Just plotting my exit," I admitted, which was the first honest thing I'd said all night.

She laughed, and it sounded like something breaking open. "Same. This party's dead anyway. Wanna bail?"

We ended up at the 24-hour pet store down the street, sitting cross-legged on the linoleum floor in front of the goldfish tank.

"I feel like them sometimes," Fox said, watching the fish swim in endless circles. "Just going through the motions. Three-second memory span. Everyone expects you to be happy and just keep swimming."

"Yeah," I said, and something unlocked in my chest. "I've been wearing this hat since seventh grade because I think if people can't see my face, they can't see how much I don't belong."

She turned to me, really looked at me for the first time. The fluorescent lights caught the orange undertones in her hair. "You don't have to wear it, you know."

"I know." But I didn't move it.

The fish swam on, oblivious to two teenagers unraveling themselves at 2 AM in a pet store. Somewhere between the first and second lap around the tank, I realized that maybe the point wasn't to stop swimming. The point was finding someone who'd swim alongside you.

"Tomorrow," Fox said, standing up and brushing off her jeans, "we're coming back here. And we're buying a goldfish."

"Why?"

"Because," she grinned, "we're going to name it Freedom, and we're going to set it free in the creek behind the school."

I took off my hat. My hair was smashed flat, but for the first time in years, I didn't care. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"I know," she said. "You in?"

"Yeah," I said. "I'm in."