Swimming Upstream

The goldfish had been dead for three days when Maya's phone buzzed with Jake's invite to the end-of-year pool party. " Everyone's gonna be there," he'd texted, adding a thinking-face emoji that made her stomach do that stupid flippy thing it always did when his name popped up.

She almost said no. Her mom had found Pinky floating belly-up that morning, making these awful sympathetic eyes while Maya pretended it wasn't the literal end of her childhood. The fish had survived seventh grade, her parents' divorce, and that week she'd accidentally fed it three times a day. But now here she was, fifteen and expected to be chill about death and parties and boys.

"You gotta go," said Kia, Facetiming her from bed. "Jake's finally noticing you. Don't be dramatic about a fish, Maya."

So she went. The Andersons' backyard looked like something from a teen movie — twinkling lights strung between trees, a portable speaker bumping something bass-heavy, kids from her biology class scattered everywhere. And there was Jake, barefoot in the grass, someone's golden retriever chasing a baseball he kept throwing further and further. The dog—Buster? Bandit?—caught the ball mid-air, Jake laughing when it knocked over a red solo cup.

Maya stood by the water's edge in her one-piece (she'd chickened out of the bikini at the last second), watching the pool's surface shimmer like something alive.

"Hey," Jake said, appearing beside her. His hair was wet, drops sliding down his neck. "You made it."

"Yeah," she managed. "Cool party."

They stood there while the dog shook itself wet nearby, sending water spraying everywhere. Jake wiped his arm, grinning. "That's Charlie, by the way. My aunt's dog. We're watching him for the weekend."

"Charlie," Maya repeated, and it was so dumb but she felt like crying. Pinky had never even had a name beyond Pinky, and now here was this random dog with a real name, living its best dog life while her childhood fish was literally in the trash.

"You okay?" Jake asked, and his voice was gentler than she expected.

"My goldfish died," she blurted, then wanted to die herself. But Jake didn't laugh.

"That sucks," he said. "I had a fish once. Neon tetra. Lasted like, two days."

They sat on the pool edge, legs in the water, while the dog curled up nearby with the baseball like it was a prized bone. Jake told her about failing his driver's test. She told him about her mom's new boyfriend. They talked until the party wound down, until the speaker got turned down and people started grabbing their towels.

And somewhere in there, between the dog snoring and the pool reflecting the first stars and Jake's knee pressing against hers, Maya realized she wasn't sad anymore.

"Next time," Jake said, walking her to the gate, "we should go to the batting cages. I'm terrible at baseball but it's kinda fun anyway."

"Yeah," she said, and meant it. "That sounds—I'd like that."

Walking home under streetlights, Maya realized Pinky would've wanted it this way. Moving forward. Swimming upstream, maybe, but still swimming.