The Art of Not Drowning

Mateo's attention span had officially shrunk to the size of the carnival goldfish now swimming in miserable circles on his desk. His little sister Ana had left it with him when she went to sleepaway camp, and somehow this five-dollar prize with no name had become his responsibility.

"You coming to padel today?" Trey asked, slouching against Mateo's locker like he owned the hallway. Trey, who had started calling himself "The Bull" last month because he'd allegedly plowed through three defenders in club soccer. Mateo thought it was embarrassing, but he kept that to himself.

"Nah," Mateo said, which was true. He'd been skipping padel club since the incident where he'd served the ball straight into Mr. Harrison's vegetables.

"Suit yourself." Trey pushed off the locker. "But Harper's gonna be there."

Harper. The fox. The girl who'd transferred in three weeks ago wearing a vintage leather jacket and somehow made the whole cafeteria lean in when she spoke. Mateo had exactly three conversations with her, each one ending in him staring at his shoes like they held the meaning of life.

The goldfish did a loop. Mateo poked the glass. "You're judging me," he told it.

Wednesday found him at the padel courts because apparently he was a masochist. Harper was indeed there, laughing at something Trey had said, her hair doing that perfect effortless thing that made Mateo want to scream.

"Mateo!" Harper waved him over. "We need a fourth."

Trey rolled his eyes so hard Mateo almost felt it. The Bull played dirty—calling balls out that were clearly in, "accidentally" hitting the ball at Mateo's head. But Mateo returned everything, arms moving on instinct, years of backyard tennis with his abuela finally paying off.

When he smashed the winning point past Trey's racket, Harper's "YEAH MATEO" echoed across the courts.

Afterward, Harper sat beside him on the bench, both of them sweaty and breathless. "You're actually good," she said. "Trey's been so intimidated he's been talking trash all week."

"The Bull intimidated?" Mateo snorted. "That's a compliment."

She laughed—really laughed, head back, goldfish crackers spilling from her snack bag. "You're funny." She looked at him, and something in her expression shifted. "You should come Friday."

"Friday?"

"Every Friday." She bumped his shoulder with hers. "Don't make me send the goldfish after you."

That night, Mateo fed the fish an extra pinch of flakes. It swam to the top, then down, then looped back around.

"See?" Mateo whispered. "Neither of us know what we're doing."