The Bear Behind Home Plate

The air smelled like popcorn and cheap sunscreen, the kind that always gives me a headache but reminds me of last summer. Marcos stood beside me at the carnival, his baseball cap backwards like always, the brim brushing against his curls that had gotten way too long.

"You coming to the game Friday?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"You know my mom has that work thing."

He nodded, like he expected this. Like everything between us had become something expected. Something scheduled. Something lowkey dead.

The baseball game in three days – our middle school's final championship – would be the last time we played together. His family was moving to Arizona next week. Something about his dad's job, something about a fresh start, something about how sometimes you just need to leave behind everything that reminds you of what you lost.

His brother. The car accident last winter. The thing nobody talked about anymore.

"Yo, let me win you something," I said, pulling him toward the ring toss booth. "For luck."

The carnie handed me three rings, his eyes dead like he'd watched too many kids walk away disappointed. My first toss ricocheted off the glass. Second one landed nowhere close.

Third one circled a tiny goldfish bowl, then settled perfectly around it.

"No way," Marcos laughed, actually laughed, for the first time in months. "You actually won a live creature. This is so dumb, it's perfect."

The goldfish – orange like the sun going down behind the baseball field – swam in its plastic bag like it was searching for something it couldn't name. Something it was losing.

"What are you gonna name it?" Marcos asked.

"Bear."

"Bear? For a goldfish?"

"Because it's ironic. Because fish can't be bears. Because sometimes you just gotta be something you're not meant to be, just to see what happens."

Marcos looked at me for a long second, really looked at me, like he was trying to memorize everything before Arizona took it all away.

"Bear," he repeated. "Yeah. That works."

The baseball field lights flickered on in the distance. Three days. Three innings. Three strikes until everything changed.

"I'll teach you how to not kill it before I go," Marcos said. "Bear deserves a fighting chance."

"Yeah," I said, the goldfish bag cool in my hand. "He does."