The Fish That Saved My Life

Max's room was a shrine to everything sixth grade. Stuffed animals lined the shelves like a fuzzy army. Posters of bands I'd stopped listening to ages ago peeled at the corners. And in the corner, a single goldfish bowl with Walter, who'd somehow survived three years and two cross-country moves.

"You're not seriously wearing that," Maya said from my bed, scrolling through her phone. She pointed at my chest with one manicured nail.

I looked down at the cable-knit sweater my mom had made me. "It's cold."

"It's giving grandma chic." She didn't look up. "Also, Sarah's party is tonight. You're still going, right?"

My stomach did that thing where it tried to crawl out my throat. "Yeah. Totally."

Walter swam to the front of his bowl, orange scales flashing. He'd been there when I failed my math test. When Maya and I had our massive fight last semester. When I came out to my parents and they said, "We know, sweetie. We left rainbow flags in your room last Pride."

Some fish.

My phone buzzed. A group chat: "Everyone meeting at Sarah's at 8. Don't be lame."

Maya finally looked up. "You okay? You look like you're about to throw up."

"I hate parties," I admitted. "All that standing around. Pretending to know what to say."

"So don't go."

"But if I don't—"

"What? You'll be socially dead by Monday? Please. You're Max. Everyone likes you."

That's when it happened. Our neighbor's golden retriever, Buster, somehow got into our backyard. He started barking at something through the sliding glass door—something orange and flash-moving that had caught his attention.

Walter.

"Oh SHIT," I yelled, scrambling toward the bowl just as Buster threw himself against the door. The whole bowl shimmied. Water sloshed against the glass.

Maya was already there, grabbing the bowl with steady hands. "He's fine. Look. Walter's not scared. He's—wait, is he dancing?"

We both stared. Walter was swimming in frantic circles, fins fluttering like he was cheering. Buster barked again, tail wagging so hard his whole body shook. The fish and the dog were having a moment.

Maya started laughing. "Your fish is your emotional support animal, isn't he?"

"Shut up."

"No, really. Walter's been through everything with you. He's like, your ride-or-die. But aquatic."

We ended up staying in my room instead of going to the party. Maya ordered pizza. We watched old movies on my laptop while Buster kept vigil outside the door, occasionally woofing at Walter like they were best friends now.

Around midnight, Maya's voice got soft. "You know what's funny? Everyone at that party is probably standing around awkwardly, pretending to have fun. Meanwhile, we're here with a fish and a dog outside, and I'm actually having a good time."

Walter did a little flip. Outside, Buster whined happily.

"Yeah," I said. "Me too."

Sometimes the best nights aren't the ones everyone talks about at school on Monday. Sometimes they're the ones where you stay home with your fish, your best friend, and a very confused dog next door, and realize you don't have to perform for anyone.

Walter swam to the front of his bowl and blew a tiny bubble. Exactly.