The Funeral We Didn't Plan

The goldfish funeral was supposed to be solemn, but Rachel was live-tweeting it like it was the Met Gala. '#RIPBubbles' she'd typed, already with seventeen likes, while I stood there holding a Ziploc baggie containing our deceased third-wheel member of the trio.

"You're literally doing this right now?" I asked, watching her adjust the filter on her selfie with the toilet bowl grave.

She shrugged, papaya-colored nails clicking against her phone case. "Bubbles would've wanted to go viral."

Bubbles had lasted three days. Three. The pet store lady had sworn goldfish were basically immortal, which was either corporate propaganda or a sign I should never be responsible for another living thing again.

The thing was, this wasn't even about Bubbles. It was about baseball practice yesterday, when Rachel—the Rachel who'd been my best friend since we accidentally swapped lunches in kindergarten—didn't save me a seat at the dugbench. She'd sat with sophomore Sarah instead, laughing at something that definitely wasn't funny, while I stood there holding my gear like some loser who'd shown up to the wrong party.

Then Sarah's cat jumped the fence and herded a confused Bubbles into the neighbor's yard, where he'd met his unfortunate end involving an extremely enthusiastic golden retriever named Kevin.

Now Rachel was posting about grief while I was actually feeling it.

"My brother says flush him," she said, finally looking up from her phone. "He says it's dignified. Like a Viking funeral but with plumbing."

I looked at the bag, then at her, then at the absolutely perfect weather that felt mocking. "You know what? Forget it."

I marched to the backyard and dug a hole next to the tomato plants with a spoon from the kitchen. Rachel followed, finally pocketing her phone.

"You're mad about baseball," she said quietly.

"I'm not mad about baseball."

"You are. I saw your face when I sat with Sarah."

A pause. The spoon hit a rock.

"Sarah's tutoring me in algebra," she said. "I'm failing, Marcus. Like, actually failing. My mom's gonna kill me if I don't pull up my grade by Friday."

The words hung there, awkward and true.

"You didn't tell me."

"I know. I was embarrassed, okay? You're good at everything. I didn't want you to know I'm drowning in math class."

I kept digging. The hole was stupidly deep now.

"We can bury him together," she said, squatting beside me. "And then we can get those matching goldfish tattoos we talked about. But tiny ones. Like, really tiny."

I snorted. "Our parents would actually murder us."

"Tiny ones, Marcus. The size of a dime. They'd barely notice."

We buried Bubbles with full honors, including a eulogy that got weirdly emotional for a fish with a three-day lifespan. Rachel made me promise not to tell anyone she cried, and I promised because that's what best friends do—they keep each other's secrets and don't mock them for crying over goldfish.

Later, we sat on her roof eating papaya slices from her mom's failed health-food phase and plotting algebra revenge against sophomore Sarah, who was apparently a terrible tutor but excellent at stealing best friends.

"Next time," Rachel said, "we're getting a cat. Something Kevin can't mess with."

"Cats hate me."

"Perfect," she said, grinning. "We'll get a mean one. Something that matches your vibe."

I threw a papaya seed at her. She dodged, laughing, and for the first time since baseball practice, things felt okay again.